City of God (15 page)

Cosme and Silva ran the shop in that part of City of God. They took turns selling, but they went to fetch their merchandise, packaged it and managed sales together. None of the other criminals in The Flats dealt and they only rarely helped with sales or packaging. Silva had convinced Cosme to stop doing hold-ups and start dealing, arguing that the risks of the business were lower and the number of addicts had taken a fantastic upward turn.

‘It's in the papers every day; only the blind can't see it! It's the brothel owners, rock singers and dealers that're making money, man!'

As the days passed, Cosme became convinced that his friend was right. He bought furniture, tiled the kitchen and bathroom, had his living room refloored, and he always had money on him. The den's turnover was astonishing; their clientele couldn't have grown any more. But they both knew that sooner or later the den would be discovered by the police. For this reason, every Saturday – when the turnover was the highest – they asked Flip Flop, then ten years of age, to fly a kite and make it dip to the left if the police suddenly showed up.

One Saturday, Boss of Us All was heading towards The Flats. As usual, he went ahead of the other police officers, leading the operation, checking out things he saw as he moved quickly along. This time he wasn't thinking about money – if he busted anyone he'd press charges. And if the bastard opened his mouth to say something, he'd pump his face full of lead. He appealed to his
pombagira
for help as he crossed the tiny bridge over the left branch of the river.

Flip-Flop dipped his kite and, as it was urgent, gave his friends a warning whistle. Silva and Cosme had time to put out the joint
they were smoking and hide their dope under the planks of wood next to the wall of the building where they dealt. Boss of Us All saw what they were doing and hung back, together with the officers in uniform. The dealers could make a dash for Gardênia Azul or head down Gabinal Road, jump the wall of the country manor and hide out in the bush. They decided on the latter.

Acerola had bought two bundles of weed minutes before Boss of Us All showed up. He saw the police running and thought about making a dash for it, but there wasn't enough time. His only alternative was to throw the dope into the garden of a building. The police passed by without noticing his nervous face.

In the grounds of the manor, Cosme and Silva were attacked by two guard dogs. They had to kill the senseless beasts. The two minutes they spent doing this put them within firing range. They zigzagged between the trees, regaining the ground they had lost. They were still being followed when they reached the guava trees. They had to get through them and follow the trail to Quintanilha. Boss of Us All was panting heavily. His stamina was that of a middle-aged man and he was unable to keep up with the twenty-somethings running from him. The other police officers also gave up.

When Silva and Cosme returned to The Flats, they found a couple of gangsters waiting for them:

‘What's up, guys? Is the coast clear?'

‘Yeah, but the pigs took your whole stash.'

‘What you talkin' about? They came after us!'

‘That Iran guy didn't go after you, man! You split and he came along and swiped the lot,' said one of the gangsters.

Neither Silva nor Cosme believed them. Finding the whole story pretty fishy, they went to Silva's place to make up for lost time. There were eight pounds of dope and three ounces of coke
to package up. They invited the two to help them with the packaging.

‘Hey, let's send the kid for some whisky,' said Silva, already inside the flat.

‘Good idea!' said Cosme.

Silva stuck his head out of the window and motioned to Flip-Flop. The boy came running – he always worked for the gangsters like that. There were other errand boys, but Flip-Flop was the fastest and smartest, always ready for any task.

‘Go and buy us a bottle of Royal Label and be quick about it!'

In the living room, they cut up the weed with scissors, bundled it up in sports lottery tickets and put them in a plastic bag. In the kitchen, Cosme and Silva were packaging the cocaine. They set some aside to snort while they worked.

At the entrance to the building, Flip-Flop was intercepted by another two gangsters:

‘What's up, Blackie? Where you goin' with that whisky?'

‘You know it's for the packagin', man!' answered Flip-Flop rudely.

‘If the dope's already packed up, send ten bundles down here for us.'

Flip-Flop ran up to the fifth floor taking four steps at a time. As soon as Silva opened the door, he said:

‘The guys want us to send ten bundles of shit down for them, OK?'

‘Who?' asked Silva.

‘Same ones as always,' the boy answered.

‘Hey! Those guys are the biggest spongers, and they always get pushy whenever we're packagin'. You reckon they can afford ten bundles just like that? … They're a bunch of clowns!' Silva concluded.

