by Paulo Lins
‘Fine by me!’ said Rocket with a gigantic smile on his face, holding his arm out to shake hands with Álvaro Katanazaka, with whom he had already tried to set up a kitchen utensils shop.
They’d never had an actual shop, as they’d intended to start by selling from door to door. Later they’d open a little shop in the favela and, if they were hard-working and thought positively, they’d soon be opening other branches, hiring employees. However, not even with the little prospectus Katanazaka had put together, saying the profits would be directed to an orphanage, did they manage to make more than one and a half times the minimum wages between them in their first month. Their progress at school was affected, they traipsed about the favela and other districts all day long, sunk money into buying merchandise at the Madureira Markets and only earned a pittance, half of which they had to set aside in order to restock their goods.
‘We can’t let anyone know, OK? Otherwise people’ll be envious and that’ll jinx the business,’ warned Katanazaka.
‘We’ve gotta buy a horseshoe and hang it in the joint the first day.’
They chatted a little longer. Ideas for the new undertaking arose at random, between drags on the joint they were smoking. When they’d finished, Rocket said goodbye and left Katanazaka’s place, while his friend sprayed air freshener around the living room to get rid of the smell of marijuana; his parents would be arriving soon. Rocket took his Caloi 10, the bicycle every boy worth his salt wanted to own, pedalled five hundred yards, then suddenly did an about-turn and rode even faster back to his partner’s house.
‘You know that shop over in Araújo?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Well, the guy’s renting the joint out! I was already in front of it when I remembered. My girl’s dad was thinkin’ about rentin’ it and all.’
‘You reckon the guys’re there today?’
‘Might be …’
‘Shall we go?’
‘Why not!’
Katanazaka got his bike and they rode down the street along the left branch of the river.
‘You need to have a guarantor or pay a bond, and both the tenant and guarantor have to earn three times more than the value of the rent. Where do you live?’
‘In City of God.’
‘Are you the ones who want to rent it?’ asked the landlord distrustfully, when Rocket told him where he lived.
‘No. It’s my dad.’
They left the shop enthusiastic about the possibility of renting it. The rent was a bit steep, but with their contacts and the good advertising they’d put out, they’d make that amount each month, no sweat. All they had to do was forge Katanazaka’s dad’s payslip, and this was a job for Rocket who, as well as being a photographer, had turned out to be a very good artist. The bond money was already guaranteed; it would come from the severance pay Katanazaka was to receive that Monday, as he’d been fired from his job.
Braga, Álvaro Katanazaka’s father, didn’t hesitate; he did everything his son asked him to, not because he was indulgent with his children, but because he saw the prototype of a successful businessman in his son and knew he’d earn a lot of money – money that he himself had never known how to make. This didn’t stop him from being a sensitive father or loving Álvaro with all his heart. His son would be what he hadn’t been, and for this reason, he’d help him as much as he could.
Rocket accepted the invitation to have dinner at Katanazaka’s house. It would be necessary and a pleasure. Necessary because he’d get started on the forgery, and a pleasure because Tereza Katanazaka’s cooking was the best he’d tasted in his entire life.
‘We’ve gotta fix up his last three payslips,’ Katanazaka reminded him.
‘Good point. Got a razor, glue and a typewriter? You’ll have to make some doctored-up photocopies and everythin’, right?’
‘We’ll manage.’
Everything went as Rocket had planned. All they had to do was present Braga’s ID and the three forged payslips in order to rent the shop.
Before three o’clock, Braga shaved carefully, combed his hair, clipped his nails, put on the old suit he’d worn at his wedding, put on Tereza’s glasses, and went with Rocket and Katanazaka to rent the shop. It went off without a hitch.
‘You gotta dress like a waiter, man!’
‘Look, man, I’m not wearin’ no waiter’s uniform, OK? What’s the big deal? You know they’re gonna take the piss!’
‘Then you’ll have to wear a white shirt so you look nice and clean, know what I’m sayin’? All bars are like that!’
‘Not bar. Pizzeria,’ said Rocket, correcting him.
‘We gotta get there early tomorrow, OK? To give it the finishing touches. Tell everyone there’ll be an opening-day special, but hey – only tomorrow.’
