City of God (3 page)

Cleide, who was at Batman's Bar at the time of the hold-up, decided to follow them at a distance.

Hellraiser didn't say a thing. Something made him remember his family. His dad, that piece of shit, was always drunk on the slopes of São Carlos, his mum was a pro in the Red Light District, and his brother was a faggot. His slut of a mother was OK. She was known for her strong personality, didn't take any crap, kept her word and was respected in Estácio. Nor was his dad his biggest problem, because when he was sober the kids didn't draw on his face with chalk or take his shoes and, in spite of everything, he was good with his fists and a lead drummer in the samba school. But his brother … that was really fucked … Having a faggot for a brother was a huge tragedy in his life. He imagined Ari sucking off migrant labourers down in the Red Light District, taking it up the bum from the guys in São Carlos, wanking off sailors and gringos in Mauá Square and fucking rich arses in the Lapa fleapits. He couldn't accept that his brother wore lipstick, women's clothes, wigs and high-heeled shoes. He also remembered the fire, when those bastards had arrived with hessian bags soaked in kerosene, setting fire to the shacks and taking potshots
in all directions. That was the day his God-fearing grandmother, old Benedita, had burned to death. She was already bedridden because of an illness that kept her flat on her back all the time. ‘If I hadn't been such a little squirt,' thought Hellraiser, ‘I would've got her out of there on time and maybe she'd still be here with me. Maybe I'd have been a sucker with packed lunches and all that shit, but she's not here, right? I'm here to kill and die.' A day after the fire, Hellraiser was taken to his aunt's employer's house. Aunt Carmen had worked as a maid at the same house for years. Hellraiser stayed with his mum's sister until his dad built a new shack in the
favela
. He hung around between the sink and the wash tank the whole time and that was where he was when he saw, through the half-open door, the man on TV saying that the fire had been accidental. He felt like killing all those white bastards who had phones, cars, fridges, ate good food and didn't live in shacks without running water or toilets. Nor did any of the men in that house look like faggots, like Ari did. He thought about cleaning the whities out, even their lying TV and colourful blender.

When they passed in front of the Leão supermarket, Hellraiser noticed some boys playing footy on a dirt pitch and turned to his friends:

‘Hey, there might be some crazy bastards over there. And they might even be as crazy as me, but more than me, no way, know what I'm sayin'? I don't take shit from no one. If a guy gives me a hard time, I fill 'im with lead. C'mon, dare me to give those dickheads over there a hard time.'

‘Dare ya!' said Squirt and Hammer.

They went over to the clinic. To their left were the boys playing football.

‘Hey, stop that ball and send it over this way, 'cos now it's
mine. If you don't the shit'll hit the fan,' threatened Hellraiser with his gun cocked.

A startled youth brought him the ball. Hellraiser played keepy-up, controlling the ball with both feet, tossing it up onto his chest, from his chest to his left thigh, then his head.

‘The guy's good – he's got talent!' said Hammer.

After making the ball dance for several minutes, Hellraiser finally kicked it high into the air. It would have landed square in the middle of his chest – but like hell it would! He pulled the trigger and it fell, lifeless. Hammer and Squirt fell about laughing, but Hellraiser remained serious, looking around with an irate expression that gave continuity to the sound of the gunshot. He imposed silence, glaring quickly into each face as if they were all responsible for his miserable life. After a few seconds he turned his back on them. His friends followed him.

Niftyfeet, Shorty and Pelé were smoking a joint down by the river's edge.

‘They let them sell almost everythin' and then caught up with them Out Front. They made some good dough, gave everyone gas, then took the piss out of those guys that play footy down at Blood-n-Sand. Pass the joint, man!' said Pelé, enthused by the prospect of also holding up the gas truck.

‘Where's Blood-n-Sand?' asked Niftyfeet.

‘That little dirt pitch near the supermarket.'

‘Who're these no-goods workin' the area?' asked Shorty, handing the joint to Pelé.

‘It's Squirt, Hellraiser and Hammer. I know Hellraiser from São Carlos, Squirt's from round Cachoeirinha way, and Hammer – if he's the one I think he is – is from Escondidinho,' replied Niftyfeet.

‘All I can say is the next truck's mine, right? There's enough to go round, so long as no one gets greedy!' warned Pelé.

