City of God (27 page)

Pipsqueak knew Beto wouldn't be back; he'd only gone around acting like hot shit because of Big. He'd taken advantage of his brother's reputation, he wasn't as fierce as he made himself out to be, and he only got into scraps with guys he knew were nothing to worry about. Pipsqueak arrived at Building Seven still holding his gun. He asked Otávio, a seven-year-old boy, to fetch Sparrow and, before the kid had even handed his spinning top to his friends, handed him a ten-cruzeiro note. The boy took the note, smiled and sped off.

‘The den's already ours!' he told his friend cheerfully.

Sparrow shook his head and said:

‘You're a nasty piece of work, ain't ya?'

He asked Sparrow to take Beto's assistant's merchandise, then spent the whole day working the den, in the high spirits of a winner. With a lit joint in his mouth and a gun in his waistband, Pipsqueak served his customers. Whenever someone he knew arrived, he made a point of giving them an extra bundle of dope
for free. He said this was Macedo Sobrinho, which had belonged to a big guy and now belonged to a little guy who, even though he was small, had as much balls as Big, or even more.

‘This den, in the new Macedo Sobrinho, belongs to a little guy!' said Pipsqueak.

Yes, now he'd call himself Tiny; Tiny, since the police knew about a guy by the name of Pipsqueak, who didn't spare his victims in hold-ups, and who'd been considered dangerous since Hellraiser's day. ‘Change of name – good idea.' He started saying Pipsqueak was dead and that the den in the New Flats now belonged to a guy called Tiny. The other gangsters watched him with fear and admiration, some sitting on the curb, others leaning against the wall of Building Seven. None of them dared do what he was doing, and for this reason came to respect him as everyone in Macedo Sobrinho had respected Big. Money, he was going to make lots of money – there were junkies everywhere you looked and no shortage of suppliers to sell him drugs.

‘OK, here's the story. We're pissed off with this Flip-Flop guy, know what I mean? Loads of people've complained about him, 'cos he gets shitfaced and takes the piss out of customers, his weed's always mixed, and he takes women by force, know what I mean?' He looked at everyone, but glanced at Sparrow at the end of every sentence, looking for support. ‘The boys want to dust their noses and he don't stock coke in his den. When there's no coke in my den, they go to his, but they never find any. And what's even worse is that he's goin' around rapin' and muggin' folks here in the New Flats. We gotta get rid of him, 'cos if we don't, some worker's gonna file a complaint and then the shit'll hit the fan for us too … Let's get rid of him, let's do it …'

Sparrow took the cue and agreed with his friend, although he knew the whole story was a lie. He knew Tiny had wanted to
take over the den in the Old Flats for ages so he could have complete control of that part of the
favela
. Tiny didn't mention money as a reason for wanting to take over Flip-Flop's den so he wouldn't have to share the profits with anyone except Sparrow, his best mate, the sort of friend who was already the godfather of his unborn children (he was sure whoever had a kid first would give it to the other to christen), the sort of friend who'd never bail out on you when you were in danger, the sort of friend who'd kill anyone that gave you a hard time. They hadn't arranged anything ahead of time, because good pals had to know everything about each other. Of all the gangsters, they were the only ones who'd been that way ever since they were kids, since the time they'd worked as shoeshiners in the city centre, since their first hold-up, since the days when they used to hang out together in São Carlos. A wink or a laugh or a scratch of the head said more than a whole sentence spelling things out. That's why Sparrow noticed Tiny's glances asking him to confirm that Flip-Flop was fucking things up. At any rate, even on his own, Tiny would get his pals to do whatever he wanted: he was always in charge of everything: he lead the hold-ups, the robberies, the dividing up of loot, and even in their leisure time it was he who called the shots. Sparrow's words weren't as emphatic as Tiny's, but they were enough to decide that Flip-Flop should be killed that very night. Sparrow tried pulling him to one side after the decision had been made, hoping to convince him to let Flip-Flop live – they could just kick him out. Tiny's reply was short and direct:

‘He's gotta go. He's a snake in the grass!'

‘Fuckin' hell! All you wanna do is kill, kill, kill. You never try to find another solution!'

‘Got a better idea?'

