City of God

by Paulo Lins

  After talking a lot to Butterfly in private, Tiger ended up convincing him to break ties with Tiny and Slick. He said that this business of only the two of them earning loads of money without fully exposing themselves and everyone else having to risk getting caught in robberies and hold-ups was wrong – it was unfair. They decided that some of the gang members would take turns selling the drugs and give seventy per cent to the den, while the others would just stay on guard to protect the den from their enemies and the police. My Man would be the manager and the two of them would run the show. They’d use the seventy per cent to give the main soldiers and lookouts a weekly wage and health insurance plan, help the local workers when they were in need, buy more weapons, hire a lawyer to work for the gang, and restock their merchandise. Butterfly thought there were too many people and that the money wouldn’t stretch that far, but agreed with his friend nonetheless.

  ‘We ain’t got nothin’ to do with Tiny no more, didn’t you know? Or with you guys either. The money that comes in here stays here. How come we gotta give it to you guys? Tell your partner that Block Thirteen ain’t got nothin’ to do with The Flats no more – right?’ said Butterfly with My Man, Earthquake, Moth and Cererê beside him, guns cocked.

  Slick looked them quickly in the face one by one. He saw that the boys were no longer so boyish. They’d grown not only in height, but in shrewdness and cunning. The rest of the gang, more than ninety men, were posted on the corners of Miracle Street. It was best to be friendly and agreeable, because he was pretty sure he’d be killed if he weren’t.

  Tiny got angry when he heard of their decision and said he was going to send off all the no-goods on Block Thirteen to meet their maker. But he relaxed a few minutes later when Good Life told him it was better to leave things as they were than to make more enemies, and that the Block Thirteen den wasn’t doing much business.

  With so much newspaper coverage of the violence in City of God, the Department of Public Safety and the Military Police told the press through the Department’s chief press secretary that a large-scale police operation would be put in place in the region. Two days after the official press release, in the middle of a stifling hot May, Lieutenant Cabra assumed command of the police post, which had been completely renovated and extended. The post, where there had previously been only ten officers, received thirty well-armed men, and six new patrol cars joined the lone car that had been there.

  The order that Colonel Marins, commander of the Eighteenth Military Police Battalion, gave Lieutenant Cabra to be passed down to his subordinates, was that gangsters should be arrested, but if they reached for their waistbands to draw guns, they could shoot to kill.

  This battalion was responsible for public safety in Jacarepaguá, Barra da Tijuca and Recreio dos Bandeirantes, and the commander also ordered all men to report to headquarters an hour and a half earlier, and all patrol cars to pass through the favela before heading for their beat.

  The police action plan was primarily based on intelligence work. Dozens of police officers disguised as customers had gone to the dens to buy drugs. Others, taking advantage of the fact that mentally handicapped patients from Juliano Moreira Hospital in Taquara were always running away from the asylum and wandering through the favela, had pretended to be runaway patients, wearing the asylum’s uniform, making funny faces and acting weird. They kept an eye on the gangs and followed their behaviour. In this way, Lieutenant Cabra arrived with a substantial list of gangsters and their respective addresses. Their first raids failed, however, because most of the newspapers had divulged the information beforehand. The gangsters kept an eye on the city’s main newspapers and when they discovered the authorities’ intentions, they moved house and went to ground during the first week of the new police presence in the favela.

  Even with all the police infrastructure, drug dealing was still rampant. The dealers sold at different points each day of the week, and posted pawns on street corners to cry, ‘Bread for sale! Bread for sale!’ whenever the police approached on foot or by car. On the other hand, the gangsters began to live in fear when they heard there were plain-clothes police officers around, ready to pounce on them. Their lives were threatened by anyone willing to grass, so if in doubt, they’d take out the potential traitor with no time for explanations, pleading or pardon. No room for screw-ups. Already wily, they became even more violent. Workers, cool guys, addicts – anyone at all could find themselves at the mercy of the gangsters’ whims and discrimination.

  Paranoia reigned in the favela. Even the addicts, previously valued customers because they kept the dens running, found themselves in danger. For ordinary residents this was yet another fear they had to live with. The police on one side, the gangs on the other, both spreading fear and putting lives at risk.

