by Jens Lapidus
The car gleamed. Cadillac Eldorado Biarritz from 1959. A beauty he’d found online six years ago. It was in Los Angeles, but he didn’t hesitate. Every single time he’d confiscated something from the dregs, this car’d been his goal. Without the money he’d made outside of his crappy police salary, it would never have been his. But it was. He’d picked it up with his old man, who was still in good shape back then. Drove it from Los Angeles to Virginia in one stretch. Twenty-seven hundred miles. Fifty-five hours on the road. At the time, Åsa wondered how he’d been able to afford it and it’d been twice as expensive as he’d told her.
It was wonderful. The Cadillac’s V8 engine—better known among car lovers as a Q-345—the pistons alone had taken him six months to fix. Now they were like new. It guzzled gas like a truck.
The car that was parked in front of Thomas now was from a different planet than modern junk. He was almost done. Had fixed the chrome, bought new upholstery, installed purple metallic power-seat adjustments, mounted the back fenders, imported a new grille from the States, played around with the new synchromesh gearbox. Gotten the right whitewall tires, fog lights, air-conditioning, tinted windows on the sides. Adjusted the back axle, the carburetor, the brakes. Acid-washed and zinced every single metal part.
Eldorado Biarritz: the car that’d first introduced the back tail fins and the twin back lights. A style icon without compare, a miracle, a legend among cars. The most rock ’n’ roll money could buy. Most of these cars were no longer even drivable. But Thomas’s car rolled smoothed as hell. It was unique. And it was his.
The only big thing left to do was to fix the hydraulic suspension. Thomas knew what he wanted—to return to the original suspension, it was as simple as that. He’d saved it for last. Otherwise, the car was perfect.
Thomas put on his overalls, strapped on his headlamp. Rolled in under the car. His favorite position. Darkness surrounded him. In the light from the headlamp, the car’s undercarriage appeared like a world of its own, with continents and geological formations. A map he knew better than any other place in the world. He didn’t pull out the wrench right away. Studied the car’s parts. Just lay there for a while.
Someone’d deleted both his and the pathologist’s description of the track marks and the possible cause of death. The pathologist himself? Someone within the police? He had to do something. At the same time—it wasn’t his problem. Why should he care? If the doctor didn’t want anything written about the track marks, maybe he had his reasons. Annoying to have to write a bunch of extra crap about that in the autopsy report. Or else it was one of Thomas’s colleagues who didn’t want it known that an unidentified dude’d been injected to death. So, let it be that way. He wasn’t the type to rat anyone out, to screw things up, to dig up dirt when it concerned other officers. He wasn’t like that guy Martin Hägerström.
On the other hand—he could wind up in trouble himself. If the mistake in the autopsy report was investigated, the question could arise as to why he’d left relevant information out of his own report. That was a risk he didn’t want to take. And whoever’d deleted his text was unknown. It’s not like he was messing things up for some colleague he knew. If you wanted to cover something up, then at least come clean to your co-workers.
It wasn’t okay. He should talk to someone. But who? Jörgen Ljunggren was out. The dude was almost dumber than a reality-TV blonde. Hannu Lindberg, one of the men Thomas usually drove with, might understand, but the question was if he’d agree. To Hannu, anything that didn’t concern money or police honor was not worth bothering about. The other guys on the beat didn’t feel close or reliable enough. They were good men, that wasn’t it, but they weren’t the kind who wanted to think too much. He thought about Hägerström’s comment: “The desk people together with the guys who are really out there. There’s so much knowledge that’s lost today.”
Thomas didn’t have the energy to think more about it. He turned the headlamp off. Continued lying where he was for another three minutes before he rolled himself out.
Stood up. Rinsed his hands under a hose in the garage.
Pulled out his cell phone. He’d saved Hägerström’s number.
Martin Hägerström picked up. “Hägerström.”
“This is Andrén. Are you alone?”
“Absolutely. You’re not on patrol?”
“No, I’m off. Calling from home. There’s something I want to talk to you about.”
“Shoot.”
Thomas began in a monotone voice. Didn’t want Hägerström to think he’d become friendly toward him.