‘Careful, 'cos Hellraiser's a handful. If you cross him, you gotta have attitude or the shit'll hit the fan, man! But if you mention my name, he'll talk to you …'

‘It don't work like that with me, man!' interrupted Pelé. I'm not scared of no barkin' dog. I'm not lookin' to pick a fight with no one, but if someone comes along throwin' their weight around, there won't be any talkin'. I'll give him what he's got comin'!'

‘Everyone's gotta respect each other. We've all gotta feel that the enemy's the police, know what I mean? I don't wanna see my friends fightin',' warned Niftyfeet.

‘Pigs!' said a voice from an alley between the Block Thirteen Short-Stay Houses.

Niftyfeet took off over the State Water Department bridge, doubling round the left side of the lake with Pelé and Shorty in his wake. They reached the part of the marsh that had survived the landfills. Their running startled a snake, but it went unnoticed by all three. They headed for the haunted fig tree where they could smoke another joint in its branches and watch the police inspecting the Short-Stay Houses.

The milkmen had already passed. The children were watching
National Kid.
Those who didn't have television sets went to their neighbours' windows to follow the adventures of the Japanese superhero. The sun had already distanced itself from the Grajaú Range and an angry wind held up the kites zigzagging through the sky. Small clouds of red dust were born and died along the streets of beaten earth, children in uniform going home from school filled the landscape. It was already midday.

Up Top, at Hammer's house, the gang split the money while Cleide made vegetable soup, saying:

‘The driver went from white to red. I'm surprised he didn't shit himself … I felt sorry for him, you know. But it was funny. I
felt really sorry for those old ladies, the poor things were shakin' like leaves. I'm surprised they didn't have a stroke.'

‘But I didn't even point the shooters at 'em!' said Squirt.

‘So what? Just seein' the shooters, they could've kicked the bucket right then and there.'

‘But they liked it when it was time to get the gas,' said Squirt.

‘No they didn't. When everyone started crowdin' around, they hotfooted it out of there,' said Cleide.

Squirt moved away from his friends. He thought about going into the bathroom, but then decided to go outside. A sadness accompanied his steps; he wasn't listening to what his friends were saying. He shivered, went to the back of the yard, sat with his head against the wall of the house and allowed the tears to roll from his eyes. It wasn't the old ladies that had made him sad; they had just made him remember another occasion, when he had gone to hold up the gas delivery truck alone and the police had appeared at the same time. There was no way he could run without shooting and that was what he had done. One of the bullets from his gun hit a baby in the head. He saw it reel in its mother's arms and they both fell to the ground with the impact of the shot. In an effort to relieve his guilt he told himself over and over that the crime had been an accident, but he was filled with desperation at having killed a baby every time he remembered it. He knew he could repent of his crime and go to heaven, but even so, that was a really big crime. He had always heard his parents talking about mortal sins. There was nothing he could do, he was going to rot in hell. He looked at the sky, then at the ground, and concluded that God was far away. Planes flew high and didn't get anywhere near heaven. The Apollo 11 had only gone to the moon. To get to heaven you had to pass through all of the stars, and the stars were really fucking far away. If hell was below ground, it was much closer. He feared God's wrath, but
was keen to meet the Devil; he'd make a pact with him to have everything on Earth. When he felt death was near, he'd repent of all his sins and come up trumps on both sides. It'd suck if he died suddenly. He decided to stop thinking shit and headed back to his friends.

Squirt had been brought up in the hillside
favela
of Cachoeirinha. He had wanted to be a gangster so he'd be feared by all, like the gangsters where he lived. They were so feared that his chicken of a father didn't even dare look them in the eye. He liked the way they spoke, the way they dressed. Whenever he went out to buy something, he prayed for someone to be playing samba at the corner bar so he could hear the gangsters improvising lyrics. Until he was fifteen, he had been forced to attend the Assembly of God Church. He always told his parents he didn't like that life of endless prayers, and having to attend service with them. He hated it when their house was the setting for religious gatherings and meetings of people from their Church. He wanted to be like other kids in the
favela
. He wanted to take part in the June festivities, eat Saint Cosmas and Saint Damian sweets and get Christmas presents. He wanted to parade with the percussion section of a samba school, but none of this was allowed in his religion. They said Carnival was the Devil's party. The Devil was the one who understood things. One day Squirt decided to abandon the Church. He tore up his Bible, did the same with the pamphlets and confronted his parents, who insisted he remain in the faith. As time went on, Squirt began to smoke dope on the slopes of the
favela
. His first thefts were in his own home, then at the supermarket, until he got involved in armed robberies. The neighbours commented among themselves that Squirt wasn't ugly, he was treated well at home, his father didn't drink, and went from home to work and back home again, and there was
that son of his looking like a rabid dog. He was trigger-happy, mugged locals and raped the neighbourhood girls. He was a real bastard.

