by LAPIDUS JENS
“I’m following. Do I have carte blanche?”
“Yes and no. You can’t finish him. No knife. That was just to paint the picture. Let me put it this way: You have to use soft brass knuckles.”
Radovan laughed at his own joke.
“I understand. Do you know anything else about where I might find him?”
“Not really. But he’s from the Sollentuna area. Ask Ratko or Ratko’s brother. They’re from there. One more thing. You can’t fuck the blatte fag up so much he has to go to the hospital. Then he’ll be sent back to prison, and we’ll be back in the risky territory I just mentioned. In the slammer without hope, he’ll screw everyone. Turn into a rodent in no time.”
“Trust me. Not a single bone will be broken in the body of that little pussy. Still, he’ll wish he was back in his mother’s.”
Mrado’s vulgarity made Radovan smile. He whisked the whiskey around in his glass. Took a sip. Leaned back in the armchair. Mrado, pumped. Wanted out, on the street. Away from Radovan. To the gym. Talk to the guys. Find leads. Crack the code. Crush Jorge.
They talked about other stuff: horses and cars. No business. Nothing about Mrado’s demanding a bigger cut of the coat checks last time. After fifteen minutes, Radovan excused himself. “I’ve got some things to attend to. And Mrado, considering the fiasco at Kvarnen, I want Jorge now. Know what? I want him yesterday already.”
Mrado went to the gym. Talked to the guys working the desk. Interrupted their discussion about the latest muscle medicine. Asked questions. Did they know anyone doing time at Österåker? Did they know anyone working as a guard at Österåker? Did they know anything about that slick break that’d gone down five weeks ago?
One of them said, “You seem interested. Are you on your way in and want to know how to get out?” Grinned at his own joke.
Mrado, indulgent. Refrained from biting back. Joked along instead. “Preparation’s a shortcut, right?”
The guy leaned over the desk: “That escape was totally SUPERior. I mean, honestly, the dude that stepped over the wall must’ve been Sergej Bubka himself. Twenty-three feet, Mrado. How the hell do you jump that without a pole? Is he Spider-Man, or what?”
“Do you know anyone doing time there?”
“I don’t know anyone doing time there. I’m a refined person, don’t you know. Don’t know any guards, either. Ask Mahmud, maybe. You know, Arabs are always a little criminal. Half the race is, like, behind bars. Check the showers, I think he just did his morning sesh.”
Mrado went downstairs. Into the locker room. Mahmud wasn’t there. A couple other guys were getting dressed. Mrado said hi. Walked back up. Looked around the room on the right. The Eurotechno blared. No Mahmud. Looked around the room on the left. Saw Mahmud kneeling on a red mat. Stretching his back. Looked like a grotesque ballerina mid-pose.
Mrado knelt down next to him.
“Yo, twiggy. How’s your sesh? What d’you do?”
Mahmud didn’t look up. Kept stretching his back. “I don’t know who you’re calling twiggy, twiggy. The sesh was good. I’ve worked the crap out of my lower back and shoulders today. Is fine. They’re far from each other. How’re things with you?”
“Rollin’. I need help with something. That cool?”
“Course. Mahmud never leaves you hangin’; you know that.”
“Cool. Do you know anyone doing time at Österåker?”
“Yeah. My sister’s husband’s there. She visits a lot. They get a room to themselves, have a little fun.” Mahmud changed positions. Stood up. Arms between his legs. Hunched his back. The sound of joints cracking.
“When’s the next time she’s gonna visit?”
“Don’t know. Want me to ask?”
“Yeah. Would you call when you’re done here? I need to know as soon as possible.”
Mahmud nodded. They were silent. The Arab did a few more stretches. Mrado waited. Chatted with two other guys in the room. They walked down to the locker room. Mahmud called his sister. Spoke in Arabic. His sis was going there on Thursday.
They met up at a place on the south side. Supercheap—greasy kabobs and falafel in pita bread for twenty kronor a pop. Mrado ordered three. Scoped out the place. Pictures of the Al-Aqsa Mosque in Jerusalem and Arabic texts on the walls. Genuine or for show? Who cared when the kabobs were so good, they’d melt in your mouth.
