EASY MONEY

by LAPIDUS JENS

  Five hours later, the cocaine ran out. JW was still wrapped up in the rush. He’d been checking Sophie out all night. She couldn’t have cared less about him. He felt deceived.

  But Anna came up to him. Said she thought he was really nice, thanked him for their conversation at dinner, and started dancing with him. They got more and more entwined. Half the party’d passed out. The rest’d crashed on the couches, talking or making out.

  JW and Anna went up to her room.

  It was five-thirty in the morning. JW felt like he could go forever.

  They locked the door and sat down on the bed.

  Anna giggled. They looked at each other. Got turned on. JW caressed her breasts through her top. She unzipped his fly, pulled out his cock, bent down, and started sucking. Lip gloss on his cock. Groaned. Really tried to hold it, didn’t want to come yet. He pushed himself away and sat up, undressed her instead. Licked her tits. She grabbed hold of his cock again and guided him inside her.

  They fucked furiously.

  It was way too quick.

  He pulled out, came in his hand.

  Wiped himself on the sheets.

  They lay still, chilled for a moment.

  Anna kept talking; wanted to go over the events of the night.

  JW didn’t want to talk. Cocaine better than Viagra—after fifteen minutes, he was fit for fight.

  Cut the foreplay—just fucked right away.

  He came after two minutes, max. Embarrassing.

  He felt empty.

  Slept like shit.

  12

  Mrado’s areas of responsibility within Radovan’s sphere: the coat checks, general racketeering, keeping the lackeys in line. He sometimes helped to set dealers or pimps straight who thought they were Dragan Joksovic, or took care of whores who thought they could make their own decisions. Mostly used Ratko or other guys from the gym as backup.

  Mrado had his own business on the side. Import firm. Bought wood from Thailand: teak, ebony, balsa. Sold to fine carpenters, interior designers, and contractors. Smooth sailing. Above all, he needed clean, taxable income.

  Mrado’s headaches: Patrik convicted. The ex-skin probably wouldn’t hang anyone, but there was always a risk. Fucking shit luck that the skinhead’d been such a hothead. Even worse: that Mrado’d been stupid enough to bring up his demand for a bigger cut when Rado’d already been pissed. Was a crisis of trust between him and Radovan on the horizon? What’s more: Mrado should find that coke monkey, Jorge. Even more: Mrado’d been given the order from Rado to deal with the so-called Nova Project, the cops and the courts in cahoots on a big-budget crackdown to bring the city’s organized-crime scene to its knees. Finally: Mrado had to see Lovisa, or else he’d explode. Annika, that cunt, was battling him in court. He was preparing to fight for his daughter. Felt like all of society was against him. He had a fucking right to have a good relationship with his kid, just like anyone else.

  He was having trouble sleeping. It wasn’t what he had to do or the sheer number of things he had to take care of that made him wake up in the middle of the night; it was thoughts of Lovisa and of a different kind of life that did it. The risk of not being permitted to see her. Thoughts about what he’d do if he stopped doing what he was doing now. Maybe there was another way to live, other businesses where he’d fit in. And still, no. Mrado was who he was. This city needed men like him. The smallest of his current problems was finding a straw man for the video-rental companies. That’s where he’d begin.

  He made the rounds at the gym. No one wanted to be a part of it. Not because they had fortunes to lose—at least not any that Big Brother knew of—but because they didn’t want to fold. The boys had big biz dreams. In the end, everyone had to play somewhat by the legal rules. Conclusion: Don’t dirty your record unnecessarily.

  Mrado didn’t want to fuck things up. At the same time—if things got messy, someone else’d have to take the hit.

  He could call one of his peers: Goran, Nenad, or Stefanovic. All were underlings of the Yugo king, on the same level as Mrado in the hierarchy. Guys with their ears to the ground. But also competitors in the race for Radovan’s favor.

  He called Goran.

  The guy was Radovan’s smokes and booze importer. A greasy prick. A brownie. If Rado chewed Goran out, he’d lie on his back and wag his legs in the air. Like a bitch. Despite that, the dude was disgustingly good with his gear. Big profits, a turnaround of seventeen million a year.

