Brazil (9 page)

Reaching the main street on Santa Marta, Luiz saw that things were just beginning to warm up. People were sitting outside in the night-time heat, chatting and joking with one another.
Baile funk
poured out of every speaker, the different beats overlapping with one another, creating a barrage of noise. Luiz had to step out of the way of taxi scooters as they barrelled down the street, beeping their horns.

A familiar figure was sitting at a table outside a cafe, a Skol in one hand and a bulky spliff in the other. As he saw Luiz approaching, MC Livio grinned and got up.

‘You lucky bastard,’ he chuckled, enveloping Luiz in a bear hug and clapping him on the back. ‘Everyone’s talking about how you made it past the Compadres. You and that bike!’

‘No thanks to Stripe,’ Luiz muttered.

The MC was too stoned to pick up on Luiz’s meaning. Instead, he gestured vaguely at the group of people sitting around the table.

‘We’re just getting started here. Sit down and let’s celebrate.’

Luiz shook his head. ‘I’m shattered. You know anywhere I can crash for the night?’

Livio stubbed out his spliff in the ashtray.

‘I can do better than that,’ he said. ‘I’ll show you.’

Bidding farewell to the rest of the table, Livio led him away from the bustling main road. They walked through a dark maze of alleyways and dirt tracks, and it wasn’t long before Luiz was completely lost. Although the
favela
was quieter here, the music never completely abandoned them.

Livio finally stopped outside a shack with a battered, corrugated-iron roof and pushed open the door.

‘You can stay at my place for a while,’ he said.

Following the MC inside, Luiz found himself in a small front room, sparsely lit by a lone light bulb. There was little in the way of furniture – a couple of chairs, a gas stove and a stereo. An old mattress was spread out on the floor.

‘For when I have guests,’ Livio explained, his nudge informing Luiz that those guests would be almost certainly female.

‘Where’s your family?’

‘Gabriela lives in her place across the
favela
with the kids. I come here when I want to relax. Can’t do that with kids running around and Gabriela nagging me. You know what women are like.’

Livio flicked on the strip light in the kitchen and produced two large bottles of Skol from the fridge. Luiz accepted his gratefully and took a deep swig. It was only now that he realized how thirsty he was.

Plumping down in the chairs, they talked for hours, drinking beer and listening to music. After all that had happened in the past few days, it felt unreal to be doing something normal. The more time he spent with the chubby MC, the more Luiz liked him. Compared to the rest of the Comando Negro, he was relaxed, even friendly. The MC smoked spliffs for the entire night, his eyes becoming more glazed and his speech less distinct.

Even though Luiz was still on his guard, he needed to unwind. He didn’t usually drink alcohol, so it didn’t take long for him to feel drunk. After a couple of bottles, he looked thoughtfully at Livio.

‘You’re not like the rest of them, are you?’

‘Who?’

‘The Comando Negro.’

Livio shrugged. ‘This is the
favela
, my friend. We’re all in it together. We laugh together, fight together, bleed together.’

‘Die together?’

‘Probably. How many old people d’you see walking around here? Soldiers like us don’t live very long. Angel’s made it to twenty, but he’s the toughest I ever saw. How long d’you think Dog’s got? Shit, Luiz, he won’t make it past twelve! I’m just glad I’ve made it this far.’

‘What about your music? Wouldn’t you rather do that instead?’

‘I love music, but this…’ Livio frowned, trying to think of the words. ‘This is
life
, man. This is what it is.’ He sparked up another spliff and took a long drag on it, the end burning brightly in the dingy light.

Luiz woke up on the floor, an empty bottle by his side. MC Livio was standing over him, poking him in the ribs with his foot.

‘Wake up, you lazy bastard!’ he shouted. ‘Time to go!’

‘Ow! Stop yelling!’ Luiz groaned. ‘Go where?’

‘It’s delivery day.’

‘What’s that?’

‘You’ll see. Come on. Get ready.’

Luiz washed quickly in a basin and headed outside, wincing in the bright sunshine. Angel was waiting for him, flanked by the rest of the Comando Negro command.

‘Looks like you made it in,’ he said.

‘Just about,’ Luiz said flatly. He turned to Stripe. ‘You know the bike you made me ride? The petrol ran out.’