“I took the autopsy report home. I know it’s material that’s under investigation and that you’re not supposed to take it out of the building, but I don’t give a shit about that crap. I didn’t want to print and read it at the station. And you’re right, it doesn’t mention the track marks. You’re probably not surprised since you said there wasn’t anything written about them in my incident report either, but I know I wrote about them. It’s not likely that Gantz, the forensic pathologist, who’s used to carving up bodies, would’ve missed them. To be completely honest, no one, not even you, could’ve missed them. Did you see the body?”
Silence on the other end of the line.
“Hägerström?”
“Yes, I’m here. I’m thinking. What you’re saying sounds very strange. It seems to me there are only two explanations: Maybe you’re messing with me. You didn’t write shit about any holes or cause of death at all and only want to screw up my investigation. That’s the most likely solution to your little mystery. Or something’s really wrong. Something that I’m going to get to the bottom of. And I haven’t seen the body. But now I intend to do so. Just so you know.”
Thomas didn’t know what to say. Hägerström belonged to the other side. But, strictly speaking, the guy was handling himself impeccably. Strictly speaking, Thomas should hang up. Never let a rat like Hägerström talk to him that way. Anyway, patrol officers like Thomas shouldn’t meddle with detectives’ investigations. Still, without knowing why, he heard himself say, “I think it’s best if I come with you. So that someone can show you where those track marks were.”
10
Early signs of summer: small white flowers in brown lawns, outdoor seating being set up at cafés, defrosted dog shit. Thirteen-year-old girls in too-tiny miniskirts even though it was only fifty-seven degrees out. Soon it would be here: the Swedish summer. Warm. Light. Filled with chicks. Mahmud longed for it. Now he just had to bulk up in time and iron out the shit he’d ended up in.
He was hanging out by a little hole-in-the-wall shop. Hair wet after his workout. Aching muscles. Sweet exhaustion.
Waiting for his homie Babak. It was six o’clock and they should be closing in there by now. Weird that he hadn’t come out yet. Mahmud tried to call. No answer. Fired off a text, pulled a standard joke: “Remember when we rode the train and I stuck my head out and you stuck your ass out. Everyone thought we were twins. Call me!”
Irritated. Not really with Babak, the boy was always late, but with the whole situation. Everything was going to hell. Less than five days left. Mahmud hadn’t scraped together more than fifteen thousand in cash yet. It didn’t even cover a fifth of what Gürhan wanted. What the fuck was he supposed to do? Same thought on repeat like a sampled loop: the Yugos are my only chance.
He eyed the electrical cabinet he was leaning up against. Covered in tags, Ernesto Guerra stickers, the Giant face sprayed on, sticker ads for, like, forty thousand different record stores. He thought, The Svens did so much crap. That was their luxury—they could follow unnecessary, unfathomable, unmanly pursuits: demonstrate in order to trash small shops in Reclaim the Streets riots, organize weird Goth parties in Gamla Stan where everyone looked like corpses, hang out at cafés and study for a whole day. But the Svens didn’t know shit about life with a capital L. What it was like when you had to translate at the welfare office so your parents could explain that they couldn’t afford winter jackets. What it was
like to grow up in the Million Program concrete without a future. To see the dignity in your father’s eyes crushed every time some official mistrusted him—a highly respected man where he came from who was dragged through the Swedish dirt like a whore over the square in the home country. They questioned why he didn’t get a better job even though he was an educated engineer, why he didn’t speak better Swedish—gave him forms to fill out even though they knew he couldn’t read the Swedish alphabet. Pork their mothers.
Mahmud loved his dad and his sisters. He had his homies: Babak, Robert, Javier, and the others. The rest could go fuck themselves.
He was gonna beat them all. The Born to Be Hated players. The Sven pussies. The Stockholm brats. The Ernesto Guerra clowns. Make a comeback. Show who was boss. Cash in. The blatte from the Million hood was gonna be king. Crush ’em. Pluck ’em. Only the Yugos would help him.
Four hours earlier he’d called and told Stefanovic yes—he was gonna find Wisam Jibril for them. King Mahmud Bernadotte—when he was done with the assignment, Gürhan was gonna taste his fat cock.