* * *

It was no later than 8 p.m. when Tiny and his friends hurried over to The Old Flats looking for Flip-Flop, who'd opened his den early and given his assistant fifty bundles of grass he'd packaged up himself before going to the beach where, as always, he'd stayed until around three o'clock in the afternoon. He'd had a kickabout in the Big Plot before going home and had taken a nap after dinner.

He woke up in time for the evening shift at the den and, although he hadn't washed, went down the stairs two at a time. He went to the den, took seventy per cent of the takings, and asked his assistant if it was worth replenishing stocks. The assistant shook his head and said the police had already showed up twice and it had been hard to sell the fifty bundles. Flip-Flop looked around to make sure the police weren't nearby. He put the money in a plastic bag, hurried home, counted it and took a small amount to have a beer and play cards with.

The barman opened the tenth bottle of beer while Flip-Flop shuffled the cards. The barman told him the beer was getting warm and Flip-Flop dealt to the three people in the bar.

On the corner, Tiny's friends cocked their guns. Bicky whistled. Flip-Flop looked up. At first he thought it was the police, but realised it was Tiny when he waved him over. He felt a twinge inside and remembered the gun he'd left at home. He dropped the cards, downed the rest of his glass in a single gulp, and walked on wobbly legs into the middle of the street. He'd never imagined Tiny would kill him; he'd always treated him well and every now and then would send a bit of weed over to his gang. He'd respected him, had never had any misunderstandings with the guys from the New Flats, and was always buying the things they brought back from their hold-ups, which is why he'd never worried that they might betray or attack him.

Sparrow was the only one who wasn't holding a gun. The gangsters' silence and seriousness revealed their intention. Suddenly, Flip-Flop pointed to the left, let out a cry and took off running to the right. He had wanted to give his enemies a fright. But his strategy didn't work on Tiny who, even from afar, shot him in the region of his right lung with a .36-calibre pistol. Flip-Flop kept dodging between the buildings before running into Building Four, where he sat on a flight of stairs. Tiny's friends were already heading off when they heard him shouting that Flip-Flop had tricked them. They obeyed his order to go after the fugitive, which Tiny repeated with a mixture of laughter and desperation. Over on Gabinal Road, a police van was heading towards Freguesia. The officer noticed all the scurrying around and told the driver to do an about-turn. The gangsters then ran towards The Hill, where they took cover.

‘Fuckin' hell, the guy duped ya. That shoutin' and runnin' off was just a trick – he realised the shit was gonna hit the fan and set us up! I was the only one who didn't fall for it …'

‘But the pigs really did show up …'

‘The pigs only showed up afterwards, man! If everyone had pulled the trigger right then and there, he'd already be dead, but I got him, I did …'

They stayed put for a while. From where they were they could see the police van turning back into Gabinal Road. Tiny's intuition told him Flip-Flop was still alive and he thought about combing the Old Flats to put him out of his misery. He walked a few paces towards the Old Flats, then stopped suddenly, turned to Marcelo and said:

‘Hey, Marcelo, you've never killed anyone. Go kill the guy! Take this .36, find him and even if you think he's dead, pull the trigger on him anyway. You've never killed anyone. Go and do it so you can see what it's like, OK?'

Marcelo hesitated and was about to protest when Tiny insisted at the top of his lungs:

‘Go kill the guy! You're one of us ain't ya? Go kill the guy!'

Marcelo clutched the gun, his hands shaking, his heart racing. He had to follow Tiny's orders, because Tiny was the one who always gave him money to buy a pound of something or other, and it was Tiny who'd backed him up in his first hold-up. His life had improved a lot since he'd started hanging around with Tiny. He cocked the gun and headed off, weaving his way through the buildings, carrying his fear, nervousness and all the cunning of his ten years together with the gun that barely fitted in his hands, with Tiny's voice accompanying his footsteps:

‘Go kill the guy!'

The streets were deserted. Some people watched what was going on from behind their curtains. Marcelo crossed the square of the estate, staring all the way down every alley he passed. Flip-Flop had gone to ground, there was no doubt about it. With any luck the dealer wasn't going to die at his hands. He was already turning around to go back when he noticed a commotion at the entrance to a building. He sprinted over. Inside, he saw people with desperation painted across their faces. He had to check it out. If he didn't kill Flip-Flop, Tiny would be pissed off with him, but if he killed him he'd be in Tiny's good books; he'd be respected. He had to kill someone, because Tiny had already killed someone, Russian Mouse had already killed someone, Beep-Beep had already killed someone, everyone had already killed someone and he was the odd one out. He'd be seen as a tough guy. Kill, kill, kill … A verb requiring a bloody object. Victims whofought back had to die, grasses had to die, fuckwits had to die. Kill. Tiny said:

‘Go kill the guy!'