  Smokes and booze import: complicated logistics, administrative mathematics, well-developed transportation and freight methodology. A global enterprise based in Stockholm’s criminal underworld. Cheap booze and chic booze. Via Finland from Russia, the Baltic countries, Poland, and Germany. Repackaged, with the country of origin and mode of production blacked out. Goran knew the business. Had solid connections within the Swedish Transportation Union. Had his eye on the teamsters. Was friendly with the bosses. Knew which ones to bribe. Knew what European smuggle routes to use. Faked freight passes, rigged credible chains of transport, recipients and senders. Stuck with the tough guys. The ones who wanted to make easy money. Who set the bar low. Old-timers who worked full-time without giving a cent to the Man.

  Mrado wanted to get at the latter group. A different type from the guys at the gym. Older. Prestige-free. Saw the world through the bottom of a bottle. Were done striving. Had seen better days.

  Mrado on the line with Goran. Even made himself believe he liked the guy. In Serbian: “Goran, my friend. It’s me.”

  “Mrado, I hear. Since when did we become friends?”

  Goran: a dick to everyone and anyone except il Padre, Mr. R. Mrado bit his lip. Let it slide—his mission was more important.

  “We work for the same man. We’re countrymen. We’ve gotten shit-faced together. Aren’t we friends? We’re more than friends.”

  “You’d do best to remember that we’re not friends, and we’re not family. I’m a businessman. I’ve never really understood what the hell it is you do. Beat the crap out of poor coat-check people. Do you steal their jackets, too?”

  “What’re you talkin’ about?”

  “Last weekend, I lost my jacket at Café Opera. The faggots in the coat check didn’t have a clue. Someone pointed to it and claimed he’d lost his tag.”

  “Shit happens.”

  “Is that the kind of shit that happens at your coat checks?”

  “No idea.”

  “You should check up on that.”

  “Goran, it’s not often that I ask for help. And that’s not what I’m doing now, either. I’m going to reward you; that’s not what I call help.”

  “Stop speaking in riddles. Something good can come of this talk. I can feel it. My only question is, What? You started this off so nicely. Calling me a friend.”

  If it’d been anyone else, Mrado would’ve hung up. Hunted the person down. Ended said person. But first, preferably, snipped off one finger at a time with a ratchet lopper.

  “Witty as usual, Goran. I need someone who’s got the DL on the teamsters. A trusty old-timer. If you hook me up with a good contact, I’ll let you in on five percent of the profits.”

  “What’ll that be for me per month?”

  “Honestly, I don’t really know yet, but it’s a supertight Rado gig I’ve got going. I’m supposed to set up two companies for him. I’d guess we’re talking at least five grand a month and up. Clean.”

  “Five thousand and up, for a name? Per month? What hole are you fucking me in, exactly?”

  “I’m not fucking you. It’s just really important to me that this works out. That’s why I’m ready to pay.”

  “What the hell. Shoot. What can I lose? What exactly do you need?”

  Mrado explained without saying too much.

  Goran said, “I’ve got a guy. Christer Lindberg. I’ll text you his number. That cool?”

  “Sure. Thanks. I’ll call you this week to let you know how it goes. Maybe you’re a good guy after all.”

 
“‘Good’? Good is just my middle name. Remember that.”

  Mrado hung up. Wondered if he’d been smart or a total dipshit.

  13

  Fall was coming. Jorge’d managed to get a bed at a homeless shelter fourteen out of the past twenty-four nights. Bought personal identification digits from a junkie in the Sollentuna Mall for three grand. Good till the end of the month. The shelters sent their invoices to the junkie’s social welfare officer. The mainliner lost his welfare check—he wanted cash for heroine/amphetamine instead.

  Jorge didn’t get why there were mostly Svens at the shelters, when he knew immigrants were the real dirt-poor suckers—blattes with nada. Did the blizzardheads have no pride?

  Life in the shelter was sweet. Well-cooked meals were included for breakfast and dinner. Jorge watched TV. Read newspapers. They weren’t writing shit about his escape.

  Chatted a little with the others. Kept it bare bones.

  He tried to do push-ups, sit-ups, or jump rope when no one was around. He couldn’t run; his foot was still busted from the jump off the wall.