‘Yeah?’ Stripe looked as though he couldn’t care less. ‘Thought it had a full tank. Sorry about that, Luiz.’

Angel beckoned to Livio. ‘Come on, MC. Time to go.’

Luiz made to follow, only for the
dono
to put a hand against his chest. ‘Where the hell d’you think you’re going?’

‘Delivery day?’

‘You must be kidding me. You may be able to ride a motorbike, but you aren’t a
soldado
yet. Leave the men to take care of delivery day. You stay here with Dog at the
boca
.’

‘I’ve got to stay here?’

‘Hope you can change nappies!’ Joker sniggered.

‘Hey – take me with you! I passed your initiation, didn’t I? I’m Comando Negro, I can –’

Luiz didn’t even see the punch. There was a sudden movement and he was on the floor, the taste of blood in his mouth. His head spinning, Luiz looked up to see Angel standing over him.

‘Listen to me. If Livio hadn’t spoken for you, I’d have shot you when you first walked in here. I got respect for Livio – everyone round here does. But if you want respect, you’re going to have to earn it.’ Angel dropped to his haunches and grabbed Luiz’s hair, jerking his head back. ‘Get in my face again and I’ll kill you.’

He stood up again, flicking blood from his hand. ‘Now stay here with Dog and try not to mess anything up.’

Angel stalked away, Joker following hot on his heels. As Luiz rolled groggily into a sitting position, he saw Livio casting a grave look in his direction before he too walked away. Stripe was the last to leave. The blond-haired boy snorted with laughter and flicked a cigarette butt at Luiz’s feet, contempt burning in his eyes.

‘You should have stayed in that cell with Livio,’ he said. ‘Kids with big mouths don’t last long here.’

Several hours later and Luiz and Dog were sitting on top of a wall by the Santa Marta
boca do fumo
, their legs dangling over the edge. From their vantage point, they could see a heat haze shimmering above the Rio skyline. Armies of coloured paper kites were arcing through the sky, battling for supremacy in the wind.

Further down from them, two younger boys from the Comando Negro were also perched on the wall, balancing satchels on their knees. They had spent the day doling out wraps of cocaine to a steady stream of customers. In his time away from the
favela
, Luiz had forgotten the sheer range of people who bought drugs from the
boca
. It wasn’t just twitching addicts sidling up for a fix, but people from all different parts of Rio society: from middle-class suburban kids who crept up nervously, their eyes darting this way and that, to the elderly cleaning women on their way home from the hotels in Zona Sul, who bought the drugs as casually as they did the rest of their shopping.

Although his nose had stopped bleeding, Luiz’s face was still sore from Angel’s punch. Luiz was still cursing himself for being so foolish. He was going to have to be extra careful around the
dono
of the Comando Negro from now on. Dog, however, was a different matter. He wasn’t a bad kid, Luiz thought. Maybe that was the problem. He was too eager to please, too eager to impress. For all his swagger, it was obvious he didn’t have what it took to be a soldier. He was never going to be able to pull the trigger.

Dog pointed up into the sky. ‘You see the kites? Few months back, I would have been flying one of those. Before I got promoted.’

‘Yeah?’

‘They’re signals,’ Dog said, pleased by the opportunity to show off his knowledge. ‘Different coloured kites mean different things. Like, if you see a red kite flying, you know there’s trouble on the way. A rival gang or the cops.’

The little boy nudged Luiz. ‘We used to stick glass to the strings, try and cut through the other lines. One afternoon, I brought down three other kites. The other kids were so pissed off!’

‘Really?’ Luiz said. Though he remembered the kite signals from his own time in Santa Marta, he acted as though this was new information. He feigned an innocent look. ‘You must know a lot about the Comando Negro, being around Angel all the time.’

‘I hear it all, Luiz,’ Dog boasted. ‘No one pays any attention to me, but I’m always listening.’

‘How come you didn’t go with everyone else to the delivery?’

‘They won’t let me. It’s all Stripe’s fault.’ Dog’s face darkened. ‘I hate Stripe. He’s always picking on me, saying I’m never going to be a
soldado
. He thinks everyone’s scared of him – one day I’m going to show him.’

‘Where does the delivery happen?’

‘They won’t tell me. Some warehouse downtown. The trucks carrying all the shit come in from Colombia and they don’t go into the
favela
. I wish I could see it.’

