by Paulo Lins
‘Let’s kill the cunt now!’ said the corporal.
‘No, let’s arrest ‘im,’ said the sergeant, thinking Hit-and-Miss might grass on all the dealers in the region.
One Saturday at the end of the month, a tired Rocket went to work at Macro supermarket. He was already sick to death of his boring routine as a supermarket assistant. What he really wanted to do was take photos. He’d work a little longer, then do everything he could to get fired. He’d use his severance pay to buy the camera he so desperately wanted and enrol in a course. Problem solved.
The last Saturday of each month was good for those who stole from supermarkets, because they were always full. Two thieves from The Flats were spotted by the floor manager waving at Rocket as they went past with a TV set, taking advantage of the confusion at the checkout. Rocket had no choice but to let the thieves pass; otherwise he’d have to move from the favela or be killed. He was scared, and when he realised his manager had seen everything, he pretended he hadn’t seen the thieves in action.
The thieves were caught by the security guards and beaten up; they weren’t handed over to the police so as to keep the supermarket’s name out of the newspapers. Rocket worried for the rest of the day that the thieves might think he’d turned them in, which wasn’t the case.
When he got to work at the beginning of the following week, Rocket was called into the office. He confirmed everything he’d told the floor manager. Looking his bosses straight in the eye, he told him honestly what could happen if he turned them in. The managers didn’t understand and Rocket was fired.
His severance pay was enough to make a down payment on a Canon camera, but he’d have to pay the rest off in instalments and help out at home … He looked in the papers for a used camera, which would be fine while he was learning. He saw he had less than half of what he’d need to buy the cheapest of them all. He tore up the newspaper in a fit, went to the den at The Flats, bought some dope, and headed for the Eucalypt Grove to smoke it alone. Along the way he ran into Stringy, from whom he’d grown apart ever since he’d started Bible-bashing. He made up an excuse so he wouldn’t have to stop, crossed the bridge, and was walking along the river’s edge when he heard someone call him.
‘What’s up, Ricardo?’ he answered.
‘Fuck! I’m really down …’
‘You too, huh? I just got fired from my job and the money wasn’t enough to do what I wanted to do. I’m fucked.’
‘We need a joint.’
‘I’ve got one here. Come have a smoke with me!’
‘I knew you’d have one up your sleeve.’
They crossed the State Water Department bridge, and Rocket’s depression began to lift, not because of his friend’s presence or the dope he was about to smoke, but because of the beauty of the place: that immense plain, the lake, the almond trees and the Eucalypt Grove.
They raved on about other things while they smoked. The third joint from the generous bundle of weed was petering out and they were both staring into space, when Ricardo said:
‘Wanna do a job?’
‘OK!’
‘We both need to get back on our feet, don’t we?’ said Ricardo emphatically.
‘Too right we do!’ exclaimed Rocket.
Two days later, they got on a City of God–Carioca bus at around 10 p.m. at the last bus stop in the favela. They sat at the back. They were going to wait until the bus was full, then hold up the conductress and passengers. The operation had to be over before the bus went up the Grajaú Range, where Ricardo lived. Ricardo had stolen a double-barrelled derringer from his grandmother. Rocket had also tried but failed to borrow a revolver from his cousin. They’d have to make do with the old derringer.
At the next stop, only one woman put out her hand. She had two children with her. She got on, saying the bus had taken a long time. The conductress said she couldn’t help it, the owners of the company didn’t put enough buses on the line, and she continued talking, now looking at Rocket and Ricardo. Rocket answered and within a few minutes the conversation had gone off in several different directions. At Anil Square, Ricardo told Rocket it was time to move, took the derringer from his waistband and said in a low voice:
‘Now!’
When she saw them get up, the conductress, who hadn’t noticed the derringer, said:
‘Hop over the turnstile and just pay for one ticket.’
They looked at one another and decided in a second that it would be more strategic to do what she’d suggested. They hopped over. She said:
‘Thank God this is the last trip …’
‘How many d’ya do?’ asked Rocket, as they sat down again.
‘Four.’
‘Takes ages, don’t it?’