Mahmud thought about what he had to do. To count with the Yugos was to count with everyone. If he succeeded with this—plucking the Lebanese, fulfilling Radovan’s wishes—his name would spell Mahmud the Man. Not like today: Mahmud the Dude Who Wants Up but Hasn’t Gotten Anywhere Yet.
Right after the call to Stefanovic, Mahmud called Tom Lehtimäki—a buddy from way back. Tom was into econ and stuff like that. Worked for some debt-collecting agency. A golden contact who stepped up right away. Two hours after the call, Tom’d already asked a court to fax over all the paperwork from the trial regarding the Arlanda Airport robbery. They refused to fax that much paper. Sent the shit snail mail instead. Apparently the case’d been closed—the prosecutor’d given up the hunt for the perps. But there was still a battle going on between the bank and the transportation company. Mahmud could hardly believe it—the court was giving him good service. Sometimes he loved Svenland.
He woke from his reverie. Checked the time on his cell. Why hadn’t Babak shown yet?
They were going out tonight. Gonna do the city. Run their race—the bitches were theirs for the picking. Wham-bam. He hummed in Arabic—Ana bedi kess. I love pussy.
He was sick of waiting, climbed the half stair into the store.
Inside: packed.
The store was tiny, like a hot-dog stand. Sweat stench and lots of buzz. Babak was standing behind the glass counter. A shadow of stubble over his cheeks, neatly waxed side part, shirt unbuttoned at the neck. Mahmud would never say it aloud, but Babak had swag. Beside Babak: his dad and a couple other relatives. His dad was dressed in a fake Armani T-shirt. His uncle and cousins in button-downs. They crowded around, peddled and chatted. Babak was busy with a customer. Mahmud loved the place. The atmosphere was mad un-Suedi: another world, another country. People haggled like crazy, screamed to make themselves heard. Three young black guys were begging for the best price for a box of stolen cells. Babak’s dad threw open his arms, made a face like they’d asked to date his daughter. “You think I made of money? Max hundred each, I give.” Mahmud smiled to himself—the guy couldn’t get more home country. An island in Sven Sweden.
The shelves were loaded with used cell phones, MP3 players, chargers, wireless phones, calling cards, alarm clocks. There were cell-phone cases in various colors under the counter, along with watches and unlocked iPhones. On the counter: plates with Babak and his dad’s dinner. Tomatoes, raw onion, feta cheese, and pita bread. Authentic.
At least fifteen people waited in line. They were selling their old or stolen cell phones, wanted help unlocking SIM locks, were dropping off watches for repair. Most of all they bought calling cards for übercheap international rates. On the walls were ads for different cell-phone manufacturers, everything from old Ericsson legends—black brick phones—Now with dual band!—to iPhones. But above all: price lists for the calling cards. Jedda, Jericho, Jordan. You name it.
Babak finished with the customer. Turned to Mahmud. “Habibi, give me five minutes. We just gotta close the shop.”
A half hour later: they were down on the street together. Walking toward Skärholmen’s subway station.
Mahmud laughed. “I love your dad’s store, man. Real authentic feel.”
Babak threw his arms out, imitated his dad. “Did you see how he was dealin’ with his bros? They didn’t have a chance, man.”
They jumped the turnstiles. Heard the attendant yell something after them. Faggot—let him hide in his booth and scream his throat raw.
They walked toward the platform. Old wads of gum formed a pattern on the ground. Mahmud was in a better mood.
The train rolled into the station. To Babak’s place. Time to start poppin’.
Later at Babak’s: Mahmud, Babak, and Robert in the apartment in Alby. A one-bedroom, 520 square feet. Pictures of his family and different Egyptian images on the walls. Babak didn’t have jack shit to do with Egypt, but for some reason he dug sphinxes, hieroglyphs, and pyramids. Babak used to say, “You know, the Egyptians, they like the baddest empire ever. They invented all that shit you think Europe did. Written language, paper, warfare. All that good shit. You feel me?”
In the living room: two camel-colored leather couches with a glass-top coffee table—covered in empty Coke cans, remote controls for the stereo, TV, DVD, cable box, and projector. Covers to Xbox 360 games: Halo 3, Infernal, Medal of Honor. Rizla papers, weapon magazines, porn rags, a dime bag with some weed.