Luiz nudged him. ‘Someone’s got to protect the
favela
while they’re away. Big responsibility, that.’

‘Yeah.’ Dog smiled, puffing his chest out. ‘Everything’s OK when I’m in charge. Not like when Angel goes to meet the Doctor. Then Stripe’s in charge and all he does is push me around.’

‘The Doctor?’ Luiz asked quickly. ‘Who’s that?’

Dog fell silent, a pensive look on his face. ‘I’m not supposed to talk about him.’

‘You can talk to me, Dog. Hey, I’m Comando Negro too!’

The little boy glanced left and right, then whispered, ‘He’s the money man. Angel’s just the muscle; it’s the Doctor who brings in the drugs. He only deals with Angel – no one else has even seen him. That’s all I can tell you.’

‘It’s not very much.’

‘It’s not that I don’t trust you, Luiz, but Angel gets angry when –’

Dog broke off as Luiz grabbed his arm.

A lone red kite was fluttering in the breeze.

Luiz stood up on the wall and looked down the hill, shielding his eyes from the sun. To his amazement, he saw a tidal wave of people sweeping up towards the
favela
.

‘What’s going on?’

‘Must be a police raid,’ Dog replied. ‘They’re coming to get a hit before the cops show up.’ He scrambled to his feet. ‘Let’s get out of here.’

‘Aren’t we supposed to stay and protect the
boca
?’

Dog laughed incredulously. ‘Take on the police? Without Angel? You must be crazy! Look, everyone’s getting out of here.’

Further along the wall, a desperate crowd had gathered beneath the two Comando Negro members selling the cocaine. Ignoring the pleas and waving banknotes, the two boys gathered up their satchels and scampered past Luiz after the rapidly retreating figure of Dog. Down below them, Luiz could now see two black police vans hurtling up the hillside towards the
boca
. Dog was right – they were going to be badly outnumbered if they stayed here. He turned and sprinted across the rooftops after the rest of the Comando Negro, feeling a small surge of triumph as he did so. His conversation with Dog had provided him with the first few pieces of information he could pass on to Trojan.

When they were safely back in the depths of the
favela
, Luiz left Dog trying to boss around some younger boys and slipped away down a deserted alleyway. Checking to see that there was no one else around, he took out his mobile phone – which he had smuggled into the
favela
in his sock – and tapped in the number Richard Madison had given him.

The phone rang a couple of times and then a voice on the other end answered. ‘Ricardo’s Pizzeria.’

‘Hi. Can I get a large pizza with black olives?’

After a pause the man said, ‘Hold the line.’

There was a click and then Luiz heard Richard Madison’s British accent. ‘What is it, Luiz?’

‘I need a meeting.’

‘OK. Can you get away tomorrow night?’

‘I guess so.’

‘South side of Engenhão stadium, then. Eight o’clock.’

11. Grudge Match

Engenhão stadium rose out of the gloom like a giant spaceship, the white arched girders that towered above the arena gleaming in the floodlights. Some reckoned Botafogo’s recently built home ground to be the most modern in all of South America. Pity about the team that played in it, the locals grumbled to one another.

Twenty minutes before the game was due to kick off and the Botafogo fans were streaming towards the stadium in a riot of flags and whirling scarves. It seemed as though everyone was dressed in black-and-white stripes, the colours of the home team. The air rang with chanting and clapping.

Luiz walked quickly through the manic carnival, his head down and his hands thrust into the pockets of his hoodie. Paranoia haunted his every step. His eyes darting this way and that, he was convinced that at any moment he would catch sight of Angel, Stripe or MC Livio. It seemed ridiculous to say, but Luiz was almost more nervous outside the
favela
than inside it. If any of the Comando Negro had decided to go to the Botafogo game and saw Luiz talking with a stranger from outside Santa Marta, that was it. No questions asked. The next time he set foot in the
favela
, he was a dead man.

At the south side of the stadium, Luiz slipped away from the main throng of fans, furtively searching for a familiar face. To his surprise, he caught sight of the broad-shouldered figure of Darius Jordan leaning against a concrete pillar, calmly flicking through a copy of
O Globo
. The head of Trojan Industries was dressed in knee-length shorts and a Botafogo football shirt – just another fan waiting for the game to begin.

He looked up sharply from his newspaper as Luiz approached. ‘What happened to your face?’