  Earthquake was dealing one Saturday, and to get up Bicky’s nose, crossed Edgar Werneck Avenue to sell his drugs near Bicky’s den. A few pawns were left at his original spot to tell the junkies where the drugs were now being sold.

  Bicky only learned of the affront that afternoon. He’d spent the morning at Violeta’s office. Violeta was a lawyer who sold primary and secondary school diplomas. He could rustle up police clearance certificates, ID cards, driver’s licences and other documents, and the bastard could even get you clearance certificates for cars and real estate. It was God in heaven and Violeta on earth.

  Without consulting Tiny, Bicky got a machine gun and went alone to Block Thirteen to fire a few rounds. He didn’t kill anyone, but his gesture could have sparked off a war between the two gangs. So very early the next day, Good Life asked Tiny to go tell the leaders of Block Thirteen that Bicky’s attack had been an isolated incident, and that no one agreed with what he had done.

  Tiny passed the task on to Slick and, as he talked with him, noticed that he kept laughing and putting his arm around his shoulders. He asked himself why he was afraid of Slick if they’d been pals since they were kids. If Slick had never shown signs of betraying him, why kill him? He had flashbacks of his childhood, the days back in São Carlos, the shoeshiner’s stool … He’d be a real bastard to betray his friend just because he was afraid of him; he was ashamed of being afraid. But he’d already planned Slick’s death with Bicky, and if he backed out Bicky might think he was the traitor. He’d really screwed up and didn’t know how to put things right. Now one of them would have to die, but whichever one stayed alive would be his friend if he warned both of them. He took this decision on an impulse and, without actually listening to what Slick was saying at that moment, said:

  ‘You know, out of everyone around, our friendship’s the best. That’s why I’m givin’ you this tip-off – Bicky wants to get rid of you. Once I heard ’im sayin’ somethin’ strange to Sharky before he died, know what I mean? And when he saw me he started actin’ all sus. If I was you, I’d take him out! I didn’t tell you nothin’ ’cos I wasn’t sure, OK? But after what he just did, I dunno … I know the guys ain’t workin’ with us no more, but they’re still pals, yeah? And you’re still pals with Butterfly and his bunch there … Get rid of ’im, man! Get rid of ’im!’

  ‘I’m gettin’ rid of ’im today!’ said Slick, then got on his bike and headed for Block Thirteen.

  Tiny watched his friend ride off, then asked a pawn to go get Bicky.

  ‘I’ve got somethin’ important to tell ya? But don’t say a word, OK? It’s time for you to take out Slick, know what I’m sayin’? He wasn’t happy when you pulled the trigger on that mob, you know. It might even have been him that told ’em to sell dope on your turf. Get rid of ’im! Get rid of ’im!’

  As he crossed the square a few minutes later, Tiny saw nine police officers near the shops and dashed off without being seen. When he got to his new flat he spotted another six policemen over on Red Hill.

  ‘Good thing Good Life’s arranged a hideout for me outside the favela,’ he thought out loud.

  ‘Go get Leonardo. Tell ’im we’re going to Petrópolis. Tell ’im to fetch the car – we�
��re gettin’ out of the favela. There’s too many cops around. I don’t like cops! I don’t like ’em. Then go to Good Life’s place and tell ’im to send me all the money, send the lot, ’cos I’m going to Petrópolis … Off you go, get a fuckin’ move on!’ said Tiny to Casserole, the oldest pawn to join the gang at the age of twenty-five.

  Leonardo parked the car at the entrance to the building. Tiny took a little while to come down, as he was stuffing money into his jocks, his shoes, his shirt, his trouser and jacket pockets, and under his cap. He rolled up the rest in a plastic bag, stuffed two 7.65 mm pistols into his waistband and went downstairs.

  Leonardo took off at a moderate speed along the right branch of the river, crossed Gabinal Road at the end, took Motorway Eleven, put the car in third and heard the siren of a police car behind him. He was changing into fourth gear when the Military Police car pulled alongside him:

  ‘Pull over!’ shouted Sergeant Roberval, pointing a machine gun at him.

  Leonardo stopped the car.

