City of God (52 page)

They hid their guns, went downstairs, turned left and headed into the bar. Fabiano parked the car on the next street. They retrieved
their two 45s from inside the torn upholstery of the back seat, put them in the back of their waistbands and headed into Cruzada.

Over in the square on Block Fifteen, Paulo Groover was counting the takings from the sale an assistant had just made. He ran to the bin, grabbed a new stash for another assistant, then headed back to the square where the enemy usually appeared; he was on lookout duty that Saturday. If he saw one of the enemy, he'd fire his gun to warn the rest of the gang who were scattered throughout the area. He reached a corner and saw the police in a poorly lit alley. He steadied his gaze, cocked his gun, waited for them to pass beneath the only lit streetlamp, decided they were customers, and relaxed.

Inside the estate, Fabiano and Knockout kept apart. The samba was sizzling in the best-lit corner of the third building, and a little further on there were two dealers selling only cocaine. One of them asked Fabiano how many wraps he wanted.

‘Three,' he said emphatically.

The other asked Knockout the same question.

‘Just one.'

Then Skinny appeared on their right, sauntering along with his arm around Footy, with Slick to his left. Knockout subtly signalled to his friend and positioned himself behind a customer. Fabiano followed. The trio's steps were drunken and they were speaking louder than normal. They were off to have some fun at the party and pick up some hot chicks. They were less than a hundred metres away when the man in front of Knockout moved. The avenger drew his .45.

Bicky, Tiny and Russian Mouse were chatting at Tim's place. Tiny was sorting out gold chains from rings, bracelets and
earrings. He wrapped them in paper, then filled a chest with the packages, saying he was going to hand it all over to a friend who could be trusted. Bicky remained quiet for a time, staring at a point in space.

‘What you thinkin'?' asked Tiny.

‘I'm thinkin' ‘bout Skinny … I'm pissed off with ‘im! He bought a brand new car, you know? He's always loaded, and he don't come Up Top with us no more, know what I'm sayin'?'

‘The guy's thing is hold-ups, man!' said Russian Mouse.

‘Hold-ups my arse. He's got his den in the best spot here in The Flats! D'you know his den sells more than all the rest together? You really handed it to 'im on a platter!' said Bicky.

‘You'll have to sort that out with him, OK? In fact it ain't even with him, it's with Slick, know what I'm sayin'? You're my pal, but you know Slick is too,' said Tiny, opening the door with the chest of gold on his back.

Groover didn't recognise the policemen and waited for them to pass so he could take another look from the next corner. He started creeping along the wall, but stopped suddenly when he heard the police cocking their guns.

‘If you lift a finger you'll bite the dust right where you are! Don't turn around.'

To Groover's relief, Oswaldo handcuffed him. It wasn't the enemy – better to be arrested than to die.

‘Where's Knockout?'

‘Dunno.'

‘You can tell us, 'cos we're not after him, OK? Don't you know he used to teach us karate down at the barracks?'

Groover shook his head.

‘Well then! We wanna have a word with ‘im. Tell us where he is!'

‘Look, I don't think anyone knows where he is, know what I mean? Some days he disappears, then he shows up again, then disappears again … He's gotta watch his back.'

‘If you were to tell us, we'd let you go, but since you don't wanna help … Off we go, off we go.'

Groover was placed in the police post's only cell, where he found himself face to face with Blubber. Both of the same age and build, they glared at one another. Groover tried to keep as far as he could from his enemy. Blubber laughed, said he was going to beat the shit out of him, and flew at him in a flurry of punches and kicks. Groover didn't know how to fight, as he'd never hung about on the streets, where you learned. Blubber, on the other hand, was adept at swing kicks, dodging, and hitting his opponent's vitals. It only took five minutes for Groover to black out.

Thinking they were armed, Knockout didn't take perfect aim. He moved too fast, not wanting to give his enemies time to draw their guns. The first bullet got Footy in the forehead, then he fired the others at Slick, who rolled back and forth on the ground. He emptied his gun at them. Skinny ran into a building, kicked down the door of a flat on the third floor, went into the bedroom, opened the window and got ready to jump if they came after him. While Knockout reloaded his pistol, Fabiano pointed his gun at the dealers and took their drugs and weapons. Slick had time to follow Skinny, but went into a second-floor flat. Knockout and Fabiano backed away firing, jumped in the car and returned to City of God.

