City of God (7 page)

The hot sun had almost gone, the children brought in their kites, workers arrived on crowded buses, people who had night classes headed for school, the few afternoon breadsellers headed home and workers filled corner bars for their sacred drink. Aluísio got off the bus in Main Square. He didn't know what the story was with Hellraiser, but he didn't care if he was the meanest gangster in the world because he was going to kick his arse – Aluísiowas hot shit with his fists too. He'd challenge Hellraiser to a fist fight if he had to. Real gangsters had to fight with their fists, otherwise they lost face, people looked down on them. He reckoned that if he wasn't at the Bonfim he'd be Down Below. On the way he ran into Orange and Acerola smoking a joint.

‘What's up, man? Everythin' OK?'

‘So-so.'

‘Wanna puff, man?' asked Acerola, joint in hand.

‘No, I don't smoke, thanks anyway.'

‘That's right, I completely forgot.'

Aluísio took the chance to grumble to his friends. Acerola got angry when he heard what had happened. He said in an apprehensive voice that the gangsters had to respect the Boys. He said that if it were him, he'd beat the shit out of the guy to put some manners on him. He liked Aluísio, although he hadn't known him for long. He believed you could tell from a man's eyes if he was nice or not. He sensed sincerity in Aluísio's eyes and always saw him talking to everyone, and buying beers for the cool guys. He was a man who never had problems with anyone, was always in the running for the best chicks in the area, and the guys he hung out with were top-notch. He decided to side with the one he considered a good guy. Orange backed his friend's decision.

They headed Down Below, as Orange had seen Hellraiser going into Black Carlos's house in the morning. Before crossing the square where the City of God Prospectors carnival group rehearsed, they ran into Niftyfeet having a good time at a pool table with two workers, knocking back a drink or two between shots to whet their appetites. Acerola took it upon himself to tell Niftyfeet what had happened and, seeing him all worked up, Niftyfeet decided to intervene.

‘Let me have a word with him, but let's not all go at once, 'cos he might think we're gonna give him a hard time. You two wait for me here and I'll go with him.'

‘Thanks!' they answered.

Niftyfeet advised Aluísio to tread lightly. He shouldn't be afraid, because Hellraiser didn't like that either, but if he came on too heavy the shit'd hit the fan.

‘I know how it is,' said Aluísio, like someone who understood how things worked. He visualised Father Joaquim of the Promised Land of the Souls so everything would run smoothly. His protector never failed him in his hour of need.

The matter was easily resolved. Aluísio behaved as Niftyfeet had expected. When he said he was a friend of Hammer, Orange and Acerola, he received double what had been taken from him, along with the gangster's apologies.

Night made itself king of the hill. Moths clustered around every other streetlamp. Up Top, a gang of kids asked Bahian Paulo where the gangsters were. They wanted to celebrate their successes with the masters. That day, their eager little hands had made old people, pregnant women and drunks in the city centre feel their vulnerability. They'd also begged and shined shoes in São Francisco Square. Pipsqueak, the one who always got the most money, was the leader of the gang. He lied to his friends to win their respect, saying he had already sent more than ten folk off to meet their maker in the hold-ups he'd done alone. He looked up to Hellraiser, but adored Big, who was top dog in the
favela
of Macedo Sobrinho. If he managed to be like Hellraiser, soon he'd be like Big too: desired by women and feared by all. He considered Slick and Sparrow his best friends. When Slick was behind bars at Padre Severino, there were few occasions when his mother didn't take him money sent by Pipsqueak. When Slick got out of prison, Pipsqueak sung his friend's praises, saying he was the wisest and toughest, the biggest gangster of them all.

Bahian Paulo had only seen Hellraiser in the morning. As for Hammer and Squirt, he hadn't seen them for some time.

‘Even the guy who grassed on them is showin' his face in the area again,' said the owner of the Bonfim, pointing at Francisco, who was drinking a peach cocktail at the other end of the bar.

The children went to old Teresa's to score four bundles of dope in the hope of finding a gangster to share it with.

Then they headed down through the alleys. Night Owl went ahead, giving the rest of the gang the thumbs-up when all was clear around corners. If for some reason the police happened to appear, he'd continue on without signalling. Pipsqueak was the only one who carried a gun and he always kept it cocked.