‘What’s the special?’
‘Whoever pays the all-you-can-eat price gets two soft drinks,’ agreed Rocket and Katanazaka a month after renting the shop.
‘Take some records down there – Milton Nascimento, Caetano Veloso, Gal …’ Katanazaka continued.
‘You reckon people’re gonna like that kinda music?’
‘Ah, who knows. But I’ll take some rock ‘n’ roll records too. We can change the music depending on the customers.’
‘Good idea,’ agreed Rocket.
They considered the opening a success. Sparrow arrived early and insisted on paying for all of the tables. Rocket managed just fine, the pizza was tasty, and the soft drinks were cold.
‘You gotta put beer on the menu!’ said Sparrow with his mouth full.
‘I will, OK? It’s just that I ain’t got the bottles,’ said Katanazaka with a pen tucked behind his left ear, giving him the air of a shop owner.
It was a rainy summer night. Rocket insisted on playing Caetano Veloso for the Boys, who laughed at silly jokes and always used the same jargon when they talked.
It was Friday, the day Tiny and Sparrow’s dens sold much more than on any other. Good Life was now helping out with the management and Israel played samba in nightclubs, but had started going around carrying a gun and beating up no-goods who stole within the favela. Israel was almost as powerful as Tiny and Sparrow. Every so often he’d swing by the den to pick up some money, but told the women he met that he didn’t need to sell drugs to make a living. He was an artist.
Around midnight, Sparrow showed up at the shops with almost all of the Boys, and found Tiny and the rest of the gang there.
‘Hey, these guys are my friends, they’re all cool! I don’t want no one givin’ ’em a hard time, right? No one. Anyone who gives ’em a hard time’ll get a bullet in the arse, got it? Hey, grab yourself twenty bundles of weed. Go on, it’s OK!’
Tiny carefully examined the face of each of the Boys so he’d never forget them; if they were Sparrow’s friends, they’d be his too. Some he’d seen around the favela, others he’d known since he was a kid, as in the case of Leonardo, who lived in The Flats, as well as Pedro and Rocket. He stared intently. Suddenly, he asked the bar owner to open a crate of Coca-Cola and left.
‘Hey, man, there was only one bundle there.’
‘We’re out of weed! Who’s gonna do the packagin’?’ Sparrow fell silent for a few minutes, then continued. ‘Go to Carlos Roberto’s house, get three pounds of dope and take it to my place. I’m gonna do the packagin’ with my pals. And I don’t want no gangsters comin’ lookin’ for me, right? Comin’ to do the packagin’? Comin’?’ Sparrow asked the Boys.
At Sparrow’s place the Boys wrapped the dope in sports lottery tickets, each puffing on a huge joint. Gabriel went to the bakery to buy cakes and soft drinks, Sir Paulo Carneiro went to the den Up Top to get cocaine, but soon came back saying that Teresa wouldn’t give him the thirty wraps.
‘Here, take this and go back. Show her this and she’ll give it to you!’ said Sparrow, handing over his thick gold chain with a picture of Saint George the warrior, also in gold, to Sir Paulo Carneiro, who was successful this time.
Rocket put a Raul
Seixas album on the record player and said it would be better if they ate first, then had a snort. They hung around listening to music, snorting coke, smoking and packaging dope until Fly arrived home with her sister.
‘What the fuck are these playboys doing here, Sparrow? Don’t they have a home to go to? They come round to get off their faces, eat my food … Get out! Out! Fuck! Fuck! Fuckin’ hell!’
Laughing, Sparrow signalled for the Boys to leave. The morning was dawning behind Gávea Rock. The cocaine they’d snorted had chased sleep away. They waited in silence for Sparrow to come out in swimming trunks, with a towel around his neck and dark sunglasses.
‘Everyone to the beach. Meet me over at The Flats, ’cos I’m gonna drop off the bundles and we can leave from there. Don’t be long.’
As Sparrow closed the gate, Fly ranted and raved out of the window:
‘You’re not settin’ foot in here today, you bastard! My mum’s sick and all you wanna do is party. All you can think about is hangin’ out with them fuckin’ playboys! You cunt! Bastard!’
