City of God (25 page)

It was already after eleven when they headed separately to the printer's as arranged. Everything went better than they'd planned. They didn't even need to shoot Sting's informer in the foot: in fact, they didn't even see him. They ran down Gabinal Road, turned into Saci Alley and went through the bush to the Big Plot without being chased. From the Big Plot they heard police sirens wailing desperately through the streets of the estate.

Beelzebub realised how unlucky it had been to raid Sting's house while the printer's was being held up. He was now sure Sting wouldn't return home and some lookout would tell him he had been there. He felt like breaking the police car radio.

‘Now we're fucked. Coming here and not catching him'll just
make him go to ground somewhere else, won't it?' complained Detective Beelzebub. He then asked for more detailed information on the hold-up.

The only thing he found out was that the thieves had taken a lot of money. His mouth watered. His desire to find the no-goods went beyond professional interest. If he found them he'd keep all the money and send them off to their graves. He waited around a little longer in the hope that Sting would return home. His intuition told him he was involved in the two hold-ups. After an hour he decided to scour every alley and every corner of the estate, but saw nothing unusual. The other detectives kept repeating that it was no good looking for him that day so he ended up telling the driver to head for the station, where the identikit picture of Sting was ready.

‘It's him, didn't I tell you …? It's him – the same guy that's been doin' all these places in Jacarepaguá, and from what they say on the phone, it's Sting alright! He's hangin' around with Hellraiser …'

‘Let's wait a bit – let him think everything's settled down before we do a raid. Keep your cool. Don't screw things up,' advised the chief inspector at the Sixteenth District Police Station.

Beelzebub didn't say a thing, tossed the handful of papers he was holding on the desk and left the chief inspector's office. He went into the kitchen, poured himself half a cup of coffee, went overboard on the sugar and drank the hot coffee slowly, making an unpleasant noise. He removed his gun from its holster and sat on an old chair. Every thought that entered his mind was violent, because he was violent, his name was violent, the way he talked, his thought. The idea of being able to order everyone around had always appealed to him. He lit a cigarette and glanced at a detective who had also gone over to the Thermos. He continued
to think about how to move up in the force without having to do a law degree. Maybe if he bought a diploma … He had to show them what he was made of, and that to be a cop you had to catch no-goods, not go to university. Catch Sting – that's what he'd have to do, because he was the most wanted criminal in the Rio metropolitan area. His name was in the news almost every day: ‘City Patrol', ‘The City Against Crime' … The police were asked to do something about him on every radio programme that went to air.

The wind at Barra da Tijuca always blows colder than it does elsewhere in the city of Rio de Janeiro. Beelzebub zipped up his leather jacket and headed for the chief inspector's office. He told him he was going home to spend the rest of the afternoon nursing a headache. He took the identikit pictures of Sting without consulting the chief inspector and drove home at a leisurely pace.

At home, he examined the pots on the stove. He wanted to eat something, but nothing looked appetising. The job of superintendent was appetising. He thought again about buying a diploma so he could make chief inspector and then become superintendent. He'd heard of a lawyer, Violeta, and a professor, Lauro, who sold diplomas; as soon as he had some time he'd look those guys up. He decided to rest up so he could go out that night in his own car to catch Sting and show up at the station with the mettle of a superintendent.

Over in the Big Plot, the gangsters were eating the bread and mortadella that Sparrow had bought. They'd split the money equally and planned new jobs. Hellraiser didn't think they needed to sleep out there in the bush. He was sure the police would have already arrested someone to pin the crimes on. He wanted to go home so he could screw his wife later on.
Pipsqueak was against the idea and wanted to stay there for two more days. He didn't want to play into Kojak's hands, because two big jobs in a row was enough to keep the police on the prowl day and night. All four of them felt like smoking a joint. Sparrow chided himself for not having swung past the den in The Flats to buy some dope when he'd gone to the bakery.

‘Who's going Up Top to get some?'