Hellraiser was playing pool with Pelé and Shorty at Dummy's corner bar. When he saw Night Owl he shouted his name as if calling to a close friend. He was even happier when he saw the rest of the gang. He decided to greet each of them with a handshake and told them it was time for children to be in bed. He didn't stop at shaking Pipsqueak's hand and decided to hug him, slapping his shoulders not just in friendship, but also in admiration. After the reception, Pipsqueak said he'd come to let his friend in on a good one. He explained his plan. Hellraiser got excited and his excitement spread to Pelé and Shorty.

‘We can even do it today. We just need to get a car …'

‘No way, Pipsqueak! Saturday's better, 'cos there's more people there. More dough for us, right?'

They arranged to hit the jackpot late Saturday night. That Friday night, Pipsqueak would take Hellraiser and the others to case out the place they were going to hold up. They'd check the exits in case the pigs showed and choose the best place to park the car … The money would be divided equally between four. Pipsqueak would be included just for having tipped them off. The job would be carried out by Hellraiser, Pelé and Shorty. They celebrated the success of the operation in advance. Hellraiser said the thing was to think positively so everything would work out alright. Carrots, another kid in the gang, asked for a soft drink and three pool tokens. Out of habit, he accidentally called the bar owner ‘Bahian Paulo', reminding Pipsqueak of the grass.

‘We just saw the guy who set the cops on you lot.'

‘No way!' said Hellraiser.

‘Yes way, man! He was at the Bonfim drinkin' piss.'

Hellraiser dropped his pool cue, went to the hole where he'd stashed his gun, gave it a once-over and headed into the streets in the dark of the moonless night. He went down an alleyway, passed the nursery, crossed the Nut Cracker, passed Augusto Magne School and continued down the road along the right branch of the river. He slowed his pace at each corner so as not to get caught off guard. The police were nowhere to be seen. He was going to bump off the grass to set an example, because if he didn't everyone might start grassing. This was perhaps the most important lesson he'd learned from other gangsters when he was a boy in the
favela
of São Carlos. Hellraiser was brimming with hatred as he passed the club. All he had to do was cross the Rec, cut through the church alley, turn right, go down Middle Street, and he'd be at the Bonfim.

Francisco was not completely drunk. He was sipping his peach cocktail and listening to Bahian Paulo's radio. He didn't notice Hellraiser.

Francisco had migrated from the northern state of Ceará to Rio de Janeiro with a job guaranteed. He worked on the construction of the Paulo de Frontin Bridge. He'd lived in the on-site accommodation during his first year in Rio, then managed to get a house in the estate with the help of one of the big-shot engineers working on the bridge. He'd sent a letter to his wife saying his brother was going to fetch her. His brother had gone by bus just the day before. The letter also talked about a good house with running water and a yard, and there was a school for the kids nearby, where, according to the neighbours, it was easy to enrol them. He had some money set aside for furniture. The only bad thing about Rio de Janeiro was that
there were niggers everywhere, but he wanted her to come as quickly as possible because he was missing the kids terribly. When he'd arrived in Rio, Francisco had been mugged before he'd left the bus station, and again two months later, in the Red Light District. Both times by blacks. When he'd heard Squirt saying he was going to do a house down Anil way, he waited for him to move away and said in a loud voice that if he saw a policeman he'd turn in that thieving cunt on the spot. He knew where the others lived and pointed at Hammer's house. Madalena, who had been drinking a beer at the other end of the bar, committed what he'd said to memory. The first chance she had, she told Maracanã what had happened. Francisco hadn't been afraid to beckon to the police doing their rounds, to grass that very same night on which he had sworn to avenge himself on that fucking race. He said he'd never liked niggers and after he came to Rio he'd begun to feel angry towards them. He argued with his friends, saying blondes were the sons of God, whites God had begat, mulattos were bastard sons, and blacks the Devil had shat. Telling the police where Hammer lived was his great act of revenge against that bunch of golliwogs.

Hellraiser asked Bahian Paulo for a shot of Cinzano-and-cachaça and told him he was going to teach Francisco a thing or two. He glanced up and down the street to see if the coast was clear, and ordered a peach cocktail for the grass, like the heroes in cowboy movies. Francisco realised Hellraiser was there when he was being served. Wary of his gesture, he avoided looking at him and got ready to run. The next second he began to doubt whether he should run or not. Perhaps Hellraiser only wanted to find out what had happened and everything would be alright after a talk. He'd heard many locals say that no one escapes a good chat. But, come to think of it, those guys were always serious when it came to business – he should be hotfooting it out
of there. He worked out what path he'd take, breathed deeply and took off. Hellraiser, however, was faster. He headed Francisco off before he'd rounded the second corner.