Sparrow laughed and headed off with the Boys under a cloudless blue sky. The sun blazed alone in a stupendous summer sky.
It was a busy Saturday at the beach, with big waves, surfers cutting the water, propeller planes trailing banners through the air, people selling iced tea, passion fruit juice, ice lollies and suntan oil, people playing volleyball, others playing football and the Boys from the favela having bodysurfing races, accompanied by Stringy, who surfed every wave he caught with elegant competence.
For those who stay up all night snorting coke, the best thing to do the next day is smoke loads of dope to bring on hunger and sleep, which cocaine suppresses, and drink loads of coconut water to protect the stomach. Sparrow had already learned this lesson from the Boys, which is why he took some weed to the beach and loads of money to buy coconut water and sandwiches for the gang, as well as Adriana, Patrícia Katanazaka and the other girls, who were already on the beach when he arrived with his friends. He was rich.
On his way back from the beach, Sparrow got off on Gabinal Road with the others who lived in The Flats, while most of the Boys continued on the bus. They arrived in The Flats singing rock ‘n’ roll. Sparrow said he wasn’t going to bed. He was going to get some more wraps so he could get out of it, but first he was going to swing by old Aunt Vincentina’s building. He knew that every Saturday she served a delicious meal, always accompanied by percussion and samba. He’d eat as much as he could, then snort some coke for a pick-me-up.
‘Wanna come?’ asked Sparrow.
‘Yeah!’ answered Leonardo and Rocket almost simultaneously.
Tiny, Slick, Bicky and Russian Mouse were eating dinner with their .38s in their waistbands. They spoke with their mouths full, letting bits of food covered in saliva fall from their mouths in their haste, and discussed the beating they were going to have to give Hit-and-Miss, because it was the third time someone had accused him of rape since he’d been released from prison. OK, so he was a veteran among the gangsters, but he couldn’t go around stirring up trouble in the area and terrorising the residents, and if they didn’t do something about it, the workers and junkies would think less of them.
‘Leave ’im to me! Let’s you and I go see ’im and if he gets smart on us we’ll go ahead and take ’im out!’ Sparrow told Tiny when he arrived.
Then he shook hands with each of his friends and hugged Tiny.
Sparrow ate two platefuls of cow-heel stew and snorted five wraps of coke. Tiny snorted five wraps too, and then they left. Rocket and Leonardo went with them as far as the bridge over the right branch of the river, then said goodbye. Sparrow said he’d be at Katanazaka’s Bar that night. They wound through the alleys at a fast pace, guns in their hands, with the solemnity of gangsters at work. They crossed the main streets quickly and slowed down in the alleys. In one alley, seeing the guns, a woman quickened her step and fell. Tiny laughed his quick, shrill little laugh, which alerted Sparrow, who knew that laugh well. He immediately said:
‘I said I was gonna kill ’im if he got smart on us, but I was just kiddin’, man.’
Tiny didn’t answer and, seeing an acquaintance, arrogantly asked:
‘Seen Hit-and-Miss?’
‘He’s over in Fifteen, havin’ a beer.’
When Hit-and-Miss saw the two of them holding guns at the end of the square in Block Fifteen, he tried to slip away. He knew they were there because of the rapes he’d committed.
In the most recent one, even before he’d grabbed the fifteen-year-old girl near the old cinema, covered her mouth, dragged her behind the State Housing Company building, pulled her knickers off from under her skirt and rammed his swollen penis into her anus, it had occurred to him that Tiny would get involved in this one, but he also figured that if he frightened the girl she wouldn’t grass. He threatened to kill her if she opened her mouth. As soon as he’d moved away, however, the girl began to scream:
‘Pervert! Pervert!’
The news spread quickly, in spite of the fact that it was after midnight.
‘Hold it! Hold it!’ shouted Tiny when he caught sight of Hit-and-Miss, who’d never had sex with a consenting woman. While he was in prison he’d had sex with two homosexuals, and had once raped a cellmate.
‘Is it true you raped a girl?’ Sparrow asked firmly.