‘No one,' Pipsqueak told Sting.

Pipsqueak argued that they needed to sleep to make time go faster. The craving for dope would pass. Sparrow gathered up some dry twigs that were lying around to make a campfire; it would keep the mosquitoes away and keep them warm, but Pipsqueak said the fire would attract attention.

‘A little fire!' said Sparrow, with a mild chuckle.

He made the campfire, fed it with the dry twigs he'd piled up between his legs and sang several sambas. After a time, Sting and Sparrow fell asleep. Pipsqueak couldn't get to sleep and tried to start a conversation with Hellraiser, who couldn't get comfortable, wouldn't answer him, wanted to leave. He looked at Sparrow's watch. 4.30. Judging by the hour, he figured that if he tried hard enough he'd fall asleep. He found a place to lie down and fell into a light sleep until seven in the morning.

With his gun cocked, Beelzebub combed City of God on foot, passing in front of Luís Sting's house several times. It was always closed up.

At around six o'clock in the morning, he returned home and had the custard his wife had made him. He was going to head back to the station, but decided not to when she told him that the chief inspector had called and left orders for him to get back to the station as quickly as possible. He wouldn't take orders. He considered sleeping, but the thought of being able to say
whatever he wanted to the chief inspector if he caught or killed Sting perked him up. He armed himself and went back to City of God. He parked outside the estate and went into the alleys full of children spinning tops and women gossiping or sweeping their doorsteps.

‘The poor are like mice. Look how many children there are in this shithole!' he thought aloud.

He headed in the direction of Sting's house again, as if drawn there by fate. His tired eyes were out of kilter with the rest of his body, and his mind shook when he remembered the chief inspector and a terse conversation they'd had a few days before about his habit of beating up prisoners. The strong light of day made him put on his sunglasses, which covered more than half his face. He approached street corners stealthily.

Slick spotted him from afar, snuck off in the opposite direction and stopped at a corner to see where he was headed. He remembered the friends he hadn't managed to track down. The day before he had been to Hellraiser's place twice. He thought it best to go to ground.

From the first alleys up to Middle Street, Beelzebub's presence didn't cause the slightest alarm or perceptible fear in passers-by. Their calm irritated him. He was used to the frightened stares and tension his appearances caused. He decided to walk more quickly, shake the peace of that morning, reinstate fear. He'd be superintendent if he bought a law degree.

‘I'm outta here, OK? I'm gonna stop by Teresa's, score a few bundles of weed and get myself some decent shut-eye …'

‘C'mon, Hellraiser! Give it a bit more time, man. Things haven't cooled off yet! The cops'll be around!' insisted Pipsqueak.

‘If the guy wants to go, let him go!' Sting intervened.

‘Fuck! You're really pigheaded, aren't you? You've forgotten that we done two big jobs, man? Have you forgotten that the job on Gabinal Road'll be hittin' the papers today? You're actin' like you don't know nothin'. The papers make the pigs all nervy, man! And they wanna bust someone no matter what. It's not worth the risk!'

‘You're just scared I'll grass if they bust me. Don't worry, man – I won't grass!' said Hellraiser with a half-hearted laugh.

He got up, brushed the dirt off the back of his shorts, stuffed the money into his jocks, waved at his friends and left, his gun in his waistband.

‘Stay here, man!' said Pipsqueak.

