City of God (17 page)

He turned the entire flat upside down looking for drugs and ammunition – he'd give it all to Flip-Flop, who could do whatever he wanted with it. He'd tell his friends he'd have to stay clear of the estate for a while because he'd heard the pigs shouting his name when the shit hit the fan. He put what he found in a plastic bag. He half-tidied the mess he'd made, lit a joint and sat on the living-room floor to wait.

Fernanda arrived at three in the morning. She greeted him half-heartedly and went through the flat looking for her husband.

‘What's up? Ain't Silva here?'

‘Nope. He's nipped over to Red Hill to see if he can find someone to sell us some stuff. He'll be back soon … What about what I said to you? I'm not fuckin' around. If you stick with me, I promise I'll get a job. We can get the hell out of here and have a nice life – I'm not bullshittin' you. I wanna have heaps of kids with you. C'mon! Ogum'll protect us!' said Cosme with tears in his eyes.

Seeing his sincerity, Fernanda sat on the sofa, threw her bag to one side and took off her sandals. Her silence showed she was reflecting deeply on the proposal. After a few seconds, she said:

‘I know you're serious. I've seen it all in your eyes for ages, but here's the story: Silva's my man. It's no use, this is where he lives.' She thumped her chest. ‘I've felt like leavin' him a whole lot of times, but when push comes to shove I don't have the guts. I guess that's true love …'

‘But he doesn't give a damn about you … He screws all them sluts downstairs. When he's pissed off, he smacks you around for no reason. I'll give you a life where no one'll be cleanin' guns before going to bed, heatin' up ammunition in the oven, killin' people, havin' shootouts with the cops … I'm ready to get a sucker's job. I don't want a life of cards, bundles of dope and wraps of coke … I swear by this light that shines on us, by the strength of Ogum, that you won't go without a thing. I'll put rice and beans on the table with the sweat off my own back … I've prayed to Oxalá so many times for him to kill this thing I feel for you.' The tears started gushing. ‘Give me a chance in this life!'

‘But I don't feel anything for you. Silva's my man … I like the way he walks, his voice … The way he touches me, the way he asks for things …'

‘Look, I'm gonna tell you somethin', but you can't tell anyone, 'cos I only did it for you.'

‘What is it, man?'

‘I pulled the trigger on Silva just to be with you. You said yourself you'd only have someone else if he was gone!' said Cosme.

Fernanda went quiet. She lowered her head, then leaned back on the sofa and looked Cosme straight in the eye.

‘OK! Now I believe you! Let's get out of here.'

In less than an hour they had packed and left, never to return.

Only Silva's closest friends and family members went to his funeral, as everyone already knew about and disapproved of the crime he'd committed that Saturday.

The man he'd killed had been loved by all: he'd been friendly with the kids, made kites for them, respected everyone, and had paraded with the Gávea Apprentices carnival group ever since he was a boy. Everyone who had come from the
favela
Parque Proletário considered him a friend. He was welcome for dinner at everyone's house and was always doing people favours. It was true that he had a few screws loose, took too many liberties, was sometimes rude, and did his small-time jobs, but he was incapable of killing anyone. He'd always said that if a victim tried to resist he'd take off running, but he wouldn't kill a sucker. At the wake, his mother was consoled by friends. They said the murderer would also die soon, because her son had fallen face down.

Some of the cool guys had told Silva a few hours before Cosme killed him that he'd screwed up, because killing someone over coke was for old-time gangsters who weren't with it. Silva tried to explain himself, claiming the guy had stolen his stash of dope.

‘Bullshit! You killed the guy for nothin'. I saw the copper find your stash with my own eyes, man!' said Jap, one of the cool guys, harshly.

Silva went quiet. He knew Jap was telling the truth. The cool guys stared at him for a while. Their silence told him he'd lost their respect. That was when it really hit home that he'd fucked up. His body's deep shudders betrayed his agitated soul. And worst of all, that damn intruder had fallen face down. He decided to go to ground. He got up from the curb awkwardly and was walking slowly home when he ran into his pal and was done in.