‘Yeah. I’m so sick of this job.’
The bus stopped and a couple got on. Rocket waited for the driver to take off and said:
‘Now!’
They both stood and looked at the conductress, who said:
‘Getting off already? Take care!’
‘No, we’re not gettin’ off yet – we’re just gonna have a smoke.’
They sat down again and decided not to hold up the bus because the conductress was really nice.
They got off at Grajaú, wandered through the tree-lined streets of the suburb and agreed they’d be better off holding up the only bakery open in the area. They went into the bakery, ordered a Coke, and positioned themselves so they could see when another bus appeared at the end of the street. They’d do the hold-up, catch the bus, get off two or three stops later, and slip down the most obscure street they could find.
‘You’ll have to get a token at the till first,’ said the shop assistant.
The girl at the till served Rocket with a smile. Rocket stared at her face with a Don Juan-like expression. She laughed again. As always, Rocket started chatting. The girl was sweet. She wasn’t drop-dead gorgeous, but she was OK, thought Rocket. They drank their Coke in small sips so they wouldn’t finish before the bus arrived. When another customer came in, they settled in and decided not to hold up the bakery because the girl at the till was really nice.
‘Hey, let’s get a bus that doesn’t go through the favela, OK? But one that’ll leave us somewhere nearby – then there won’t be anyone we know and it’ll be easier to get off and forget about it,’ reasoned Ricardo.
‘Good point!’ agreed Rocket.
The 241 arrived empty. They got on, pretending not to know one other and bought tickets. Ricardo headed for the front of the bus, while Rocket went through the turnstile and stood close to it. The bus began to climb the hill. A compact view of Rio de Janeiro’s North Zone slowly greeted their eyes. They could see the districts of Engenho Novo, Engenho de Dentro, Riachuelo, Méier and Penha, as well as Fundão and Governador islands. To the far left was Bangu, Realengo, and Padre Miguel. It was a cloudless, moonless night.
Suddenly, Rocket glanced at the conductor. He was mulatto, and under his uniform he was wearing a Botafogo Football Club shirt. Botafogo had defeated Flamengo the previous Sunday and that was Botafogo’s destiny: to beat the idiots. He was sure that every time Flamengo had beaten the Glorious Team it had been a set-up, or the directors were lining their pockets. His gaze framed the conductor, then focused, clicked and that was it: he’d taken the photo he’d put beside the poster of his team. He thought about Ricardo. When he yelled: ‘Now,’ he was to stick his hand inside his shirt and announce the hold-up.
The bus stopped at Cardoso Fontes Hospital, where two youths got on, helping a woman who looked sick. In five stops they’d be at Freguesia and that’d be it – they’d have rustled up the money to buy his camera.
Rocket discreetly put his hand inside his shirt. All he had to do was wait for his friend to shout: ‘Now,’ and he’d hold up the Botafogo supporter. He waited, waited and nothing. He looked over the heads of a few passengers and saw his friend in an animated conversation with the driver. No way was he going to shout: ‘Now!’ He decided to go to the front of the bus, w
here his friend told him:
‘The driver’s a really nice guy!’
They got off at Freguesia Square. Staring at the only open bar, they decided to do the place. They were crossing the road when a car pulled over next to them:
‘Hey, man, can you tell me how to get to Barra da Tijuca?’ asked the guy in the passenger seat.
With the swift cunning of the thief he believed himself to be, Rocket said they were heading that way, and if they’d give them a ride, they’d be doing each other a favour.
‘Get in,’ said the driver.
As he got in, Rocket winked at his friend as if to say: ‘This time we got lucky.’ The driver started the car and turned up the radio.
‘Luiz Melodia!’ exclaimed Rocket.
‘Like ‘im?’ asked the driver.
‘Fuck, yeah!’ he answered.
‘Then you must like Caetano, Gil, Gonzaguinha, Vinicius …’
‘I love Brazilian music!’
‘Then I bet you like a bit of weed?’
‘I won’t say I don’t …’
‘I could tell by your faces … A head knows another head when he sees one!’
When they got to the favela, Rocket went to the den to get three bundles of weed for their new friends, who waited at the edge of Gabinal Road drinking beer. Rocket was given a bundle as a present, and they exchanged addresses so they could get together sometime to listen to some good music and smoke a joint or two …
‘Let’s get together to do a job one of these days,’ Rocket said to Ricardo.
‘You’re on!’
‘Take some of this dope here ’cos I’m not in the mood for a smoke right now.’
‘OK.’
‘I’m off!’
‘Take care!’
‘Suck, bitch!’ ordered Butucatu, and gave the pregnant woman another punch in the face, which was already covered in blood.
She had already performed oral sex on Potbelly. Now she was doing it to his friend and Potbelly took the opportunity to have anal sex with her. The woman screamed, bled and was punched in the stomach when she said she was pregnant. They did this for a while, taking turns.
‘You gonna stick it in her cunt?’ asked Butucatu.
‘Nope, I just want her arsehole.’
The woman had been kidnapped during the wake of her own father, who had died of a heart attack. For the previous two days, she’d trudged around the city centre making arrangements for his funeral. Her mother had insisted on her not going to the wake, as she was worried about the baby. When she saw her daughter being kidnapped from the chapel, she fainted. Butucatu fired a shot into the air from inside the car while Potbelly stepped on the accelerator.
They tortured her in as many ways as they could, then cleaned themselves off with almond-tree leaves. The woman stood up, got dressed in silence, holding back tears, and said:
‘Satisfied now?’
Without answering, Butucatu beat his former girlfriend dozens of times over the head with a stick. He’d thought it odd when she’d decided, without rhyme or reason, to end the relationship, but he hadn’t been too concerned, believing that women were subject to such whims. Sooner or later she’d regret what she’d done and come back, saying she’d needed some time to figure out if she really loved him. He was wrong.
Potbelly had seen her with her arm around Stew and told his friend the first chance he got. At first Butucatu didn’t believe it; he didn’t think she’d have the nerve to go out with one of his enemies. They’d never fought or shot at each other, but only for want of an opportunity, because he’d sworn to kill him after a hold-up in which he suspected Stew of having taken the lion’s share of the lot. He hadn’t said it to his face, but to a few close friends and his girlfriend, who had now traded him in for Stew himself. If she was capable of doing something like that, then naturally she’d tell Stew that he wanted to kill him one day.
He’d waited for the right moment to kill his ex-girlfriend. He could have pointed a gun at her from afar, but he’d preferred to wait for the chance to kill her slowly, because traitors have to die like that: carefully tortured, suffering like a cow, writhing like a chicken. It was pain he felt in his chest, it was passion in reverse, the suspicion that his cock hadn’t been big enough to make her come twice, three times in a row and tell him, as she climaxed, that he was everything, the best of them all.
He stopped beating her and checked to see if she was still breathing. He saw that she was alive and was overjoyed. He marvelled at his infinite fortune, not because he wanted to spare her, but because his revenge was not complete and it was in the vagina that the pain of betrayal would hurt her the most; she’d have to feel it twofold. He grabbed the largest branch he could possibly break off a tree and hung from it, pulling it down, his eyes narrow with revenge. His strength alone wasn’t enough to break the branch, but combined with his fury it was easy. Then he rammed it into the pregnant woman’s vagina. News of the murder spread from mouth to ear, ear to mouth until Tiny heard about it. He thought the incident might affect business in the dens because the police were going to be all over the place.
Tiny had been sad of late; he didn’t say much, and was giving the gangsters Up Top a harder time than usual. He almost always confiscated the gold chains the thieves tried to sell him. His humour only improved when he took a resident’s dog, thinking it reminded him of Sparrow. Then, one Monday morning, Tiny’s pal appeared in front of him with his arms open and a smile plastered across his face.
After he’d got out of the dark cell, Sparrow had been put in a cell with dozens of other prisoners who, if they didn’t know him personally, knew him by name.
On his first visit, Benite took him a lot of money. Some of it went to the chief inspector, and the rest was spent on drinks, weed and coke supplied by one of the detectives at the station. All his visits were like that. While he was there, he drummed and sang sambas and hard rock, and when he got out he promised to send the chief inspector money every month.
The sun was bigger than anything and everything in the Rio de Janeiro sky that Sunday. The Crown carnival group was having a party in Ipanema; fancy dress at the beach. Tight drumming, well-rehearsed dancers, sizzling samba. Somewhat hesitant, Butucatu decided to cross the favela and get on one of the buses taking the carnival group to Ipanema. At times along the way he thought Tiny would kill him; at others, he thought the dealer would mind his own business, since his murder in the favela had been a crime of passion, a man’s crime.
Tiny and Sparrow were with the percussionists waiting to leave, and drummed along to the sambas everyone was singing. Tiny was surprised to see Butucatu there, but pretended he hadn’t seen him so as not to scare his quarry. He continued drumming with his hands and whispered in Sparrow’s ear:
‘I’m gonna get rid of Butucatu!’
‘Yeah, I heard about what he did, but don’t get rid of ‘im. Just knock ’im about a bit, OK? He did somethin’ that was his own business, know what I mean?’
‘Yeah, but he should’ve done it somewhere else … He grabbed the girl over in Tanque and brought her back to the favela!’
‘He was desperate. Just rough ’im up a bit!’
‘Fuckin’ hell! Ever since you started hangin’ out with them fuckin’ playboys, you’ve turned into a wimp!’
He walked away from Sparrow, took the gun from his waistband and shouted:
‘Butucatu, come have a chat!’
When he saw the gun in Tiny’s hand, a shiver ran down Butucatu’s spine. He walked towards him with his hands visible so Tiny wouldn’t think he was going to draw his gun. He knew he might get killed, even if he could justify the murder, but on the other hand he believed he’d be spared, because he’d never stolen anything in the favela, he’d never trafficked and was on friendly terms with Sparrow.
The conversation started calmly. Butucatu insisted that it was a man’s crime:
‘I was defendin’ my honour, man! And I’m already fucked. Her family’s already grassed on me
, so this story ain’t gonna affect you,’ he lied.
Tiny didn’t listen and repeated over and over:
‘You should’ve got rid of her outside the favela, you bastard!’
He spoke in a particularly loud voice to catch his men’s attention. They’d help him beat up Butucatu. When Bicky, Russian Mouse and Marcelo came over, Tiny gave Butucatu the first punch in the face. Butucatu danced around, saying he was going to fight back, and that if he had to die, he’d die fighting – he’d die like a man. The gangsters helped beat him up. Bicky drew his gun, and didn’t shoot only because Sparrow intervened:
‘Don’t shoot, don’t shoot!’
During the bus ride to Ipanema, Tiny repeated several times that he should have killed Butucatu, because he could see in his eyes that he was a backstabber.
‘Come off it, man. He’s just a fuckwit!’ said Sparrow, as always.
Butucatu remained on the ground, unconscious. By the time he came to, the buses had already left. It was a dark night. He got up slowly, his entire body hurting and bleeding. He tried to walk, his legs buckled, and he ended up back on the ground. He only managed to get up and walk home the next morning.
‘I’m pregnant!’
‘You’re kiddin’!?’
‘I am. I haven’t had my period in two months …’
‘Fuck, I’m gonna be a dad! Let’s have a beer!’
‘We’re not havin’ any beer, Sparrow. I’m too young to be a mum, and I don’t wanna throw my youth away for a kid! Kids tie you down. I’m gettin’ rid of it,’ said Fly when Sparrow came to bed after the beach party.
‘What you talkin’ about, girl? Fuck, we’ve been livin’ together for a long time, ain’t we? Is there anythin’ you ain’t got?’
‘I ain’t got you, Sparrow! All you wanna know about is that bunch of playboys, going to dances, sometimes you disappear for a week at a time at them crazy camp-outs … You reckon I don’t know you fuck the white girls? I’m gettin’ rid of it and that’s that. I’ve already talked to my friend, I’m drinkin’ coffee-leaf tea, and I’m havin’ the abortion tomorrow.’