Hellraiser crossed the street and considered going straight down Motorway Eleven, but decided it was better to take Gabinal Road, enter the estate through The Flats and head for Red Hill. A cold breeze covered his body in goosebumps. The quiet of the streets terrified him. He liked activity, because things that are too calm suddenly get whipped up. Man is like that, like the sea, the sky, the earth itself and everything on it. He was afraid that something might whip up against him. Pipsqueak's words echoed in his ears. The morning was very calm and produced little noise. Hellraiser couldn't hear a thing. He was a character in a silent film. The rows of sunflowers in gardens, spinning tops in children's hands, cars going past on Edgar Werneck Avenue, the milk carts, the late May sun and the right branch of the river were all so familiar, so why was he so nervous? Why did he want to go back to his friends? A feeling of emptiness made him uneasy, sent shivers down his spine. He checked his gun and patted the money with shaky hands. He'd had that feeling many times, but only during shoot-outs, getaways and jobs. There was also absolute calm on Middle Street, causing his dread to grow,
dread of nothing. And what was nothing? Nothing was sparrows darting from electric wires to rooftops, from rooftops to branches, from branches to walls, from walls to the ground and from the ground to out of the way of the footsteps of the people going past without noticing him in the alley he turned down on his way to Teresa's place. He could have given up on the idea of having a smoke, but a force was tugging him in that direction. From time to time, he felt as if his whole body was being punched and kicked. It occurred to him to draw his gun and kill the innocence the sun was spilling into the square on Block Fifteen, all the calm it offered him. He didn't know why, but tiny fragments of his life were suddenly flashing before him. The most vivid colours of the day became laden with much deeper meanings, scrambling his vision. The wind was more nervous, the sun hotter, his footsteps heavier, the sparrows so far from the people, the silence useless, tops spinning, sunflowers swaying, cars going faster and Beelzebub's voice whipping everything up:

‘Hit the ground, arsehole!'

Hellraiser didn't react. Contrary to what Beelzebub had expected, an inexplicable calm filled his consciousness, an almost abstract smile revealed the peace he had never known, a peace he had always sought in the things money could provide, because he hadn't, in fact, noticed the most normal things in life. And what is normal in life? The peace that means one thing to some and something completely different to others? The peace that everyone seeks even though they don't know how to decipher it in all its plenitude? What is peace? What really is good in life? He'd always been unsure about these things. But no one can say there is no peace in a beer at the Bonfim, in playing the tambourine in samba school rehearsals, in Berenice's laughter, in joints smoked with friends and Saturday afternoon kickabouts. Perhaps he had
gone too far looking for something that had always been right beside him. But can there really be true peace for one whose life had always meant floundering in the depths of poverty? He had been looking for something that was always so close, so close and so good, but the fear that a few drops of rain might suddenly become a storm had made him what he was – blind to peace, which had now come to stay.

Perhaps peace was in the flight of the birds, in the subtlety of the sunflowers swaying in people's gardens, in the spinning tops on the ground, in the branch of the river always leaving and always returning, in the mild autumn cold and the breeze blowing in. But there was always the chance that things might get whipped up in some undefined way, lash out at him and end up in the path of his revolver. But can one actually see beauty with eyes blurred by the lack of almost everything a human being needs? Perhaps he had never looked for anything, or even thought about it; all he could do was live the life he lived without any reason to be poetic in a world written in such cursed lines.

He lay down very slowly, without even feeling his movements. He felt an overwhelming certainty that he wouldn't feel the pain of the bullets. He was an already yellowing photograph with an unfaltering smile and the hope that death really did mean rest for one who had been obliged to make peace a systematic declaration of war. Beelzebub's questions were met with silence and an expression of melancholic joy remained in his coffin.

The early 1970s

After Silva died and Cosme fled the Old Flats, Miguel dealt for more than six years without too many worries. Since few gangsters were into dealing, and because The Flats were quiet compared to the houses, there were only a small number of gangsters and few operated in the area. Miguel watched the new blocks of flats going up, the arrival of the population of the
favela
Macedo Sobrinho, and the brutal institution of community living. Because the new residents all came from the same place, there was an existing network of friendships, and this gave them attitudes that segregated them from and irked the old residents.

Fighting broke out between groups of youths from the flats and the houses. They fought over kites, marbles, football, girlfriends … The residents of the New and Old Flats weren't on hostile terms, however, perhaps by virtue of their proximity. People often said the New and Old Flats were all the same thing. The gangsters who had just arrived didn't steal there. But they did set up a den in Building Seven of the New Flats the very day they arrived.