‘Squirt knocked off three in that job he did over in Taquara and landed himself a wad of notes – all five hundred cruzeiros and up … We'd already rustled up a decent amount and headed off, but
when we were goin' down this dodgy little street, he told us to stop the car and get out … He went alone, did the place and got lucky … Now he's started goin' out alone and comin' back loaded with dough sayin' he's killed two or three in one go. He's actin' really weird. Every Monday he disappears and no one can find him. People're sayin' he's gone nuts … He goes around sayin' he's hot shit. He's made Boss of Us All run for it heaps of times and he doesn't even split when he's in a shootout with the Civil Police. You should've seen it: Boss of Us All and Iran were comin' up Main Street and they hadn't even seen him, and he was over at Tom Joe's Bar havin' a cold one. When he saw the pigs, he crossed the street and told them to go get fucked, and he didn't even touch his shooter. Then they started takin' pops at him but not one bullet got him! Then he opened fire on them. They ran for their lives and he just stood there laughin',' Hammer told Cleide a month after Silva's death, as they were going to bed.

‘Stop hangin' around with him … You'll get yourself in trouble for nothin' and end up in the shit … I wish you'd give up this gang business. Every time you go out on a job I shit myself … Let's get out of here before it's too late … You could get killed just like that …'

‘Watch your mouth! Touch wood! You know I don't take risks. You're wastin' your breath!' said Hammer, and rolled over to show his wife that her predictions had irritated him.

They fell silent, but Hammer remembered the bullets that had already whistled past his ears, the times he had almost got killed during getaways. He really was scared of kicking the bucket – but get a sucker's job on a construction site? Never. This business of packed lunches and catching crowded buses to be treated like a dog by the boss – no way, not that. He remembered when he had worked on construction sites in Barra da Tijuca. The
engineer always arrived after dinner with a hot chick in his car and didn't even say hi to the labourers. He'd go around yelling his head off at everyone just to show off in front of her, and the dickhead foreman, just because he earned a bit more, was always sucking up to the bastard. He'd stick with crime and would never play into the hands of the pigs. He had to hit the jackpot so he could buy a bit of land in the countryside and spend the rest of his life raising chickens without a worry in the world. Squirt was taking being a gangster too seriously; for him, that was all there was to life. All this shit of donning the Devil's cloak was a load of balls. Though he did look like he had the Beast in his body … And what about his eyes? They gave him the creeps. A crazy man's eyes … Hammer's thoughts had almost faded into sleep when Cleide straddled him, rubbed herself against him hard and whispered in his ear:

‘Let's not fight! I only say these things 'cos I love ya.'

They lost themselves in one another until night ran into morning.

Squirt woke up early that Monday. He wanted to send a soul off to the Beast fast, then take it easy at the beach. He hid behind a bin near the Leão supermarket. He was waiting for someone well-dressed to go past so he could rustle up a watch or a bit of loose change. He looked around; he wanted to get to the beach before the ten o'clock kickabout. Only badly dressed suckers went past. He was impatient; he'd kill the first one he saw. He didn't need money but, since he had to kill someone, there was no harm in getting himself a bit of cash. He approached an elderly man who was walking along briskly. He didn't see Hellraiser running towards him.

‘Take everythin' in your pocket, stick it in my hand and lie on the ground,' he said with his gun pointed at his victim.

Hellraiser ran to try and stop the crime. The policy of keeping the area clean had to be respected so the pigs would stop breathing down their necks. The police were always showing up. Even the Federal Police had been doing a few raids. Hellraiser asked him to let the man go. Squirt turned to look at his friend for a second, shook his head, then pumped the man's body full of lead. He took seven steps backwards, reciting a prayer which Hellraiser didn't understand. He stuck his gun in his waistband and took off down Main Street without saying a thing to his friend. He bought a packet of cigarettes at Batman's Bar and pitched in with Acerola and Green Eyes to buy some dope, but didn't wait for Green Eyes to come back with the weed. He took a taxi to the beach.

He didn't dare enter the cold water; after the game of football he climbed onto the rocks of the groyne, letting his thoughts roam. He saw a couple playing around in the water and thought about sex. He swore to himself that that night he was going to have a sexy chick from up north he'd had an eye on for ages. He left after two hours. He had a bite to eat at a bar by the canal in Barra da Tijuca. After another game of footy, he went home, smoked a joint, showered and fell asleep.