‘Send 'em up so we can see what the story is,' said Cosme.

The gangsters were on edge when they arrived and shook everyone's hands as if they hadn't seen them in a long time. One sat on the floor in the living room, while the other took the only free place on the sofa.

‘Who is it that wants ten bundles?' asked Silva.

The one on the sofa said it was him, but he'd still have to go home to get the money. He didn't budge. Cosme and Silva looked at one another, said nothing and continued packaging up the cocaine. The visitors said the police raid only happened because someone had grassed, and made a point of reaffirming that the policeman had taken the whole stash. They were the only two who spoke in that tense atmosphere. The dope packagers rolled joints from time to time. Everyone had a smoke, although the cocaine was reserved for the four working. The gangster sitting on the floor suddenly said goodbye to everyone and left.

‘Chop us out a line, man,' said the visitor as soon as his pal had gone and Cosme had locked the door.

Cosme told him to wait until he chopped out lines for everyone at the same time. The visitor asked for a shot of whisky instead. Silva told him to help himself. The bastard filled his cup to overflowing. He downed it in two gulps, while everyone else looked at him in disapproval for his arrogance. They acted as if nothing had happened. After smoking another joint, Silva chopped out five lines, snorted his and passed the plate to the visitor along with the straw made from a five-cruzeiro note. The visitor's drunken hands let the plate slip to the ground. A deadly mistake among gangsters. Cosme was about to fly at him, but Silva stopped him.

‘C'mon, man, you gonna lay into the guy over a bit of coke? If it fell it fell, man … Forget about it. Let's have a beer downstairs to wash it all down.'

Flip-Flop was the first to go downstairs to see if the coast was clear. He checked the area, then waved to his friends. The five went down quickly, and headed towards the bar on Block Nine. It was a hundred yards away. They walked in silence past children playing hide-and-seek, cars on the road and first-floor windows. People were eating dinner and watching the evening soaps. Silva went ahead to see what lay in wait for them around corners. His eyes saw only the night stretching out along a poorly-lit alley. He turned to those following him. The visitor had time to see the full moon of Ogum hide behind a thin cloud a second before he received a bullet in the chest from Silva's gun. He spun and fell slowly, face down. Cosme searched him but found only a bit of loose change. The body lay sprawled on the cold grass. Silva grew uneasy about the way the visitor's body had fallen after the shot. Those who fall face down want revenge.

They returned to the murderer's flat saying that someone who drops a plate of cocaine is asking to die. This argument relieved Silva of his distress at having killed a man, but deep down his real reason for eliminating the visitor was a different one: he believed he had pilfered their stash of dope. It had been obvious when the guy had wanted to buy ten bundles in one go, no doubt so he could show up with dope in the streets at any time without arousing suspicion.

Silva went to the kitchen, got the coke and told his friend he was going to prepare a bit more to snort. He chopped out the lines himself, and again put forward his argument about the visitor's attitude. Real gangsters had to know how to come and go, and had to wait for the right time to make their moves. This thing of bumming other people's coke was for dickheads. Maybe he'd dropped the coke on the ground for a laugh, so he could go around saying he'd paid them a visit, had a drink, a smoke, a snort and then thrown out the fuckwits' coke too. He'd had his eye on
that dickhead for ages; he was always bumming coke and dope off people. Silva spoke in a didactic tone without taking his eyes off Flip-Flop. The boy nodded his head as though he understood what he was being taught. The murderer's conclusion was that the visitor had deserved to die.

After doing the coke, Silva got up and poured another shot of whisky for each of them, making it clear he wanted to be left alone. Cosme was the first to say goodbye, but his pal asked him to stay and help tidy up the flat. Flip-Flop told the packagers it would be better for them to leave one at a time, because the police were probably already at the scene of the crime. They took his advice.

Silva was in a hurry as his wife had told him she'd be home early that Saturday. She knew her husband was mixed up in dodgy business, but she refused to receive gangsters in her house; she didn't like their talk and she was afraid the police might pay them a surprise visit. Silva, in turn, only accepted his wife's arguments after making her swear – with her feet together and without crossing her fingers behind her back – that no one would ever find out that she was a prostitute and that she would never tell him how her night had been. But whenever she arrived home with lots of money he felt a pang in his heart, and when she brought him presents or looked tired he lost it – at times he wanted too much sex, while at others he wouldn't even look at her, picking fights over nothing. He tried to make her give up the night, but she said she'd only do it if he left his life of crime and got himself a decent job. She wouldn't mind struggling to make ends meet if she could live a peaceful life. Silva didn't give in. His wife, even less.