‘What's up, man? Turnin' your nose up at the drink I bought you?'

‘No. It's just that I was on my way out already … um … um …'

‘What you all worked up about? Relax, 'cos I just wanna talk …'

‘I … I … I …'

‘I my arse, man! You're a fuckin' grass!'

‘But … but … but …'

‘But my arse! Let's head over there for a chat, I'm not gonna do nothin' to you, don't worry,' said Hellraiser, pointing at the square on Block Fifteen with his gun.

Francisco had no choice but to follow his orders. Hellraiser thought about White, his friends who'd had to spend time away from the
favela
, Hammer and Cleide's lost furniture. Francisco didn't hear the dogs barking or the sound of the record player coming from the Bonfim, which gradually became inaudible to Hellraiser too. In the square, a child holding a baby was waiting for his mother, who was on her way home from work. The fearful sometimes puff up with courage when they become overly nervous. Francisco thought about his wife, his six children, the letter he'd sent and the death looming before him. Hellraiser's voice ordering him to recite a Hail Mary made him bold enough to jump on him in an attempt to grab the gun. His murderer dodged him and sent a bullet into his forehead.

He fired another three shots into the body already in the throes of death; eyes rolling, arms flailing. Blood ran down Francisco's forehead. Hellraiser took twenty cruzeiros from the corpse's pocket and the watch from his wrist and returned
downhill along a different path to the one he'd taken on his way up. The child holding the baby took the opportunity to filch Francisco's shoes.

‘Wanna see a stiff? Just take a spin Up Top.'

‘You sent him off to meet his maker!' exclaimed Pipsqueak.

‘I even landed myself some dough and a ticker – I got lucky! We'd better lie low now, 'cos soon the pigs'll being showin' up, man,' said Hellraiser, heading for the counter for a shot of Cinzano-and-cachaça. Perhaps a drink would slow his racing heart, pulling him out of the terrain of remorse and leaving him only with the glory of having done in a grass.

He downed the shot, lit a cigarette and insisted on paying the bill. The kids were looking for a skin so they could roll a joint. Pelé and Shorty were playing a game on their last pool chip. Black Carlos arrived, saying there was a fresh stiff over by The Flats. It had happened while some thieves were splitting the loot from a robbery. One had wanted a bigger cut for having cased the joint and ended up getting killed by his partner.

‘Time for us to disappear, man. I just finished off the grass Up Top!' said Hellraiser to Black Carlos.

They all headed off in different directions. Hellraiser thought about going to Berenice's house. He was sure she'd calm him down, but it'd take some cheek to knock on her door at a time like that. He decided to sleep at his new place.

All of the bars in the estate closed their doors. At the police post, Officers Jurandy and Marçal were asleep on the second floor. Downstairs, Corporal Coelho was reading
The Texas Kid Comes Back to Kill
. Over at The Flats, the thief's mother lit seven candles around her son's body, removed the gold chain and Saint George medal from around his neck, recited the Lord's Prayer, a Hail Mary, the Creed and sang a song to Ogum:

Father, father Ogum,
Hail Ogum of Humaitá.
He won the great wars.
On this earth we salute
The horseman of Oxalá.
Hail Ogum Tonam,
Hail Ogum Meje,
Ogum delocoh kitamoroh
Ogum eh …

Outside, grasses deserve a beating, but in the
favela
they deserve to die. No one lit a candle for Francisco; only a dog licked at the dried blood on his face.

When the rainy morning arrived, people on their way to work went over to the corpses to see if they were anyone they knew, then went on their way. At around nine o'clock, Boss of Us All, who had clocked on at 7.30, went to see the thief's corpse. When he pulled back the sheet covering the body, he concluded, ‘It's a gangster.' He had two tattoos; on his left arm was a woman with her legs spread and her eyes closed, and on his right arm was Saint George, the warrior saint. He was still wearing Charlote flip-flops, tapered trousers and a colourful T-shirt made by prisoners. At the other end of the square on Block Fifteen, however, when his steps brought him to the image of Francisco's body, a slight nervousness in his policeman's heart grew unchecked until it turned into all-out despair. The stiff belonged to a worker. Burning hatred seeped through his pores in a cold sweat. He suspected it was a fellow countryman. His suspicion did not betray him, for when he examined the dead man's ID he saw that he was from the state of Ceará. His anger was renewed and the flame of revenge kindled.