At around 10 p.m. he woke up, got dressed, got his gun and left for the woman's place. He got into the house without any problems and her husband didn't fight when he saw his cocked gun. Squirt ordered him out. The man tried to argue and got a bullet in his foot. The woman didn't offer any resistance, nor did she cry out when he had anal sex with her. Squirt thought she was feeling real pleasure and imagined she was really coming. He left after an hour.

The husband stumbled to the house of a friend, who took him to hospital. But he didn't spend the night resting as the doctor had recommended. He wanted to leave immediately, but he had
nowhere to go. He'd have to save some money to return to his home state of Paraíba. He cried on his way home.

When he arrived there he found his wife lying on the sofa sobbing helplessly. If the bastard hadn't been armed he wouldn't have got past the front gate. He would have been man enough to floor the guy once he got his hands around his neck. He'd save up to buy a revolver and waste that evil bastard, that scum of the earth. His wife insisted they return to Paraíba as soon as they could. All they had to do was sell everything they had and take off. He didn't have the courage to ask what the bastard had done to her. Several times he wrenched his eyes away from the rumpled bed. He filled his glass with cachaça and downed it in a single gulp, repeating his promise of revenge with every minute that passed. He felt like shit for not having stood up to the thug, gun and all, but it was best not to make trouble. Squirt's hour would come. His wife wept uncontrollably. The pain she felt was greater than her husband's. She never imagined that she would one day sleep with a man that way, much less have anal sex. She had pretended she was enjoying it to save her and her husband's lives. Those thugs killed mercilessly. It was almost morning when they made up their minds to return to Paraíba as quickly as possible. Her husband would work until the end of the month, and meanwhile they'd sell their things.

Squirt wanted to rustle up a stack of money so he could throw a party for his friends; a top-notch spread on the day of the final of the Rio Football Championship. With any luck, Flamengo would thrash Botafogo with a shitload of goals. He'd buy ten wraps of coke and ten or so bottles of imported whisky to celebrate Flamengo's victory. He wanted to get back in with his friends; he hadn't seen much of them since he'd made his pact with the Devil. He didn't need partners in hold-ups, but he
knew they were true friends, although the next time one of them tried to stop him from sending a soul off to the Beast he'd have to get tough – he'd show them that things could get ugly. He had an obligation to send a soul to hell every Monday. He'd get rich, he wouldn't be killed by a bullet, the police wouldn't see him and false friends would become sitting ducks in his path.

Now he had to pull off a big job, hit the jackpot once and for all. He stayed home all morning. He cocked and uncocked his gun several times, practised firing while lying down, ran through the backyard as if exchanging fire with someone chasing him, practised target shooting with his left hand only – driving his neighbours crazy – and put the rest of his ammunition behind the fridge to warm it up. He repeated seven times that he was the son of the Devil, then hurried into the streets, straining to think of a place where there was lots of money. In front of Batman's Bar, he saw Orange hightailing it to Main Square.

‘How's it goin', Orange? Know where I can land myself a decent wad?'

‘Look, man, I'm in a hurry. I ain't got time to shoot the breeze!' he called back without slowing his pace.

Squirt didn't answer, but made a note to kill him one Monday. Orange had found out a few minutes earlier that his brothers and sisters had rushed their mother to the emergency ward. Unconcerned about Squirt, he ran to the other side of the square, jumped into a taxi and took off.

Squirt wandered on. He didn't bother to look around, much less behind. He took the same route as Orange. He sat on a bench in the square, taking in the tiniest details of the afternoon. He remembered the woman from up north; he'd have her whenever he wanted. The wind blew on his face; the sun warmed his body from the mild cold. He saw a bus go past carrying only the driver and conductor, and in a split second realised where there was
plenty of money. He'd hold up Redentor Transport. He got up and headed for the taxi stand. If the driver didn't lend him the car without a fuss, he'd regret it. It was probably even best to kill someone to distract the police, and while they were busy he'd do the job.