Mrado’s take on Mahmud’s sister: tacky blatte. Clothes a little too tight. Skirt a little too short. Makeup a little too much. The Louis Vuitton accessories? A little too fake. Much too much ghetto Swedish. Tone it down, habibti.
She was amenable. Nema problema. He instructed her on what to ask: If Jorge’d had an unusual amount of contact with another inmate the days before the escape. With a CO? How’d he gotten over the wall? Had he belonged to a gang? Did people know who’d helped him on the outside? Who were his friends on the inside?
She wrote the questions down and promised to memorize them before her next visit to the penitentiary. Wanted two thousand cash for her time.
Mrado knew Jorge’s type; they never shut up. Bragged, showed off, said too much.
He felt certain: With a contact at Österåker, the Latino’d soon be found.
The hunt could begin.
16
Spanish dreams. “Jorgelito, I’ll sit here till you fall asleep. Jorgelito, wait here and I’ll get the storybook. Jorgelito, have I told you you’re my prince? Paola’s my princess. You’re my own royal family.”
Jorge woke up.
It was light outside. Hot in the room. Sweet dreams were over. He lay on a mattress that he’d pulled off a bed. Reduced the risk that someone would see him from the outside. Double safety measures—tall bushes outside the window blocked the view.
He’d spent a total of six days in the cottage. Bored. Soon time to call that Yugo. He thought about Rodriguez. One day, Jorge-boy’d be back. Redecorate his face. Make him crawl. Lick mom’s feet. Beg. Creep. Cry.
Maybe he’d been stupid. Careless. For instance, he’d run out of food the day before. He’d walked out to the road. Followed it until he reached a bigger road. Kept going. Saw water. Boats that people were taking out of the water. Haloed autumn panorama. About an hour and a half later: a grocery store, ICA Nygrens. He went in.
Never felt as dark as there, in the Aryan Swedish national store. The blatte stood out, sharp contrast. No one said anything. No one seemed to care. But Jorge, el negrito, thought he was gonna be lynched, dipped in poisonous boat paint and rolled in granola.
He bought spaghetti, chips, bread, sandwich meat, eggs, butter, and beer. Laundry detergent and hair dye. Paid cash. Didn’t say thank you to the lady working the cash register. Just nodded. Thought everyone was eyeing him. Hating him. Planning to turn him over to the cops.
Already on his way out of the store, he felt like an idiot. Tried to walk through the woods on his way home. Didn’t fly. Kept hitting private property, houses. Got scared that people might be home. Get suspicious. Get pissed off. Report the nigger to the police. Walked back out to the main road. Hoped no one would take note of him, el fugitivo.
Jorge fried two eggs. Buttered five pieces of bread. Added sandwich meat. Drank water. A tower of plates and silverware balanced precariously in the sink. Why bother doing dishes? The house’s rightful owner could take care of that later.
He sat down at the kitchen table. Ate the sandwiches quickly. Ran his fingers over the tabletop. It looked old. He wondered if poor people owned the cottage, or if they’d chosen an old table on purpose.
Then: a sound outside. Jorge’s ears perked up.
A voice.
He hunched down.
Slid off the chair, onto the floor.
Lay flat on his stomach.
Crawled toward the window. If someone was on the way in, he could be cooked. If it was the cops outside, he was definitely cooked.
Goddamn it, why hadn’t he prepared better? Nothing packed. His clothes, hair dye, food, toiletries—everything was spread out in t
he room where he slept. Fucking idiot. If he had to run now, he wouldn’t manage to take a fucking thing.
He tried to look out the window. Didn’t see anyone outside. Just the tranquil garden, surrounded by trimmed hawthorn bushes and two maple trees. Again: the voice. Sounded like it came from the little road leading up to the house. Folded in half, he slunk over to the other window. Through the hall. The broad wooden planks in the floor creaked. Fuck. Didn’t dare look out the window. They might be able to see him from the outside. Listened first. Heard another voice, closer now, but not right outside. At least two people talking to each other. Was it the 5-0 or someone else?
Listened again. One of the voices had a slight foreign accent.
He peeked cautiously. No parked car. Couldn’t see the people. Looked up the road that continued past the house toward a dark red barn behind the garden. There. Three people were walking toward the house.
Jorge fast-forwarded through his options. Weighed the advantages and the risks. The cottage was good. Warm, relatively shielded from view, far from the city and the cops’ searching. He could bunker down here until all his money ran out. On the other hand, the people on the road from the barn. He couldn’t really make out who they were.
They could be the owners of the house. Maybe it wasn’t their house but they were just curious. Took a look-see through the windows. Saw the mountain of dishes, saw the mattress on the floor, saw the mess.
It could be the cops.
The risk was too big. Better to pack up his things and clear out before they got here. There were other houses. Other warm beds.
Jorge shoved his stuff into two bags, food in one and clothes and toiletries in the other. He went to the door. The upper half was made of painted glass. He looked out. Didn’t see the people. Opened the door. Walked quickly to the left. Not the gravel path out to the little road. Pushed through an opening in the bushes instead. Got caught on thorns.
Thought the voices sounded closer.
Fuck.
He ran without looking back.
17
JW: on his way to the top. Jet Set Carl’s offer—a golden opportunity. Abdulkarim: overjoyed. Babbled on about their expansion plans. “If you just find that Jorge dude,” he reminded JW, “we’ll own this city.”
JW didn’t break any unnecessary sweat looking for the Chilean. He’d put out some hooks here and there. Had dinner with peeps from the Sollentuna area and offered them money for information that could lead to zeroing in on the fugitive. It’d work out.
Today, he had another project.
JW’d called the Komvux teacher, Jan Brunéus, a couple of days ago. The teacher remembered Camilla well but really didn’t want to talk about her. When JW’d insisted, he’d hung up on him.
JW hadn’t been able to deal with his reaction at the time. Hadn’t bothered to call him again. Tried not to think about the whole thing.
But today it was time. He had to.
He put on jeans, shirt, coat.
Walked toward Sveaplan Gymnasium, the high school below the Wenner-Gren Center where the continuing-education center, Komvux, was located. Wanted to meet Jan Brunéus face-to-face.
Valhallavägen was louder than usual, either due to the heavy traffic or due to his headache. Probably due to both.
He spotted the school building at the end of Sveavägen.
It was 11:30 a.m. Lunch break. JW suspected that the reception desk would close during lunch. He didn’t want to have to wait till after, ignored the arrows and signs and just asked someone for directions. A woman with a Fjällräven Kånken backpack who seemed on her way out gave him a good explanation of how to get there: Take the main entrance, up the stairs, then to the right.
JW ran against the current. Mostly young people his own age on their way out to lunch. The washed-up middle class—didn’t realize there were faster ways to Life.
He took the stairs three at a time. Got short of breath.
Reached the reception area.
A woman in a pleated skirt and an old-fashioned blouse was on her way out the door with purposeful movements that said, I’m closing now.
Typical.
He said, “Hello, ma’am. May I please ask a question before you close for lunch?”
JW’d become the prince of politesse—calling the receptionist “ma’am.” He’d learned well from his Stockholm crowd.
The lady was mollified and let him in. She got back behind the counter.
“I need to speak with one of your teachers, Jan Brunéus. Does he have classes this week, and if so, where might I find him?”
The woman grimaced, looked uncomfortable. JW didn’t like her style. Instead of using clear communication, some people grimaced their way through life.
She pulled out a schedule and ran her finger down the boxes. Finally, she said, “He has a class today that is letting out in ten minutes, at noon. Room four two two. That’s one flight up.”
JW thanked her kindly. Wanted to maintain a good relationship with the woman, for some reason. Sensed he might need it later.
He ran up the stairs. Found the right hallway.
Room 422. The door was closed, still five more minutes till lunchtime.
He waited outside. Put his ear up to the door, heard a chanting voice but couldn’t recognize if it was Jan Brunéus’s.
JW checked out the hallway. Beige walls, wide windows, simple white china light fixtures in the ceiling, graffiti on the radiators. Classic high school. He’d expected a different vibe at Komvux. More mature.
The door to the classroom opened.
A black guy with baggy clothes and jeans almost down to his knees stepped out. Twenty-odd students streamed out behind him.
JW popped his head into the classroom. A couple of girls were collecting their pens and notebooks by the desks.
A teacher stood at the whiteboard, erasing writing. He didn’t see JW.
It had to be Jan Brunéus.
The teacher was dressed in a brown corduroy suit with leather patches at the elbows. He wore a green V-necked knit sweater under the jacket. Three days’ worth of stubble made it more difficult to appreciate his age, but he was probably around forty. He had thin-framed glasses, maybe made by Silhoutte. JW thought he looked like a nice guy.
He walked up to Jan.
Jan turned around, studied JW.
JW thought, Does he see the resemblance between me and Camilla?
Jan said, “How can I help you?”
“My name is Johan Westlund. We spoke on the phone a couple of days ago, as you might remember. I would like to speak to you about my sister, Camilla Westlund. If that’s okay.”
Brunéus sat down on the edge of the desk. Didn’t say anything. Just sighed.
Did he want to seem like he was ready for a heart-to-heart, or what?
The girls who’d been in the classroom left.
Jan got up and closed the door behind them. Sat back down on the edge of the desk.
JW remained standing. No comment.
“I really want to apologize for my behavior. Thinking about her made me upset. The whole disappearance is just so tragic. I didn’t mean to hang up on you like that.”
JW listened without saying anything in return.
“I remember Camilla very well. She was one of my favorite students. She was talented and interested. Good attendance. I gave her an A in every subject.”
JW thought, Teachers care about bullshit like attendance.
“What subjects did she have with you?”
“Language arts, English, and, if I’m remembering correctly, social studies. You know, around two hundred faces pass through my classes every year, but I remember Camilla. You look a lot alike.”
“People say that. Can you tell me more about what you remember about her? I know that she hung out some with a girl named Susanne Pettersson. Did she have other friends here?”
“Susanne Pettersson? I don’t remember her. But I honestly don’t think Camilla had a lot of friends, which was st
range. I thought she was very extroverted and nice-seeming. She looked nice, too.”
Something was off. Susanne Pettersson’d said that she and Camilla used to cut class. Now Jan Brunéus was saying she’d had a good attendance record. And that she’d looked nice. Did teachers usually say stuff like that?
They talked for another two minutes or so. Jan spoke in generalities. “Komvux is an important social institution. High school doesn’t suit everyone. Here, they can get a second chance.”
JW wanted to get away from the classroom. Away from Jan Brunéus.
Jan shook his hand. “It’s a sad story. Send my regards to your parents. Tell them that Camilla would’ve gone far.”
Jan picked up a worn leather briefcase from the floor and disappeared out into the hall.
JW walked back to the reception desk. Took note of the hours. The administration offices were closed for the day. Typical, or what?
At home, he flipped through the phone book. City of Stockholm, Education Department. Called the number and asked to be connected to someone who could answer general questions about transcripts and official records. He was put through to the responsible administrator. They discussed JW’s questions for fifteen minutes. That was enough. JW got all the answers he needed.
He would definitely go back to the reception at Komvux. Dig deep in the school’s transcript archives. Something wasn’t right with Jan Brunéus’s story.
18
Mrado’d played crime thriller for two and a half days while he waited for Mahmud’s sister to visit Österåker. Ordered passport photos of Jorge. Called his two cop contacts, Jonas and Rolf. Promised five grand to the one who’d dig up useful info on the Jorge fucker. Looked up the Latino’s relatives with the Population Registry. No leads. Checked in with his colleague Nenad, Radovan’s blow and whore page. Nenad didn’t even remember Jorge, other than from the trial. Mrado had breakfast with Ratko and Ratko’s brother Slobodan, alias “Bobban.” They gave him the lowdown on Stockholm’s northwest criminal map—which junkies to talk to, which employees to talk to at which bars, which dealers knew Jorge’s crowd. He went out to Sollentuna and Märsta twice and talked to various cocaine contacts and Latinos. Bobban went with him. Good visual aid.