‘Yeah, I banged her, OK? But she was hangin’ around in a really short dress in the middle of the night and she gave me the come on, then changed her mind at the last minute, know what I mean, pal?’
‘What’s this all this “pal” crap? We friends by any chance? And this story about her changin’ her mind is bullshit. You’re full of shit! No girl’s gonna screw you with that ape face! Get your arse over here, ’cos I’m gonna give you a roughin’ up to remember the next time you wanna force a girl to have sex with you.’
‘You guys don’t let go of your shooters, but I could crush you both with my hands.’
Sparrow handed his gun to Tiny and danced about in front of Hit-and-Miss, who followed suit. Sparrow gave him a thrashing and then, tired of hitting him with his fists, grabbed a pool cue and brought it down on the enemy’s head. He then allowed him to flee the fight, his hand pressed to the deepest part of the wound.
‘What’s up, man? All spiffed up like a rich kid from the South Zone! Where you off to?’ asked Daniel.
‘The damn bar didn’t work out. My mum’s been sayin’ she doesn’t want to support a layabout and I don’t fancy bein’ skint either, know what I mean, man? I’m headin’ over to Macro to see if I can rustle up some work. I worked my arse off in that damn bar …’
‘You gonna work in a supermarket, you nutter? Fuck! That takes guts! But you gotta wear something square, man! You won’t get anywhere in that playboy outfit.’
‘Good point!’ said Rocket.
‘How come the bar went under?’
‘Credit, man, too much credit, know what I’m sayin’? I told ‘im: “Look man, you’re sellin’ too much on credit.” And he said: “Don’t worry, I’ve got things under control!” And look what happened. Katanazaka’s really thick, you know. Thinks he’s always right … Hey, I’m goin’ home to get changed, then I’m gonna see if I can rustle up this job, OK?’
‘Good luck!’
One Wednesday night, Mango told his friends he was going to do a couple of houses with two mates, Tião and Coca-Cola. He’d met them during the five days he spent in the lock-up at the Drugs Division after he was caught in the city centre with two bundles of dope in his jocks. The policemen had thought it a good idea to leave him in the slammer for a few days, to see if he’d get his act together. The police usually treated white junkies like this. Even in the favela, whites who weren’t from the North enjoyed certain privileges when caught smoking marijuana. Most of the time the police didn’t even arrest them. They just gave them a warning, then let them go. Because of this immunity, Mango always said that blacks were dope heads, and he was just an addict.
His life of crime began precisely when he met the two gangsters in jail. Before he was released, they asked him several favours which included going to a hiding place to recover four hundred thousand cruzeiros from a hold-up they’d done, and taking it to them a little bit at a time in visits to Section B of Frei Caneca Prison, where they were going to do time. After a month, Mango made friends with other members of the dominant criminal organisation in some of Rio’s prisons. Not even Mango himself knew why he was so fascinated when he talked with the gangsters and listened to their stories of bravado, murders, robberies and hold-ups. His passion for crime grew even stronger when one of the inmates in Section B asked him to manage a den in Quitungo council estate, a position that gave him power.
Within the favela itself, he started doing business with the guys from Tiny’s gang; he bought and sold stolen goods and brought in loads of dope, coke, revolvers and ammunition.
On one occasion, before he started managing the den in Quitungo and dealing in guns and drugs, he’d had a serious runin with Tiny, to whom he’d sold a stolen motor scooter with forged documents saying it was his. Tiny gave it to the son of one of the cool guys as a present, but two days later he swore aloud that he’d kill Mango the first chance he got because the police had arrested his friend’s son for theft and fraud in Barra da Tijuca. If it hadn’t been for Orange, Jackfruit and Acerola, Tiny would have already killed him.
When he became a fully-fledged gangsters and supplier of drugs, revolvers and ammunition, he regained Tiny’s respect. He’d heard of the organisation and occasionally asked him how it all worked.
On one of his visits, Mango heard from Tião himself that he and Coca-Cola were about to get out of prison. Tião asked Mango to find them a nice hideaway, set aside some pistols and sell all the revolvers so that when they got out they could do some houses and give the den a boost. Business wasn’t going so well due to a lack of stock.