He galloped up the stairs and, on the fourth flight, found a
woman giving Flip-Flop water. The woman noticed someone approaching; perhaps it was a relative who'd come to the dealer's aid. Without turning, she said he was losing a great deal of blood. Marcelo didn't hear what she said; he didn't hear or think a thing. Just Tiny's shrill little voice:

‘Go kill the guy!'

Flip-Flop took a deep breath and, in a flash, ducked his skinny body under the woman's legs and fired six bullets into Flip-Flop's chest.

Two days after Flip-Flop's death, Tiny bought fifty pounds of weed sale-or-return from a supplier who showed up saying he could always bring him as much as he wanted, so he could sell the fattest bundles of weed in all of Rio de Janeiro. He told Sparrow that the sooner they sold the dope the sooner they'd make money. It was easy: the thing to do was build up a good clientele, then slowly reduce the amount of weed in the bundles.

In no time Tiny's assistant was receiving a supply of fifty bundles every half hour. Tiny gave him orders to trade weed for stolen goods, revolvers and any other items of value. Before long he already had generous wraps of good coke to offer his customers, who bought them with stolen gold chains, and guns of all calibres.

Business grew. The Flats were easily accessible to customers from other areas, who even queued to buy good weed. Everything was on the up. The thieves always brought guns to trade for coke and dope, and Tiny's assistant worked with a gun at hand – assistants who weren't armed were amateurs. Sparrow was his only partner, as he was the only person he trusted. The others got their money in hold-ups. Money poured into Tiny and Sparrow's pockets. They needed to find someone who could read and write to manage the cash flow. He couldn't be a
gangster, because gangsters were a waste of time – they'd stick it to you the first chance they got. It had to be a worker who was a friend of theirs, someone they'd known and liked since childhood, who'd never stolen, but who had attitude and balls, who could use a shooter if he had to. Tiny mulled over the idea as he wandered aimlessly through The Flats, looking everyone he saw in the face.

His face broke into a grin when he spotted Carlos Roberto from afar. Every now and then Carlos Roberto would stop to give him a few words of wisdom, and was always telling him to keep an eye on the no-goods around him, because no-goods were like snakes. In all the time he'd known Carlos Roberto, he'd never seen him shooting his mouth off among friends. He was the serious sort, respected by the veterans and the cool guys. He hurried over to Carlos Roberto and made him a job offer, which he turned down. But Tiny insisted, saying he wouldn't have to lay a finger on a gun. All he had to do was manage the money so there'd always be enough to pay for the dope and coke. He also wanted him to supervise the assistants; nothing that was too much work or dangerous. He'd only have to deal with money and negotiate with the suppliers. He wouldn't have to package or buy anything. Carlos Roberto took some convincing, but since having a little extra cash in your pocket never hurt anyone …

‘It's like this: Carlos Roberto's gonna be headin' things up here with me, OK? What he says goes. You're all gonna answer to him now, got it? You don't need to talk money with me any more,' Tiny told the assistants in a meeting held the day after he arranged for Carlos Roberto to manage the dens.

Days in The Flats went by as Tiny wanted them to: the dens doing business, gold piling up in a pillowcase he kept in a secret place, and he always ended up with the guns the thieves got
burgling houses in Barra da Tijuca and Jacarepaguá. He banned stealing in The Flats; anyone who mugged residents in the vicinity of his dens would die. To serve as an example, he killed a thief for no reason at all, then told everyone he'd killed the bastard because he'd mugged a resident, who didn't want to reveal his identity. The dead man was, in fact, the brother of a gangster who was already dead, who'd beaten him up and taken his loot from a hold-up in Botafogo back when he spent his days in Macedo Sobrinho. Before killing his assailant's brother, he remembered having sworn revenge while he was being beaten up. Now he'd avenged himself and given the local thieves a fright – two birds with one stone …