  ‘Both of you out with your hands on your heads!’ ordered Roberval.

  ‘Tiny, that one there’s Tiny! I’ll get the picture! I’ll get it!’ exclaimed Pedro, one of the privates.

  He returned holding a piece of paper, which he showed to Roberval after he’d ordered the two captives to the ground. Osmar frisked Tiny first.

  ‘He’s got a revolver and money everywhere, man! So you’re rich are you? Get up, get up and take your clothes off! You stay on the ground,’ ordered Pedro.

  ‘D’you know there’s more than ten warrants out on you? Yeeeaaah, man, things’re lookin’ bad for you!’ said Osmar.

  ‘Now, you answer everythin’ I ask you. And if I reckon you’re lyin’ I’m gonna beat the shit out of you. You read me?’ said Roberval.

  Tiny gave him the thumbs up.

  ‘Is this car yours?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Is it in your name?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Whose name’s it in?’

  ‘A woman over in The Flats …’

  ‘Who bought the car?’

  ‘Skinny, a guy Carrots killed!’

  ‘Ahh, right, but it was Bicky who killed ’im! We know everythin’! Here’s the story … You frisked the other one?’

  ‘He’s unarmed and got no money.’

  ‘Send ’im on his way.’

  Leonardo got up and walked slowly down Motorway Eleven towards Gabinal Road.

  ‘Now we can talk better. You’re gonna get the car papers from this woman and get someone to bring them to me tomorrow mornin’, got it? And no funny business! I’m gonna let you go, but I wanna see the documents and don’t go around with your pockets empty or you’re dead. If you get caught and blab, I’ll have you killed in the slammer. When I’m on duty, I want half the den’s takin’s, OK?’

  ‘No problem.’

  ‘Leave the money in a bag in that grassy area over in the square when I arrive and I’ll cut you some slack, know what I mean? OK? You’ll be fine!’

  Tiny nodded.

  ‘Leave ’im with a gun!’ he told one of the privates. ‘Now go home and say the Lord’s Prayer ’cos you’ve met God, but if you go round with nothin’ in your pocket, you’re gonna meet the Devil. Understood?’

  It was late at night. The square in The Flats was deserted, and there were only a few people drinking beer at the shops. Creeping along the walls of the building, Slick surreptitiously watched the barflies at the shops: there were no gangsters.

  ‘Anyone seen Bicky around?’

  No, no one had seen the person he wanted to kill. But turning the corner he saw Bicky, who tried to cock his gun. Slick pumped him full of bullets. The day dawned grey. Tiny called the gang together in an alley and ordered everyone to lie low for as long as possible. He only wanted his assistant and lookouts in the street – no strutting around with revolvers on street corners, but if they happened to run into the police, they’d have to shoot first and, if for some reason someone was arrested, there was to be no talking. Tiny then headed for the shops, said something to a woman, went down an alley, emerged on Gabinal Road and waited apprehensively by the roadside until Good Life pulled over in a car. Tiny got in and they left the favela.

  Got It Made and Seagull were caught with forty bundles of dope by two plain-clothes policemen Up Top.

  ‘Fuck! You’ve only got weed! Ain’t you got any dough? What useless pieces of shit! C’mon, off to the post, c’mon …’

  Down at the police post, Sergeant Linivaldo greeted the dealers with punches and kicks, then ordered an officer to truss them up with nylon rope. They put them in the patrol van and Sergeant Linivaldo ordered the officer to head for Bandeirantes Motorway. They turned onto Motorway Five and stopped.

  ‘Get out,’ said the officer as he opened the back. ‘Run! Run and don’t look back, ’cos now you’re gonna be sellin’ dope to the Devil.’

  The dealers ran no more than five metres before they were shot in the back.

  To tell the truth, Whitey only fired his gun when Knockout’s gang was in The Flats, and even then only when Tiny ordered him to. This life of crime wasn’t for him, and he was happy about the police presence because he could go out without worrying that Tiny might order him to stand around on a street corner with a revolver waiting for Knockout’s men.