Footy's brother awoke suddenly to his youngest sister's screams and ran downstairs. When he saw his brother's head blown open, he threw his arms around his bloody body and stayed that way until the morgue van arrived.

*     *     *

Slick's brothers swelled the ranks of the Block Thirteen gang, just as Knockout's younger brothers swelled the ranks of his. Brothers, cousins, uncles, all manner of relatives and friends of gangsters joined one gang or another because they felt obliged to avenge a rape, a hold-up, a robbery or any other offence, and so became soldiers.

In some cases future gangsters had no crime to avenge, but they joined the war because the gangsters' courage and readiness to kill gave them a certain charm in the eyes of some girls. They thought it would impress them. They admired so-and-so or such-and-such for being involved in defending the area, and they in turn felt powerful, and therefore understood. The cool guys, however, said they were born pawns, the very antithesis of born gangsters. Unsuspecting youths joined gangs and went to war, sometimes armed only with a stick, while they waited to be given a revolver.

Shocked residents commented among themselves that in times past only the truly miserable became gangsters, driven by their own misfortune. Now everything was different. Even the best-off people in the
favela
– young students from stable families whose fathers had good jobs, didn't drink, didn't beat their wives, and had never been involved in crime – were seduced by the war. They fought for silly reasons: kites, marbles, girlfriends. The areas dominated by the gangs became veritable fortresses, soldiers' barracks, accessible to few, and those who were unaware of this found themselves publicly humiliated and pushed around because they lived in the area of this or that adversary or because they were friends with an enemy gangster. So the war took on greater proportions, and the original reason behind it no longer mattered.

The demarcation of territory made it necessary for the gangs to use special codes to identify allies and rivals, so as not to be pushed around, or worse, accidentally killed. Existent in the
favela
since the golden days of the Boys, designer clothes had begun to inhabit the imagination of the dirt-poor. The gangsters turned to this resource, which afforded them distinction, status and ease of identification, and designed a kind of gang uniform out of the nylon fabrics used by gymnasts which were so in vogue at the time. Thieves took it upon themselves to meet the gangs' needs, each with their brand of choice and favourite colour. And so, at the beginning of a harsh winter, more than two hundred gangsters were meticulously following fashion trends.

One hazy day, one of Knockout's pawns, Félix, was waiting on a street corner near the house of the girl he had a crush on. When she appeared at the gate, he adjusted a short piece of wood in his waistband and took off running towards Block Thirteen, pretending he was going to make a raid on his own, like the best gangsters. He ran along, stopping at corners, pretending he hadn't seen her. He'd turn the corner, cross the Nut Cracker, get close to where the Block Thirteen lookouts were stationed, pretend to attack and take off running. The enemy would no doubt fire a few shots, and his beloved would hear them and think him the most courageous of men.

He crossed the Nut Cracker, reached Middle Street, caught sight of Earthquake and My Man, and swore at them with his hand on his hip:

‘You bastard. You're gonna get an arseful of lead, you fuckin' cunt!' he yelled, then turned down the first alley he saw to double back and return along a parallel street. But he ran right into Moth and Black Valter, Slick's brother, who fired at him. Félix had no alternative but to run closer to Block Thirteen; he couldn't go back the way he'd come because of Earthquake and My Man. He took another street in an attempt to get to Edgar Werneck, but My Man and Earthquake followed him, firing.

The first shot hit his left arm, making him spin, the second, from a sawn-off shotgun, blasted off his right arm and made him spin in the other direction. The third brought him down and the fourth just put him out of his misery.

Knockout heard straight away that Félix was dead. He couldn't remember who he was, but it meant yet another casualty for his gang. He angrily called together his men and headed straight down Middle Street followed by some seventy gang members.