  It wasn’t working in the long run. Couldn’t keep his hair curly without people wondering. Couldn’t smear himself with self-tanner without them looking. There was the risk that one of the bums would recognize him. What’s more: After fourteen days, the shelter started charging five hundred kronor a night instead of two hundred. There was no fairness in this world. The junkie’s money could run out. The Social Service rep could get suspicious.

  He hadn’t been able to pay his cousin, Sergio, or his screw fixer, Walter, back. Shameful.

  Everything sucked.

  Gray, frightened thoughts. Psychological low point.

  Zero ability to run. Shitty stamina. Physical low point.

  This wasn’t what he’d gone AWOL for.

  He had to score money.

  Out one month. Not bad, if you thought about it. Better than many others. But no big success. What’d he been expecting? That plastic surgery, a passport, and a field of clover’d just materialize, for free? That he’d find a few pounds of blow under his pillow at the Night Owl homeless shelter? That his sister’d call and tell him she’d bought tickets to Barcelona and borrowed her BF’s passport? Fat chance.

  Sergio’d taken a lot of risks. Jorge hadn’t heard from him since the day before he left Eddie’s. Didn’t dare get in touch with him. His bad conscience burned. He should pay Sergio back. But what could he do?

  What the FUCK could he do?

  He didn’t think the cops had a red alert out on him. In their eyes, he was a harmless small-time druggie. Armored-car robbers, rapists, and other violent criminals were much higher up on their list. That was his luck: He hadn’t used any violence during the break. Still: Life on the lam was no cakewalk. Cash was the solution.

  The thought of Radovan. The ace up his sleeve.

  He didn’t want to use it. Had been lying at night in the shelters, thinking. Tossed. Turned. Sweated. Reminded him of the nights before the break. But worse, somehow. Then, it could either fly or not fly at all. Now, it could either get fucked up or even more fucked up. Still, he had hope. Maybe it’d work.

  The idea: Jorge’d worked for Radovan’s organization. Knew stuff they didn’t want leaked. Above all, they didn’t know exactly how much he knew. He could scare them. Had learned the game on the inside; snitches are bitches and silence is golden. The Yugos should be willing to cough it up.

  R. was difficult to get in touch with. No one could or wanted to disclose his home or cell number.

  Impossible to reach the Yugo boss.

  Radovan’s underling, the rat who’d wrapped him in his witness testimony, Mrado, would work fine. Jorge tracked him down instead.

  He finally got Mrado’s cell phone number from an old dealer in Märsta. Mrado wasn’t Radovan, but he was as close as Jorge was gonna get. It’d have to do.

  He made the call from a pay phone near Östermalmstorg’s subway station.

  His fingers shook as he dialed.

  He immediately recognized Mrado’s voice. Deep. Dangerous. Damning.

  Almost shat a brick. Straightened up. “Yo, Mrado. It’s Jorge. Jorge Salinas Barrio.”

  Silence for a short moment. Mrado cleared his throat. “Jorge. Nice to hear your voice. How’s life on the outside?”

  “Cut the crap. You guys fucked me two years ago. The game you pulled at the trial was bullshit. Still, I’m willing to make a deal now.”

  “Wow, talk about cutting to the chase. What’s this deal about?”

  Jorge didn’t let himself get provoked. “You know what it’s about, Mrado. I had your back, yours and Radovan’s both. And you let me sink. Fucking deep. You owe me.”

  “Ah, I see.” Mrado sounded sarcastic. “I guess we’d better see to it that you’re happy right away.”

  “Sure, you can choose to fuck me. But I’ll talk, fast. You know I know too much about Radovan’s business. I got slammed with three fuckin’ years for your sake.”

  “Easy, Jorge. If you hurt us, we’ll make sure you’re sent right back to where you came from. But a little deal isn’t a bad idea. What’d you have in mind?”

  “Simple. Radovan gets me a passport and a hundred G’s, cash. I’ll jump ship and you’ll never hear from me again.”

  “I’ll convey your request to Radovan. But I don’t think he’s gonna like it. Blackmail isn’t his thing. Nothing he lets himself get subjected to. How can I reach you?”

  “You think I’m a fuckin’ idiot? I’ll call you on this number in ten days. If he’s not in on my deal by then, I’ll fuck him up.”

  “It’s lucky for you Radovan didn’t hear that. Call me in two weeks. Good passports can’t just be bought on the street.”

  “No, ten days. Can’t you fuckin’ order passports from Thailand, or somethin’? And yo, one more thing. If anythin’ happens to me, some accident or somethin’, you catch my drift, what I know’ll leak on the spot.”

  “I follow. Make it two weeks.”

  Mrado hung up. Fucking chesty Yugo fuck. Jorge was the one setting the rules, wasn’t he? But now all he could do was accept. Two weeks. That was still better than expected—could be kale at the end of this. Was he back on track?

  Jorge kept standing where he was. People kept streaming past.

  Jorge-boy: the world’s loneliest homeboy. Solo y abandonado.

  Jorge’d been thinking about a possibility—seemed served on a plate. Svens shut up their summer homes during the off-season. New housing market for him. Maybe that would at least solve one problem.

  He was screwed when it came to cash. Had one G left of the five Sergio’d given him.

  His expenses had been too big so far. A total of three thousand kronor for the shelter. Every session at the tanning booth: sixty-five kronor. Vending machine grub for lunch. A new pair of pants, gloves, two T-shirts, a knit sweater, underwear, socks, and a winter jacket from a thrift store: 450 kronor. In preparation for a cold autumn.

  He took a last trip to the tanning bed. He was dark now. Had nailed the walk. The right rhythm. Now he wanted to get away for a while. Wait for Radovan’s answer.

  He took the subway to the Royal Technical Academy station. Didn’t really know where he was going. Just that he wanted to head north. Somewhere deserted. He nixed the express bus to Norrtälje. Got on bus number 620 instead, also headed north to Norrtälje, but with a more roundabout route.

  He dozed.

  The bus drove past Åkersberga. There were hicks on the bus. A lady with two wiener dogs stared at him.

  He got off at a stop that looked nice, called Wira Bruk. The plastic bag with his clothes in it was twisted around his wrist. He let it get tangled.

  Not his kind of turf. Jorge’d been to the country once in his life, on a school field trip when he was thirteen. Ended with his being sent home. You weren’t allowed to set the forest on fire.

  To his right was a stone church. The clock tower stood separately, built of gray wood. A couple of gr
avestones in the grass around the main building. To the left, the land slanted upward. To the woods. One road kept going straight, and one took off to the left. Fields farther up. The crops had been harvested.

  The sky was gray.

  He started walking.

  Toward the fork in the road. Looked down the road that veered to the left. A couple of houses and parked cars. He walked closer. Saw a sign: WIRA BRUK—OLD HOMESTEAD MUSEUM. He walked across the parking lot. Nine cars total. Toyed with the thought of boosting one, then scrapped it. Walked down toward the houses.

  A stream to his left. Picturesque. A little bridge. Leafy trees. Gravel road. Red kiosk. Seemed boarded up for the fall, but they’d forgotten the ice-cream cardboard cutout outside. Farther down, three larger houses. A gravel square between them. Signs on the houses. An old school. An old parish hall. An old county sheriff’s house. A middle-aged couple entered the school. He was seriously off. There were no vacation homes here. It was a fucking museum.

  Out on the main road again.

  He kept walking. For fifteen minutes. No houses in sight.

  Fifteen more minutes.

  Saw houses farther up between the trees.

  Got closer.

  The first seemed lived in. There was a Volvo V70 parked outside.

  He went on to the next one. Woods all around.

  Jorge wondered if it’d been the right move to come up here. Unknown territory. Away game. Simple fact about J-boy: He wasn’t exactly the type who’d been raised a Boy Scout, field biologist, or explorer. Limited exposure to a world without asphalt and McDonald’s.

  The house was about three hundred yards farther up. Couldn’t be seen from the first house. No car parked outside. It was big. Two glassed-in porches. Faded red paint. White trim. Green paint around the windows. The bottom porch was hardly visible behind all the wild trees and bushes. Jorge walked up the path. The gravel crunched. The door to the house faced the yard, at the back of the house if you stood on the road. Perfect. Looked in through all the windows. No one home. Knocked on the door. No answer. Yelled “Hello.” No one came out. Walked back out on the road. No other people or houses in sight. Went back. Tried to locate an alarm system. Nada. Put his gloves on. Broke a window. Carefully reached his hand in. Didn’t want to cut himself. Unhooked the window latch. No problem. Opened the window. Pulled himself up. Jumped in.