Then God says, Tonight, Efrim/Edson/everyone else you ever were or might be, I smile down from beyond satellite and balloons and Angels of Perpetual Surveillance on you.

Her. At the bar with a caipiroshka in a plastic cup in her hand and a gang of girlfriends. Pink jacare boots (what is this she has with endangering the cayman population?) and a little silver snake-scale A-line so short it skims her panties but moves magnificently, heavily, richly. Korr I-shades that go halfway around her head. Space-baby. Her hair is pink tonight. Pink and silver: perfect match for the seasonal must-have Giorelli Habbajabba bag on her arm. She came.

PJ de Peeeeeepoooooo! Kid DJ announces the next challenger as Efrim moves through the crowd toward the bar.

“Efrim Efrim Efrim!” The cries in his ear are like pistol shots. When Edson was in the Penas, Treats followed him like a dog around a bitch. Treats’s eyes and manic insistence betray a load of drugs. “Trampo’s dead, man. He’s dead!”

Trampo is — was — a dirty little favelado stupid enough to want to look mean who presumably took Edson’s place as the sunshine in Treats’s life when Edson walked out of the gang. Some are born with bullet marks on their bodies, like stigmata. Even in semi respectable Cidade de Luz murder is the most common death for young males. You properly come of age if you make thirty.

“They cut him in half, man; they fucking cut him in half. They left him at the side of the rodovia. There was the sign cut into the road.”

It would be a slope-sided rectangle with a domed top, a stylized garbage can. Take out the trash. Cut with one of those same weapons that the Penas played with so casually in the back of José’s Garage. That’s how everyone knows the Q-blade. It’s the real star on what has for the last six seasons been São Paulo’s top-rated TV show. No network could sanction a reality program where José Publics compete to join the resident team of bandeirantes to hunt down street hoods. But this is the time of total media, of universal content provision, wiki-vision. A bespoke pirate production house casts it payview to twelve million pairs of I-shades. Reformers, evangelical Christians, liberation priests, campaigning lawyers, and socialists demand something be done, we know where these people are, close them down out of great São Paulo. The police turn a blind eye. Someone has to take out the trash. Efrim would never filthy his retinas with such a thing, but he admires their business plan. And now they’ve come to Cidade de Luz. This is not a conversation for now. Frightening people at a wedding gafieira, and Efrim on the hunt. She is still there, at the impromptu bar made from trestle tables borrrowed from the parish center. The priest has more sense than to come to see what is being done with his tables; but the crentes, with their infallible noses for the unsaved, are handing out hell-is-scary-and-real tracts, all of which have been trodden underfoot into alcohol-soaked papier-mache. Women scoop caipiroshkas into plastic glasses from washing-up basins. Two guys in muscle tops pound limes in big wooden mortars. Get rid of this fool quick. Efrim rolls a little foil-wrapped ball of maconha out of his bag.

“Here, querida, for you, have this.” The kid is wasted already, but Edson wants him so far away that he can’t scare anyone else. How rude. “Go on, it’s yours, run on there.”

Senhors, Senhoras, PJ Raul Glor — ee — aaaaaah! G-g-g-gloriiiiai Another win for Petty Cash.

“Hooo honeys!” Efrim cruises in, hips waggling samba-time, looking their style up and down, down and up. “My, what shocking bad shoes.” Fia and her girlfriends whoop and cheer. Efrim lets the TalkTalk roll, swaggers up and down in a mock military inspection of each in turn. “Honey, has no one told you pterodactyl toes are no no no? Oh my sweet Jesus and Mary. Pink and orange? Efrim shall pray for you, for only Our Lady of Killer Shooz can save you now. Now you, you need a workout. Make an effort. Efrim is the one has to look at you. Telenovela arms, darling. Yours sag like an old priest’s dick. And as for you, honey, the only thing can save you is plastic. I’ll have a little whip round. I know a couple of cheap guys — don’t we all wish?” He stops in front of Fia. The Habbajabba is crooked over her arm, comfortable as a sleeping cat. You don’t know who I am. But I know who you are. Efrim loves the anonymity of the mask.

“Bur for you, I do some travesti magic. You don’t believe me? We all have the magic, the power, all us girls. You give me that bag and I will tell you magic things.” Laughing at the damn effrontery of Efrim, Fia hands over the Habbajabba. Efrim rubs his hands all over it, sniffs it, licks it. “Ah now: this bag says to me that it was given to you, not bought with money. A man gave this to you: wait, the bag tells me he is a businessman, he is a man with contacts and connections and people.” Efrim puts the bag up to his ear, pouts, eyes wide in mock shock. “The bag says the man gave it to you because you did him a big favor. You saved his dumb-ass brother from the seguranças.”

Efrim has been carefully steering Fia away from her girlfriends. They think it is funny — they wave, they kissy-kiss — and she is willing to be steered on this gafieira night. Edson holds the bag up and whispers to it, nods his head, rolls his big big eyes.

“The bag says, the man of business still owes you. After all, it was his brother, and he may be useless but he is still worth more than a bag. Even this bag.”

Fia laughs. It is like falling coins bouncing from a sidewalk.

“And how does this big businessman want to treat me?”

“He is about to do a deal on an Arabic lanchonete. Their kibes just slay you. He would like you to be the first to try what will surely be Sampa’s hottest food franchise and make him a rich rich man with an apartment on Ilhabela.”

That has always been Edson’s great dream: a house by the sea. Someday, before he is too middle-aged lazy to enjoy it, he will have a place down on Ilhabela where he can wake every morning and see the ocean. He will never visit it until it is built, but when it is he will arrive by night so all he can sense is the sound and the ocean will be the first thing he sees when he wakes. Santos is half an hour away by the fast train, but Edson has never seen the sea.

“Flowers are cheaper. And prettier,” says Fia.

“Flowers are already dead.”

“The bag told you all this?”

“With a little travesti magic.”

“I think you’ve worked enough magic tonight, whatever your name is.” Efrim’s heart jumps.

“Tonight, I am Efrim.”

“So what other little secrets have you got, Efrim/Edson or whoever else you are?”

Only one , says Edson/Efrim to himself, and not even my mother knows that.

He flounces, shaking his big Afro wig, because Efrim can get away with it.

“Well, you made the gafieira, so now I think you have to do the kibes. The bag says.”

“Do you remember what I said last time?”

’’’Don’t push it.’’’

He can see Fia run through all the reasons why she should say no again and dismiss them. It is only lunch. A call comes through on the peripheral vision of her Korrs. Her face changes. Efrim can hear a tinny, trebly man’s voice cut through the seismic bass of the pod-battles. He wants to stab that man. Fia opaques her I-shades, concealing her caller’s image. Her mouth sets hard. Frown lines. This is not a good call. She glances around to two men standing on the edge of the gafieira. She touches his hand.

“I got to go.”

“Hey hey honey, don’t leave me now. What about that little lanchonete?” She turns back before the crowd can take her away, touches her Korrs. A com address flicks up on Efrim’s I-shades.

“You be careful, now. There are killers out there.”

“I know,” she calls. “Oh, I know.”