‘So, tomorrow I'm gonna do the gas truck again. I don't wanna stay skint, 'cos the pigs might show up and we ain't got nothin' to keep 'em quiet. Comin' again?' said Hellraiser.

‘Comin',' replied Squirt.

Hammer said no. He thought doing jobs two days in a row was too risky.

‘The police are gonna be on the prowl,' explained Hammer, ‘just waitin' to bust no-goods. I'm lyin' low.'

‘If today was Gasbrás day, tomorrow's Minasgás day,' said Squirt, ignoring his friend's prediction.

The night belonged to choruses of crickets and the wind that brought enough cold to make people desert the streets. A few boozers were drinking in the corner bars. Between one pool shot and another, they listened to a comedy programme on the radio. The gangsters fell asleep thinking about the hold-up the next day. The morning was not long in coming. The job went smoothly, but this time it was carried out by Pelé and Shorty. Squirt and Hellraiser arrived at the same time as the police, who shot at them. Squirt ran behind the clinic, through the cinema and up Middle Street. The police followed. Hellraiser headed down the right branch of the river. He even stopped along the way to take off his red T-shirt, leaving just the black one he had on underneath, to throw the police. He turned right past Augusto Magne School, trying to look as if he was running for another reason, and arrived Down Below, where Pelé and Shorty were squatting on the corner counting money:

‘Hey, man. Where'd you get all this shit?'

‘What's it to …'

‘Hand it over, 'cos I saw you scoot it when the pigs showed up, and for your information, it was us that was gonna …'

‘Fuck off! You out of your mind?' said Pelé, without missing a beat.

‘Don't gimme any crap or blah-blah-blah. Hand it all over, or the shit'll hit the fan!'

‘What's up Hellraiser? What's up Pelé? What's the problem?'

At the sound of Niftyfeet's voice, Hellraiser lowered his gun and Pelé followed suit.

‘Just as well you lot haven't crossed paths before. I knew sparks'd fly. Let's head over there for a drink,' said Niftyfeet.

Up Top, Squirt was having a shootout with Boss of Us All. The policeman refused to give up trying to catch or kill Squirt. He had already loaded his two revolvers several times and swore when Squirt returned fire. No one was hit. Squirt took a man's car, drove down Main Street and headed for Freguesia, where he dumped it. He returned to the estate through the bush to meet up with Hellraiser and the others.

‘Niftyfeet! Shit, man! I haven't seen you for fuckin' ages.'

‘Yeah, man … It's been years. You been getting up to no good, man?'

‘So was it you that did the truck?'

‘No. It was them guys over there.'

‘Fuck! You know I almost got done 'cos of you guys.'

‘'Cos of us how come?'

‘If you hadn't done the suckers, the cops wouldn't've been there. You should've warned us …'

‘Did you warn us yesterday?'

‘Course not! We didn't even know you …'

‘Right, man … You're full of shit, you know that?'

‘Full of shit, my arse! If you say one more thing …'

‘Hey, cool it,' interrupted Niftyfeet. ‘No one's guilty of nothin'
and let's cut this squabblin', right? If you wanna stand around squabblin' for nothin', it's the cops that's gonna get lucky. There's enough for everyone … I don't want my friends feudin', and I'm tellin' you – you gotta be friends. If you start this business of feudin', soon the area'll be crawlin' with pigs. I've already told you: I don't want anyone feudin'!' said Niftyfeet, with the authority of one who knew his order would be accepted. Everyone respected him; no one would ever oppose the Salgueiro Samba School's best dancer. No one ever raised their voice to the best-known rogue in Rio's
favelas
. Even Big, the most dangerous gangster in the city of Rio de Janeiro, respected him. They'd bow to any request Niftyfeet made. They stayed there, drinking beer. By mid afternoon they were acting like close friends, playing pool and heads-or-tails, and improvising sambas: