For some time he had known it was problematic not to have the payoff to the police on his books anymore. Suicide to go on operating in the favela without a contact inside the Battalion. And just as one thought leads to another, Bolha was surprised when he descended from the roof and, out of nowhere, found himself facing Representative Saci.
“What you doing here, congressman?”
“The civil police called me and said you needed help,” replied the representative, trying to be heard above the sound of gunshots. “But I didn’t know there was an operation here in Cidade de Deus. The entire police force is out there, Bolha!”
“I know that!” said Bolha, confused. He paced back and forth, not knowing what to do.
“You need reinforcements.”
“Yeah. I don’t know how many are still with me... My security men were all out there in front,” explained the trafficker. “I seen lots of my men running away, terrified. I don’t know nothing no more.”
“How much do you have to lose now?”
“Now? Beats me. Maybe some—”
Before he could complete the calculation, the representative’s body shook. His eyes widened and he raised his hands to his chest, where a huge stain was turning his shirt red.
“Shit, I’ve been shot, Bolha!” Saci shouted. “Get me out of here!”
The favela was now completely surrounded by police. Getting the representative out was the same as surrendering. Bolha tried to think of an escape, but it was difficult to find any trace of lucidity in his brain.
“My car... my car,” stammered the representative. “They won’t suspect my car.”
Bolha had seen thousands of people die. And the enormous amount of blood spurting from the representative’s chest left no doubt: he wouldn’t last long. An hour at most.
The problem was that his death created a major difficulty for Bolha, not only because he was a public figure, but also because the representative was much loved in the world of trafficking. If in any way his death were to be linked to Cidade de Deus, everyone would be after Bolha’s head. Even the militias, if he screwed up. Saci provided the best representation of the underworld in the government. No one would forgive Bolha for it.
“Stay calm, congressman,” said Bolha, “I’m gonna get us out of the favela.”
Finding strength from God knows where, Bolha lifted Saci onto his shoulders and carried him to the car, braving the crossfire. The favela was in tumult. Not a soul in the streets. Everyone huddled in some corner, fleeing the death that rampaged there.
Bolha opened the trunk, placed the representative inside, and promised to do his best to help him, though he knew that even his best would not be enough.
“Look, whatever happens—” Saci was out of breath and couldn’t finish.
When someone says “whatever happens” it’s because something is surely going to happen. Almost always something bad. Bolha needed to get Saci out of there as soon as possible; after all, who would be aware of his death in Cidade de Deus? Some innocent person, no doubt. For a screw-up that wasn’t going anywhere, this had already gone too far.
Bolha shut the trunk, got in the car, and drove off aimlessly. By then a hospital wouldn’t do any good. Bolha knew that what he carried in the trunk was now a corpse.
In the humid night, Bolha wiped his forehead to dry the sweat. He went through Barra, Recreio, and only in Grumari did he find what he was looking for: a vacant lot covered with brush. No houses nearby, no signs of civilization. The perfect spot to dump a body.
Bolha left his headlights on low and moved around to the trunk of the car. He had seen thousands of corpses in his lifetime, but the body of the representative all twisted inside there made him shudder. With great difficulty he managed to pull it by the legs and get half the cadaver out of the trunk.
Then something startling happened.
The right leg simply detached from the representative’s body. Bolha fell backward with the leg in his hands, while the rest of the body lay there in the trunk.
“Ugh!” Bolha clenched his teeth and felt bile rise in his esophagus, or his stomach, one of the two. He didn’t vomit because he was a badass dude. But after fifteen seconds of panic, he understood: Saci really did have an artificial leg.
Bolha examined the plastic leg he held; he had never seen one before. And, his eyes wide with surprise, he noticed there was a card stuck in the hollow of the leg. Bolha used his fingernail to remove the tape and tossed the leg into the undergrowth. It was a white magnetic card, resembling a credit card, except instead of a chip it had a bar code and the inscription H.L.S.201. Bolha lowered his head and closed his eyes. He was facing an enigma, he knew, but without the slightest idea of how to decipher it. Bolha couldn’t waste any more time. He urgently needed to get rid of the representative’s body and decide what to do with his own life. He couldn’t go back to Cidade de Deus. Not in this condition, poor and discredited. He needed a miracle, some kind of grand idea. That was what he had to concentrate on.
So, without time for the mystery at that moment, Bolha stuck the card in his pocket and went about dumping the body. He would do what must be done. He checked the representative’s pockets, took the dead man’s watch, gold chain, and wallet. Four hundred and thirty-seven reais and some change.
As for the documents, he didn’t know whether to leave them or not. Someone might come along before the police and steal them. But who would show up there in the middle of nowhere?
Uncertain, he decided to leave the representative’s ID. The other documents, he opted to take with him.
He put his hands under the dead man’s armpits and dragged him to a tree. He took the trouble to place the fake leg back into the linen trousers so that when the press arrived they wouldn’t photograph the representative missing a leg. As vain as the man was, he would have been embarrassed. Afterward, Bolha said a prayer he made up on the spot and when he felt there was nothing more to be done, he got in the car and drove far away to take care of the second part of his mission: getting rid of Saci’s automobile.
Bolha checked the time on the representative’s watch, almost three a.m. He felt it was an excellent time to park the car at the beach at Recreio and contemplate the sea. He felt almost relieved after dumping the body, but he couldn’t stop thinking about the card he had discovered inside the fake leg. It must have some value, some important meaning, because no one would hide anything like that on his person if it didn’t.
H.L.S.201. Bolha took the card from his jeans pocket and reread the inscription, racking his brain for an explanation. All he remembered was a crime film he had seen with his older brother the one time he had ever gone to the movies. At thirty-two, Bolha hardly noticed the years passing. Pressure, fear, and rebellion occupied his mind, leaving no time for joy and amusement. Except those connected to trafficking: women, funk parties, and drugs.
When the sun began to rise, Bolha took a dip in the ocean. It had been years since he’d last gone to the beach. He had forgotten the strength of the waves and how the saltwater stung the eyes. He would have stayed there longer if the day hadn’t brightened, bringing the first kiosk workers and the first society types strolling with their poodles on the sidewalk.
Bolha drove to a shopping center in Barra and abandoned the car in the parking lot. Then he stopped at a newsstand and joined the group of workers reading the headlines while waiting for the bus. “Under Heavy Fire, Police Retake Cidade de Deus” was the headline of a leading paper. Another, more provocative, said: “Drug Trade Driven Out of Cidade de Deus.”