The shooting had been going for three hours when Knockout penetrated the labyrinths of Block Thirteen alone and kicked down the fragile wooden doors. Nine-year-old Othon fired a .32 from under the table when his front door was kicked in, and the bullet grazed Knockout's left arm. He jumped to one side and, with just one hand, riddled Othon's body with lead from his sawn-off shotgun, then returned to his friends and beat a retreat.

The five policemen on duty that day didn't dare pass the Prospectors' rehearsal square. They showed up half an hour after the shooting had stopped to deal with the bodies of Othon and yet another newborn baby killed in the war.

As soon as he heard about Knockout's attack, Tiny called together his gang and headed for Block Thirteen. The policemen flew into a panic when they saw the gang. Tiny himself shouted that he wasn't going to fire at them. They passed by the policemen as if they were ordinary residents, rounded up the Block Thirteen gang and headed off to attack the enemy on its own territory.

The first few shots were few and far between, since it was no longer possible for Tiny to barge straight in as he had in the past. Knockout's gang had almost as many men as his. The Block Thirteen gang split up when they got to the Rec and headed up the river's edge. Tiny's gang split up and took Middle Street and the
alleys. The youngest enjoyed that feeling of war, thinking they were TV heroes. All Tiny could think about was the money he'd lost ever since the war had begun. He shouted, swore, pretended to attack, then didn't. Whenever an enemy bullet whistled past, he'd laugh his quick, shrill little laugh. With his gang all together, Knockout ordered them not to go into the firing line and to do only what he told them to. He called Carrots over, reached into a bag and pulled out two hand grenades that a gang member had stolen from the barracks he worked at. He had already explained how to use them. He said he'd taunt Tiny so he'd come closer.

‘No way, man! You should run off so they go after you and I'll throw it.'

‘OK, do it.'

Knockout fired two shots with his sawn-off shotgun and Tiny responded with a spray of machine-gun fire, destroying a section of the wall they were using as a trench.

‘Let's go, let's go, let's go!' shouted Knockout.

Tiny, Black Stump and Slick advanced and Carrots threw the grenade.

They crossed the square, reached The Sludge and found themselves face to face with the Block Thirteen gang. The dozens of shots fired had no specific target; they just had to shoot straight ahead. Only Knockout, Carrots, Mousetrap and Antunes actually aimed at the enemy. It wasn't very different for their adversaries: their bullets lodged in the most diverse places. Approximately one hundred men exchanging fire and only two casualties for Knockout's gang, and another two for the Block Thirteen gang, whom he'd killed himself.

The grenade exploded, but only gave Tiny and his men a fright; it had fallen into a drainpipe without a cover and only split and shook the ground. Startled, Tiny looked at Slick and said:

‘This shit's dynamite!'

‘Fuck!'

Knockout took three Molotov cocktails out of his bag and told the rest of the gang to stay put. He asked Mousetrap to cover him and headed back to where Tiny was. This time he appeared right in front of his enemies, firing at them with a machine gun and, with his left hand only, lit one of the bombs and threw it at the head of one of Tiny's men before running off. Tiny and company were horrified to see Couscous running about, blue flames covering him from head to foot, his deep cry contrasting with Tiny's quick, shrill little laugh, his gymnast's clothes melting and sticking to his body which, with slowing movements, fell to the ground and burned in silence.

Tiny realised his machine gun was out of ammunition, tossed it to Slick, took his pistol from his waistband and went out alone into the alleys. He found his enemies in one and ran at them, firing. Knockout's men retreated a little, and he stood there alone returning Tiny's angry shots, but his machine-gun fire failed and didn't hit its target. A clash of titans. A shootout with no hide-and-seek, some of Knockout's men peering out from behind a wall, Tiny's from another. Knockout ran out of ammunition. The second he placed his hand on the butt of his other pistol, he was hit in the stomach. He fell and rolled backwards hoping to find safety in the trench, while five of his men went after Tiny.

‘I got ‘im, I got ‘im, I got the bastard, I got Knockout!'

Just as Knockout was being rescued, My Man emerged alone from an alley and killed another two of Knockout's men.

Over in The Flats, happy that Knockout had been hit, Tiny bought beers for whoever wanted them and handed out drugs for free in his dens. Euphoria reigned.