The chief returned quietly to the head of the table and sat down. “I already explained it’s bad manners putting a gun on the table.”
Zéu went back to the topic of the raid but was interrupted again, this time by a sudden noise outside that caused everyone to look through the glass wall. A person had jumped into the pool. The troop was startled, and the chief seemed surprised. For an instant all fingers were on triggers, until they saw the figure emerge from the dive. It was a woman, beautiful and nude from the waist up.
Each soldier felt, in a fraction of a second, that the delightful sight was a cruel punishment. You don’t look at the chief’s girlfriend, especially with her breasts exposed. The entire troop quickly shifted their eyes to the floor, aware that this front could be bloodier than the battle with the police.
But Zéu surprised everyone: “Take it easy, that one there you can look at. She ain’t worth nothing.”
The enormous relief wasn’t enough for them to lift their gazes from the floor. No one wanted to take the chance. But they would see the girl up close, because she’d left the pool, wrapped a small towel around her breasts, slid the glass wall, and entered the room, still dripping. She was white, with nice skin and an affected manner — a broad from Leblon. She went straight to Zéu and planted a kiss on his mouth, adding a disconcerting comment about the armed troop: “How cool, Zéu. So this is your gang?”
The trafficker, who didn’t like being called a trafficker, swallowed his hatred. It was against his principles to be rude to women. He told her to go change in his bedroom while he arranged her return. She asked the outlaw when they would see one another again.
Then Zéu became less cordiaclass="underline" “Who the hell knows. Set it up with your husband.”
When the woman withdrew, the chief made contact by radio, saying, “Drop off the judge’s wife on Delfim Moreira,” and returned to the agenda of the meeting. “I’m moving on to the second matter, then we’ll get back to the police raid. It’s this: I ordered Roma brought up here. He should be getting here now. I’m going to interrogate him, and I want the guy in your sights, that way he won’t lie as much. I think Roma is doing business on the side.”
Robocop raised his hand asking permission to speak. Granted.
“Zéu, Roma’s put together a band. Narguilê went to see it yesterday, ’cause he plays bass drum, but he was kept out. Roma ordered him to come back unarmed.”
The chief exploded: “Ordered?! Who ordered, you shitass? Just who gives the orders in this fucking favela?”
Robocop lowered his head. “Sorry, chief. Of course Roma don’t give no goddamn orders, but he likes to think he—”
He was interrupted by Zéu, who directed his feared dead-fish stare toward another soldier: “And you went back to that fucker’s circus without your gun, Narguilê?”
Lizard knew his friend had returned there unarmed and had spent hours snorting cocaine and playing the drum in Roma’s band. Now Narguilê was panting again beside him, in a cold sweat. Lizard tried to maneuver: “If you want us to, Zéu, we’ll go there and shut him down for good.”
The chief didn’t buy it: “Shut up, Lizard! Answer me, Narguilê. Did you go back to that shithole unarmed?”
Narguilê answered, averting his eyes from the chief: “No, I didn’t, Zéu. I went to get some sleep, ’cause I had a cough...”
Zéu’s dead-fish gaze turned to Robocop. “Take Narguilê out there and give him some cough syrup.”
Robocop rose and told the skinny soldier to follow him. Choking back a sob, Narguilê said he was better and didn’t need syrup. Zéu stood up and said that in that case he’d take him personally. Narguilê then agreed to follow Robocop, crying copiously. Less than five minutes later, the troop heard two gunshots from the roof of the bunker. Lizard lowered his head. No one said anything.
Zéu waited for the return of Robocop — who sat down with the same serene expression as always — before resuming his speech. He began with a rapid message about the summary execution of Narguilê: “A tired soldier’s a dead soldier. If he’s alive he’ll end up in the hands of the police saying things he shouldn’t. Any guy who’s supposed to guard the chief and goes to play music unarmed is a goner.”
On the wall behind the chief, framing his philosophy, was a painting of the medieval conqueror Genghis Khan smashing a foe with the hooves of his horse. Narguilê died because, in Zéu’s dictionary, a weak ally becomes an enemy. But the trafficker was impatient and seemed to have already forgotten the murder.
“Where the fuck is Roma?”
“Easy, Zéu. I’m here.”
Brought by two more of Zéu’s soldiers, Roma entered the room at the exact moment the chief had uttered his name. Despite the tenseness of the situation, his expression was one of nonchalance.
“Shee, it’s nice here, huh? You’ve really done all right, Zéu. Can I sit down?”
“No. Stay on your feet. Here’s the story, Romário. I been hearing ’bout some double-crossing going on, and you’re gonna have to explain.”
“Wow, such a long time since anybody uttered my real name. I must be real important now.”
“Shove it up your ass, Romário.”
“Shee. Now you went and spoiled it, Zéu. It started so good—”
“Are you fucking with me, goddamnit?!”
“No way. I may be crazy but I’m not suicidal.”
The troop was visibly upset by Roma’s arrogant presence. A strong black man with slanting eyes and a wide smile, twenty-seven years old — the same as Zéu — he had been born the day the famous footballer Romário first played for the Vasco team. His father had no doubts about what to name him, declaring that his son was also going to be a striker. But Roma grew up without any talent for football, nor did he join the ranks of traffickers. He was a different sort of guy. It was he who advanced the conversation.
“Well... what now, Zéu? You ordered me to climb this hill and I can’t even sit down. So tell me: what’s going on?”
“You know.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Fuck, Roma! You want Robocop and Lizard to beat the shit outta you?”
“No thank you.”
“You been takin’ a lot of liberties, man. Out with it: what’s this shit about you cozyin’ up to the pigs and hangin’ with some guy from Leblon? My spies said you been talkin’ to the cops.”
“Not to cops. To the chief of police.”
Roma’s reply paralyzed Zéu. The statement was so serious that it seemed as if the outlaw couldn’t process it. Knowing he was with an intelligent guy, Zéu stared at him — with a gaze more of curiosity than of a dead fish — as if waiting for Roma to decode the nonsense. Then Roma continued.
“Shit, Zéu. You know I’m no rat. If there’s a guy on this hill who’s never betrayed you, it’s me. The police kidnap one of your soldiers and charge you ransom. The ones who get busted are the ones who can’t take you anymore, their heads are fucked up. What I’m doing is recruiting those guys to play in my band, and I made an agreement with the police: they leave them alone, they can’t kidnap or question them. Know why?”
Zéu remained silent.
“Because the governor likes my project. He says it’s a sociocultural action. I don’t give a shit what he calls it. What I do know is that the police are respecting ‘my’ ex-traffickers. By the way, I want to tell you that Narguilê guy, one of your soldiers, is loony, nuts. He’s one helluva musician, and I’m grabbing him. You can relax, the Man isn’t going to touch him—”