Cosme opened a wrap of coke to buy time. He wanted to see his pal's wife arrive home. That black chick with her ample arse, strong thighs, almond eyes, shapely feet, hands with long, fine
fingers, fleshy lips … One day he'd tell her how much he wanted her. He prayed the couple would have a fight so he could comfort his friend and put him off women for once and for all. After all, all women were worthless. He had been smart not to tie the knot with anyone; he was going to stay single his whole life. As long as his friend's wife wasn't his, he made do just looking at her, seeing her in a pair of tight little shorts and T-shirt with no bra underneath. He loved the way she talked, ate, laughed, used her eyes, lay on the sofa … Fernanda soon arrived, as expected. But she looked tired, which irritated her husband.

‘Work hard?' he asked with a certain sarcasm.

Fernanda didn't answer. She just greeted Cosme then headed for the bathroom, where she counted her money, set some aside, hid it behind the cupboard and jumped into the shower.

They had already finished cleaning and tidying the flat. Fernanda's secret admirer strategically opened another wrap so he could see her come out of the bathroom in her tight little shorts, although her breasts were protected from his gaze by a T-shirt and bra.

She threw herself onto the sofa. Cosme chopped out six lines and passed the plate to his friend. When Silva lowered his head to snort, Cosme looked at Fernanda's foot, then ran his eyes up her body to her eyes, where he allowed his gaze to rest as if to say: ‘I love you, I want you!'

Fernanda showed no sign of understanding the message in her husband's friend's eyes. After they had snorted, they had a shot of whisky, lit cigarettes and said goodbye. Silva didn't talk to his wife and went to bed without a shower.

Cosme shuddered when he saw the mother hugging her son's body. He turned, lengthened his steps towards the left branch of the river, and hid the drugs and gun near the riverbank. He knew
he'd toss and turn in bed if he tried to sleep and decided to walk until he felt sleepy. He couldn't get the image of the old woman clutching the stiff out of his mind, but fuck it – dickheads deserved to kick the bucket. He crossed the bridge, wandering aimlessly. He prayed for daybreak to arrive so he could go ahead and open the den. He thought about Fernanda. If only she'd fall in love with him and suggest they get together. He'd run far away with her, somewhere where he could give up this life of crime, have kids and get a sucker's job to make her happy. He walked around with his head down for several hours. The sun rose. Suddenly he remembered he shouldn't be roaming around at a loose end at that hour because he'd already been busted by the pigs. That stiff in the dew would attract the police and he was reeking of dope. He headed towards the Eucalypt Grove. He'd be safe there. A few breadsellers were crying their wares. The suckers were starting to head out for the daily grind.

A month earlier, two neighbours were chatting over on Block Fourteen:

‘Don't your fella lick you out? Ah, girl … you're missing the good things in life. Before mine fucks me, he's gotta go down on me for about half an hour. And what about up the arse? You don't let him, do you. You don't know what you're missin'. It hurts the first few times, but afterwards it just slips right in. What you do is you get a banana, warm it up a little, stick it in your snatch and tell him to stick it in behind. It'll blow your mind. Ever tried a merry-go-round? Corkscrew? Choo-choo? Funnel? Finger? Sixty-nine? Bottle-stopper? Roly-poly? Traffic jam? Wet whistle …?

The northerner decided that when her husband got home, she'd suggest they try the pleasures of the flesh. But it didn't work. Not only did he not want to know about disgusting acts
but he also gave her a flogging so she'd stop thinking filth. Certain of the origin of these shameless ideas, he also forbade her to talk to the neighbouring women. While he beat her, she thought about finding herself a man who'd indulge her. She'd get back at her husband by feeling real pleasure – but it'd have to be with a black man, because her neighbour had assured her that all blacks had big dicks. The more he beat her, the more she imagined a well-hung black giving it to her from behind and a warm banana in front.