RIO SUL: July 2012

Chapter 4

SPANK THE MONKEY

By Claude L Arango

Ronaldo Murillo Cardoso Silva was a prince among men at least that was the way he was treated in Vidigal, one of Rio de Janeiro’s most nefarious favelas, best known for drug trafficking and extreme violence; the latter, vehemently practiced against its own residents. Vidigal was located at the base of one of two mountains jointly named Morro Dois Irmãos. These same mountains when viewed from Ipanema were known as the Twin Peaks, breathtakingly beautiful, and a grandiose gesture by nature to provide a stunning background for the wealthy beach communities of Ipanema and Leblon, which laid side by side along the beachfront of Zona Sul in Rio de Janeiro. Vidigal offered a glaring example of a community tethered to the opposite end of the social/economic ladder in a third world country striving for first world status; a juxtaposition of national neglect, highlighted by the ever widening gap between the have and have nots, and sanctioned by the inability of officials to do more than turned a blind eye to predatory thugs that filled the gap left by a bureaucracy that was nowhere to be found.

Ronaldo Silva was the Drug Lord of Vidigal, and he ruled with absolute impunity; there was no one left alive to challenge his grip on the community. He had an army of gun toting teenagers ready to enforce his will, which gave him the final word on everything that mattered, and what he decided could mean the difference between life and death.

Three armed boys brought in the accused, a middle age man who looked like a beguiled school teacher who had lost his way rather than the monster who had committed a horrendous crime. The oldest boy was 16 years old, and the semi automatic weapon he carried had been rendered to full automatic, to his utter glee, secretly hoping that the prisoner would make a false move.

The middle age man had been accused of raping his neighbor, a young girl who had turned 13 years old the day before. The girl had been a good student and a virgin, and her mother pleaded her case before the Drug Lord, as her neighbors crowded into the room and demanded that justice be done. A neighbor testified that he saw the young girl running from the man’s house in the late afternoon, half naked and crying hysterically. The accused stood there in silence, he had nothing to say. Some of his neighbors whispered that he was a follower of Macumba, as if this explained everything. They had found the girl’s torn underwear on the floor inside his house, next to his blood stained bed. He offered no defense, and to everyone’s surprise he pleaded guilty to the charge without any consternation. While he waited for the Drug Lord’s decision to be announced he wet himself, and a small puddle of urine gathered at his feet. He had cast his fate to the wind and he most of all knew what that meant.

They took him to a clearing on the edge of Vidigal overlooking the coastal waters a thousand feet below. As they made preparations for what was to come they bound his hands and feet, but he could still twist his neck to see the intermittent street lights through the trees below, down along Avineda Niemeyer twinkling like stars fallen in the middle of the night. He followed the lights as best he could as the road snaked its way around the mountain’s side twisting and turning precariously, hugging the edge of the mountain like it was holding on for dear life. The vista was breathtaking during the day, with an unfettered view of the ocean below with cool blue water as far as the eye could see. But this night the condemned man could only see the reflection of lights from oil platforms anchored half way to the city lights of Niteroi, on the other side of Guanabara Bay.

They tied him to a wooden stake that penetrated the ground deep enough to keep him there, and then they dropped four BF Goodrich tires around him like a polyurethane python that had sprung to life. He tried to move, but the tires held him like a vice. He began to panic but he couldn’t break free, but soon his adrenalin was spent, and his resolve reasserted itself. With acceptance came contrition, which set his mind at ease, which allowed him to think about mundane things, such as were they new tires and would they burn ferociously. Such morbid thoughts come to mind when one is face with one’s own mortality. The knowledge that they were snow tires, stolen just before they would have been shipped to Argentina, would have provided little solace to the condemned man, and no practical reason or explanation for snow tires being in the tropics at all, except to fulfill the demands of destiny.

About a hundred people had come to see justice done, and they watched in silence as 151 Bacardi Rum was poured over the man, and then a match was thrown. The man screamed in agony for what seemed like an eternity, before the Drug Lord and the girl approached him with a gun in her hand. With the Drug Lord’s help she aimed the gun and pulled the trigger, and put him out of his misery. Such as it was, mercy had been shown.

Down below along Avineda Niemeyer, one could smell burning flesh masked by smoke from the burning tires for miles in either direction. Whenever the locals got wind of such a smell they knew immediately that someone had paid the ultimate price for violating the rules of the Drug Lord of Vidigal, and swift justice had been served.

The Shot Caller ordered the French Doors closed that opened onto the balcony. He had smelled smoke coming into his penthouse suite at the Sheraton Hotel, about a mile down the road from the scene of the immolation. He and his entourage had arrived that morning aboard Delta flight 61 from Los Angeles, and straight from the airport to the Hotel. They were there on business and time was of the essence. There were a total of nine people in the Shot Caller’s party, four women and four male body guards, including the Shot Caller’s new personal body guard, Jesus Del Toro Madrid. When guest arrived the four women performed as hostesses, and they dressed in the sheerest of lingerie, as they circled the room and kept everybody’s glass full and their minds stuck on stupid.

“What the hell is that smell” the Shot Caller asked his guest, Colonel Silva of the Federal Military Police. He and his deputy, Lt. Col. Orlando Rocha and two uniformed military police captains had just arrived a few minutes earlier.

“That my friend is the smell of Barbeque Justice. The Trafficante or Drug Lord, as you gringos say, who rules the favela down the road from here, carries out cruel but swift justice whenever the opportunity presents itself. When someone breaks the law in Vidigal they are tried immediately by the Drug Lord. If he thinks that the crime deserves special attention, then death is the sentence, which is carried out immediately. We choose not to interfere, because they have their own law and order up there, and they are armed to the teeth. Is that not how you say it? Yes, armed to the teeth, and it would mean the spilling of much innocent blood if we went in there to stop it. Besides, he pays a lot of money to us to be left alone.” They all laughed at this fact of life in the favelas.

“Yes, I understand Colonel Silva. Sometimes, we too, have to carry out cruel but swift justice. You must have discipline and loyalty. Without it, you have nothing.” They all agreed and raised their glasses in a toast to the facts of life.

Colonel Silva failed to mention that Renaldo Silva, the Drug Lord of Vidigal, was his nephew, and that 25% of all the drug money was passed on directly to him, for services not rendered.

The Colonel had come to discuss the 1.5 million dollars that he had recovered from Paula, Eduardo’s whore, who had received the money from the Fat Man, who in turn had stolen it from the Shot Caller. All of this had come to light after the Fat Man had been assassinated by the Shooter a month ago. Once Col. Siva got his hands on the money there was no way that he was going to give it up, willingly.

“All pleasantries aside Colonel Silva, we have come a very long distance and I only want to know one thing. Where is my money?” The Shot Caller said bluntly and straight to the point.

“I like that about you North Americanos. You are all about the business” the Colonel said, as a hostess poured him another Jonny Walker Black Label, and he continued “We have certain procedures that we must follow, Senor Gomez.” he said, addressing the Shot Caller by name.

The Shot Caller had expected as much, and then told the Colonel that of course there would be a finder’s fee of 10% to be paid directly to the Colonel.

“Although your offer of a reward is most generous, Senor Gomez, there are other considerations that have to be taken into account.” the colonel responded. “Like what?” the Shot Caller shot back.

“You must consider the fact that you are in Brazil and I am a colonel in the Military Police of Brazil, and last but not least, I already have the money.”

“You know what, Colonel Silva, you speak English very well. Maybe you speak it better than me. After all, I am just a poor boy from Mexico, and I am not from the United States.” The Shot Caller said, as he stood up from the couch and walked towards the Colonel. He continued “Where did you learn to speak English so well?” “I went to prep school in the United States as a young boy, before going on to West Point” the Colonel answered, indulging his host.

“Well Colonel, I learned my English in prison in the United States, and the first thing that they teach you in prison is that you don’t let anybody take your shit.” The Shot Caller spat out as he pulled out a gun and shot the Colonel’s deputy in the head.

Immediately, the front door to the Penthouse burst open and a cadre of Federal Police Special Unit BOPE fanned out through the room, with guns drawn and at the ready.

“You didn’t think that I would come here with just my deputies.” The Colonel said as he got up from the couch wiping his deputy’s blood and brains from his face. It was then that he noticed that the Shot Caller’s entire crew including the four women was aiming automatic weapons directly at him.

“And this, Colonel Silva, is what you call a Mexican Stand Off.” The Shot Caller said, as he leveled his gun at the Colonel’s head. “Come along Colonel, you are coming with us.” Then someone rolled a hand grenade towards a cluster of Federal Police stationed at the front door, and the shooting began. Several more grenades went off in the ensuing melee, and Jesus could be seen guarding the Shot Caller and directly the assault against the police.

When the smoke cleared the Shot Caller, Colonel Silva and Jesus were gone. The rest of Senor Gomez’s entourage laid dead or dying, along with fourteen members of the Federal Police.

The black BMW sedan raced down Avineda Niemeyer, taking hairpin turns and short straight a ways with ease and quickly out distances the two police vehicles in hot pursuit. Once they past Vidigal, there were no longer any head lights in the rearview mirror, and Jesus let up on the gas. The police would be looking for a black sedan, so they switched cars in the parking lot of the Hotel Intercontinental Rio in Sao Conrado; Jesus had prepositioned the car there that afternoon, just in case. Three quarters of the way up Gavea Pedra Mountain they ran out of road, and had to abandon the car and proceed on foot. By the time that they reached the mountain top the sun was rising and the hang gliders were already taking to the air from the neighboring mountain of Pedra Bonita.

Jesus reached into the gear bag that he had toted up the hill from the car, and handed the Shot Caller a sat phone. The Shot Caller could not help but notice that Jesus had thought of everything, and handed the phone to the Colonel and told him to call his nephew. The Colonel looked at the Shot Caller with surprise and new found respect and said “I have underestimated you, Senor Gomez.” If the truth had been told that day they both had underestimated Jesus.

“Tell him to bring the money up to the top of Gavea Pedra, and put all of it into one bag. He has one hour to get here, and he can only bring one man with him.” The Shooter instructed the Colonel to say.

Within the hour Jesus spotted two men climbing through the mountain pass heading straight towards them. When they got within hearing distance he instructed them to put the bag down, turn around, and go back down the mountain; he said this all in perfect Portuguese.

Now it was the Shot Caller’s turn to be surprise. “You have many talents, Senor Jesus. You continue to surprise me. You shall be rewarded for all of the good work that you have done for me.” He said as he watched the two men go back down the mountain. Jesus retrieved the bag and then transferred the money to a large nylon tote bag.

“Here they come.” the Shot Caller hollered at Jesus, as forty to fifty armed men ascending the mountain pass closed in on them. “Put this on” Jesus instructed the Shot Caller as he connected the tote bag to a security belt strapped around his waist. Jesus strapped on what appeared to be an oversize parachute. “Hurry, we don’t have much time” he said as he helped the Shot Caller get connected to his gear.

The Colonel stood there in amazement, shaking his head, as he watched them make their way to the edge of the mountain top. “You know that even if you survive the jump we will still catch you before you can get out of the country, and then you will know what Barbeque Justice is all about.” he said, standing there with his hands on his hips, as though he was in command.

Jesus half turned with the Shot Caller in tandem, and put two bullets into the Colonel’s chest and one in his head. Then he tossed a small doll at the Colonel’s feet just before they jumped off the side of the mountain together.

Everything went into muted slow motion as they fell down the side of the mountain. The only thing that the Shot Caller could feel was the wind in his face and the pounding in his chest, as they rapidly fell towards what he thought was certain death. Then the paraglider deployed flawlessly, with the Shot Caller securely strapped to Jesus, which provided him with the closest thing to a religious experience that he had ever encountered. They circled high above the tropical terrain and the blue ocean below, like it was the second coming. They could see the twin peaks to the southeast that dominated the skyline looking north from Ipanema. The whole of Guanabara Bay spread out before them, all of the way to Niteroi on the far side of the bay. A spectacular view none the less, considering the turmoil taking place down below, as the men who had been sent to kill them reversed direction and headed down the mountain side to try to intercept them when they landed. Where they would land was the question to the answer that they did not posses. The Shot Caller’s so called brush with death had set his mind in motion, covering every event and detail that had taken placed that lead up to what had just happened.

From the time that his personal body guard, Hector, suddenly fell ill and was replaced by Jesus, things seemed to be slipping from his control, but surprisingly enough, all for the better. Jesus was thorough and efficient, and quickly assumed control by anticipating The Shot Caller’s every need and desire. Jesus Del Toro Madrid came highly recommended by Hector himself, and the Shot Caller had full confidence in Hector’s judgment. A check of his files by the Shot Caller’s contacts in the FBI revealed that he was a prime suspect in a string of assassinations that had taken place across continental Europe. A deep background check by Interpol suggested that he was a clandestine operative that discretely provided services for the powers that be. A cross reference of the listed members of his family indicated that they were descendent of Berbers from Moorish Spain, which accounted for his dark skin and perfect Castilian Spanish. A complicated man to be sure, but when he tossed the doll at the colonel’s feet the Shot Caller knew that it was all a lie, and that he was literally in the grip of the Shooter. But if the Shooter had wanted him dead he would be dead, so he decided that the best course of action was to bid his time and find out what was the meaning behind all of this. There is nothing quit as profound as when logic kicks in while you are suspended a thousand feet above the ground, and tethered to a natural born killer.

The sky was full of hang gliders and paragliders, and no one took notice of the two fugitives as they circled the beach at Conrado and came in for a perfect landing. The Shooter immediately let the Shot Caller know just who was in charge, and told him to stay out of his way as he gathered their gear and put it off to the side. “Don’t ask any questions just follow me, we’re not out of the woods yet.” he told the Shot Caller as they headed down the beach like two old friends on holiday. They made their way up to the highway and down the road to the bus stop. They boarded the first bus headed to Ipanema. They rode the bus into Ipanema and got off at the General Osorio Metro station, and headed downtown on the subway to Central.

“We got a tail. We must have picked it up at the Metro station in Ipanema” The Shooter whispered to the Shot Caller, as they stood shoulder to shoulder on the crowded subway train. They got off the train at Uruguaiana station, and took the moving stairs up to street level, and walked straight into a huge bazaar that sold everything there at a discount. The place was a giant size maze crowded with shoppers and hustlers, selling and buying at a frantic pace. There were over a hundred cubicles in the building selling knock offs of Louie Vatton, Gucci, Prada, watches, Hand Bags, DVDs, CDs, smart phones, cell phones, Play stations, Xbox’s, you name it and they had it, all at a discount. If you strayed ten feet from where you were you may not be able to find your way back again. This was the perfect place to ditch a tail, or so they thought. The Shot Caller went to a baggage cubicle and bought another bag similar to the one he had been carrying the whole day. The Shot Caller was still lugging the tote bag full of money, which made it easy to follow him in a crowd. They moved on to the next section of the bazaar, which was just as large as the first, and the Shooter spotted two men that he believed were following them.

The Shooter quickly exited the bazaar with the Shot Caller close behind. They crossed the main street and headed up to Rua Buenos Aires and took a left and proceeded down the street until they reached a place named QuatroXQuatro, and ducked inside. They were greeted by a statuesque blond, wearing the tiniest bikini either of them had ever seen. The woman behind the front desk asked each of them for a name, and then handed each a plastic charge card. “The locker room is straight ahead. I’ll show you the way” said the blond. They looked at each other and then fell in line behind one of the most beautiful asses either of them had the pleasure of following in a while.

Once in the locker room it was back to business, and they split the money up, putting half in the other bag that the Shot Caller had bought at the bazaar. They then put a money bag in each of their lockers and locked each one with keys that were provided to secure their possessions.

They were provided with white robes and flip flops, but the Shooter kept on his underwear, and tucked his gun in the waistband.

The blond was waiting for them when they stepped outside of the locker room, and she offered to show them around the place. There were beautiful girls everywhere, all of them dressed in bikinis. The blond introduced herself as Monique, and she first took them to the sauna. It wasn’t until the Shot Caller saw several girls going up stairs with men that he realized that they were in a brothel. “Damn Homie, why didn’t you tell me” was all that he could say, as one robust big breasted girl squeezed by him in the hall way. “We have more important things to think about, Homie” the Shooter said with added emphasis on Homie, and then he told Monique that they would catch up with her later. He pulled the Shot Caller into the sauna, and told him that the money would be safe in the lockers for now, but they had to make it to the Safe House before 10:00 pm. “Safe House, what Safe House are you talking about? All day long you haven’t said ten words, and now you’re talking about going back into the street to find some safe house, knowing that the Federal Police and the drug lord’s gang bangers are looking for us. Let me be the first to let you know that I feel pretty safe right here” the Shot Caller said, as he press his face against the sauna’s steamed window. “And since you’re in the talkative mood who in the hell are you anyway” the Shot Caller said turning back to face the Shooter. “My name is not important, but you can call me the Shooter” he said, looking at the Shot Caller. “I work for the US government in a variety of capacities, and my current assignment is to make sure that nothing happens to you. It seems to me that you have something they want or something that they need” said the Shooter to the Shot Caller point blank. “But you are the same guy who killed The Fat Man, right? The same one who leaves voodoo dolls with all of his victims” the Shot Caller said, waiting for an answer. “I am not at liberty to discuss that information with you. But you can take comfort in the fact that I am not here to kill you. At least not now” the Shooter said it as if he might change his mind at any moment. “Well, what about the money? I suppose that you want a share of the money” the Shot Caller said. “No, the money is all yours if you can get it out of Brazil. Like I said, I am just here to make sure that nothing bad happens to you, and to get your ass out of Brazil in one piece” the Shooter told him, and then Monique knocked on the door. “Come on fellows, I would like to show you the lounge” she said grabbing the Shot Caller by the arm and took him up a flight of stairs with the Shooter in tow.

They entered the lounge on the second floor, and the Shot Caller kept thinking to himself that it just keeps getting better. There were twenty five to thirty women in the lounge, and all eyes turn towards them when Monique opened the door. There was a short bar to the left of the entrance, where there were several girls talking to some of the other guest; which didn’t stop any of them from giving the two new guests a salacious eye groping. The Shooter hung back and took in the scene, looking for anything out of the ordinary. There were nine men in the lounge dressed in white robes and flip flops. None of them appeared to be strangers as they made small talk with the girls and let their hands covered the girls in all too familiar places. A sexual aura permeated the room and every girl exuded a sense of wanton sexuality as best she could, with a come and get it look in their eyes and manner. There was a small glass elevator on the other side of the room, just big enough for the red head descending in it, and there stood a dance poll next to it that extended down, through a hole in the floor, to the ground level. All in all it was a sight to behold. Unfortunately they were there on other business, like trying to stay alive.

Two new Guest entered the lounge and the Shooter noticed that although they both wore the white robes they also had on their street shoes. The Shooter quickly got the Shot Caller’s attention with a nod of his head, and gestured for him to go to the back of the room. It was crowded in the lounge and they hadn’t been spotted yet. The Shooter slipped out the door and gestured for the Shot Caller to follow suit. They quickly descended the stairs and went into the locker room. The Shooter told the Shot Caller about the two men as they changed into their street clothes. They each took one of the money bags and headed for the front desk. They gave the clerk their plastic cards, and waited anxiously for the computer check to complete. The Shooter tossed two hundred US dollars on the desk, when the two men walked into the room. They walked pass the bouncers at the door when the clerk nodded his head. Then the two men tried to follow suit but they were stopped by the bouncers at the front door. The Shooter and the Shot Caller jumped in the first taxi that they saw and pulled away from the curb as the other two men exited the club running. The Shooter told the driver to drive around while he cleared his head. He told the Shot Caller that he didn’t think that they were being followed, and that they had to take the chance and head straight to the Safe House. It was a quarter to nine and they were running out of time.

The taxi took them to the top of Saint Teresa, a trendy neighborhood on top of a hill in the middle of central Rio. The Shooter told the driver to pull over three quarters of the way up the hill, and then told the Shot Caller that they would walk the rest of the way from there.

The Safe House turned out not to be a house at all, but just a clearing at the top of the hill. They approached the clearing from the woods, and it was then that the Shooter spotted a man lying in the brush, just inside of the tree line. It wasn’t long before he spotted another man off to the right of the first man lying in wait. The Shooter told the Shot Caller to stay put and disappeared among the trees behind them. The Shooter quickly worked himself up behind the first man and slit his throat. The Shot Caller thought that he heard a strange sound above him that grew louder with each passing second. The Shooter was back at his side and told him that there wasn’t enough time to get to the other man, just as the helicopter appeared above the trees. The Shooter pulled out a sat phone and told the pilot that the LC was hot but they had to chance it. The copter came in and hovered just above ground, and the shooter shouted “let’s go” and they made a run for it. The first bullet whizzed by his head and the door gunner shot off a burst in the general direction of the sniper. They were both in the door when the Shooter got hit. The pilot pulled on the stick when he knew that they both were aboard and headed for the coast of Brazil. A corpsman examined the Shooter on their way to meet the navy Cutter, ancord13 miles off shore in international waters. That’s when he learned that it pays to have money, and plenty of it. The bullet had penetrated the money bag that he was carrying, and had only broken his skin. When they opened his shirt to examine his wound it fell to the floor in pristine condition.

The Shot Caller told the Shooter that he didn’t know who he was, but he was a lucky son of a bitch, and he continued “I don’t know what you got on them, but I hope that you keep it. Something tells me that this isn’t over yet” the Shot Caller yelled to the Shooter above the roar of the helicopter, as it prepared to land on board the Navy Cutter, and somehow the Shooter knew this to be true .

Meanwhile, back in Vidigal, the Drug Lord called on the services of Lady Manu, a powerful high priestess who practiced the dark arts. He wanted her to cast a spell to bring back the powerful Exu, whom he believed to be embodied in the Americano know as the Shooter. After all, he did place an offering at the feet of the Shooter in the amount of 1.5 million dollars for the privilege, and the Shooter took it. His uncle, Colonel Silva, now decease, was a greedy man with no vision and no faith in the dark arts. He had become an impediment to the future of his people, and a thorn in the side of the Drug Lord. He knew that the money had been intended as an offering to the spirits from the dark side for them to do the Drug Lord’s bidding. But the Colonel wanted the money for himself. All things considered, the amount of money was a pittance, but the spirits were a vain group of souls, and they were easily impress with worldly status and objects that they had absolutely no use for, but served as an indication of the depth of sincerity expressed among the petitioner. They simply adored adulation. The Colonel’s troops had the Shooter cornered on top of Gavea Preda, but then the Shooter jumped into the sky and flew off to show off his prowess and to demonstrate the futility of mere mortal’s attempts to contain him. Dismiss the idea that the Shooter was trying to escape, after all it was his maneuvering, which was ample, that got them all to the top of that mountain; all for naught. It was a sign that could not be ignored, that indeed he was the all powerful Exu reincarnated. And when the black doll was found at the Colonel’s feet, the Drug Lord knew that the spirit had accepted the offering and had been enjoined to do his bidding . After all, it all depends on one’s point of view, just as with the naming of mountains, from one side you may be a victim of social neglect, and from the other side you may be on holiday enjoying the view.