  One Sunday, he left home early to go to his ex-girlfriend’s place to try to get back together with her. He arrived at her building, cupped his hands to his mouth and called her name several times. When no one answered, he decided to go into the building. He knocked on her door three times, and she opened it on the fourth, still sleepy. She left him in the living room, went to the bathroom, and came back after a few minutes:

  ‘Look, if you’re here to try and get back together, don’t hold your breath, OK? I’m tired of being strung along … You don’t make any plans, you don’t save any money, you don’t talk about getting married, and you’ve already had your way with me. I don’t want to be strung along any more.’

  ‘I promise I’ll start puttin’ somethin’ aside each month.’

  ‘You always say that, then you say you couldn’t manage it … You’re always buying clothes, spending money on coke …’

  ‘Keep your voice down, girl …’

  ‘My mum’s not home. And I’ll tell you somethin’ … I’ve already got myself a boyfriend, OK? So don’t bother me, ’cos he’s the jealous sort and he’s a policeman … You’d best keep your distance,’ she said, opening the door.

  Whitey left hanging his head. He’d never thought that one day she’d tell him she had some one else. He’d been stupid, because if he’d been more considerate with her this never would have happened. When he got to the bottom of the stairs his eyes were full of tears. He didn’t want anyone to see him like that and turned back.

  His ex-girlfriend also opened the door crying, and they hugged, kissed and had sex right then and there in the living room, on the condition that he wouldn’t come inside her. But as soon as they’d finished she repeated that she really was seeing Officer Morais and that she wasn’t going to dump him, because in less than a month Morais had taken her to meet his parents and had promised to rent a house so they could live together.

  ‘Don’t you reckon you’re goin’ too fast, Cida?’

  ‘Well, he’s better than you – you haven’t made a move in three years.’

  They showered, had sex again in the bathroom and when Whitey said goodbye she said:

  ‘Maybe we can do this again sometime.’

  A few minutes later, she got a message that Officer Morais was waiting for her in Freguesia Square, quickly fixed herself up and went to meet him. He took her to a motel.

  ‘Don’t come inside me, OK!’

  ‘It ain’t right that Carrots gives all the orders and has both dens to himself, you know! We lost brothers and cousins in the war, we helped him take Tiny’s den and we didn’t let ’im lose his own den, ain’t that right, man? We need to have a word
with ’im …’ said Fernandes to two mates in the New Short-Stay Houses.

  ‘And he don’t want no one else to set up a den in the area,’ said Farias.

  ‘Why did Fatso fall?’ asked Messiah, who’d escaped from jail that day.

  ‘He was givin’ Mousetrap a hard time so Knockout took ’im out,’ answered Fernandes.

  ‘Hang on, hang on, it wasn’t just ’cos of that, you know. Carrots was dyin’ for Knockout to get rid of’ im. He really egged’im on …’ said Farias.

  ‘Is that right?’

  ‘And he’d given the gang a load of weapons.’

  ‘Fuck! He really helped me out in jail, you know. The whole time he was there, I always ate food from the outside. He was cool … I was the one that sent ’im here …’

  In the days prior to this conversation, Fernandes, Farias and Messiah had started plotting against Carrots with the gangsters from the New Short-Stay Houses and the Two-Storey Houses. Everyone agreed with them.

  One day, they woke Carrots at around ten in the morning. He woke with a start, thinking it was the police, but when he looked through the window and saw Fernandes, he relaxed. His calm did not last long, however. When he saw the guys from the Two-Storey Houses and the New Short-Stay Houses on the corner outside his house, he guessed that they’d come about splitting the den.

  ‘Let’s go over there, ’cos the guys wanna have a talk with you, OK?’

  Carrots walked over to his friends and asked what was going on. Silence. Then a gang member spoke up:

  ‘You’re the ones who’ve gotta answer ‘im. It was your idea. You were the ones who talked to everyone. Spit it out, man!’

  Fernandes blurted out what he thought, then Farias piped up and reaffirmed what his friend had just said.

  Carrots laughed, said everything was OK, shook everyone’s hand and went back inside.

  After two months Cida still hadn’t had her period. She was pregnant. The baby could be Morais’ just as easily as Whitey’s, but she wanted it to be Whitey’s. In fact, she had a feeling the baby was his, which was why she went looking for him.