Babak got a Coke from the fridge. Sat down on one end of the couch. Mahmud flipped through a weapons magazine: Soldier of Fortune. Eyed sick army knives that the Gurkha warriors used. Couldn’t find more hard-boiled killers than that. Robert rolled a fatty. Slowly ran his tongue along the Rizla paper. Stuffed with tobacco and weed. Didn’t twist off the end; the weed pouted out like a real zoot. Let the flame lick the outside of the spliff.
He lit up. Took big puffs. In the background, the Latin Kings. Dogge’s high-pitched voice speaking right to them.
Rob handed the joint to Mahmud. Between his thumb and index finger. Took a deep hit. Sucking. Sampling. Soaring. Sooo sweet.
He blew smoke out through his nose, slowly.
“Remember back in school? There was a guy named Wisam. Wisam Jibril, I think. He was a couple years older. Word round the way is, he got into some heavy shit.”
Rob seemed totally out of it. Nodded like in his sleep.
Mahmud gave him a shove.
“Yo, snap out of it. It wasn’t fucking hash you smoked.”
He turned to Babak instead.
“Remember him? Wisam Jibril?”
Babak looked up.
“I don’t remember no Wisam. What about it?”
“Yo, come on. He was kinda short. Had a couple years on us. Hung with Kulan, Ali Kamal, and those guys. Remember?”
“Sure. That blatte. He got fat on cash, I think. You know, his mom and dad went back to Lebanon.”
“Why?”
“Don’t know.”
“But you haven’t seen him lately?”
Mahmud thought about what Babak’d said: Wisam’s family’d left the country—bad. Might make it harder to find him.
“That was a long time ago. He hung out downtown. Right after I did that grocery store hit, remember? I ran into him at the clubs a couple times.”
An opening. “Where’d you run into him?”
“I told you, the clubs.”
“But which ones?”
Babak looked like he was thinking hard.
“Thing is, I think it was at Blue Moon Bar every time.”
“Oohkaay.” Mahmud imitated Tony Montana’s pronunciation in Scarface. “If you hear anything about him, put the word out I wanna see him.”
He shoved Rob.
“Listen up, you too. I wanna see Wisam Jibril.”
It felt good. Mahmud’d gotten a lead. Spread the message. Gotten closer. But now it was time to drop the questions for a while.
<
br /> They lit a new joint an hour later. Deliberated, speculated, syncopated. They could talk for hours. About old homies from the concrete, workout routines, Babak’s dad’s store, cool weapons in the magazine, Sven Sweden’s pathetic attempt to integrate them. Mahmud told them about the fight gala in the Solna sports center: Vitali Akhramenko’s steel jabs, the mouth guard that went flying. But he shut up about the Yugos’ assignment—Babak and Rob were soldiers, but you just didn’t talk about shit like that.
Most of all: they buzzed about roads to success. Robert told them about four buddies of his from northern Stockholm. Real smart boys who’d cooked up a sick plan. He was getting worked up telling his own story: “You know, the boys made a payment to that cruise company, Silja Line, I think, for thirty-five big ones, cash. Same day, they called Silja and said they’d paid by accident—that Silja wasn’t owed any dough. Course the Silja clowns paid it all back with a check. One of the boys’ brothers’d worked for a bank or something and knew that it takes a couple days for places like Silja to get their payments registered. If you made a withdrawal on a Thursday or Friday, there’s no chance in hell they’ll notice anything until Monday. So, they could work for two days, no problem. They copied the check—that’s easy, just run it through a color copier—and headed out on tour. They split the banks up between them and marked all the places they were hitting on a map. The point was it’d go faster if they split into two teams. But they fucked it all up.”
Mahmud interrupted him.
“How the fuck’d they sink that ship? Those guys sound like mad pros.”
“Yeah, I was getting to that. Listen. One of the offices was closed for renovations, but it said you could go to this other office instead. Thing was, the other office was in the part of town the other team was covering. So they went to the same office twice. It coulda worked anyway, but they happened to go to the same teller too. Get it? She started asking questions. Small bank offices like that don’t get too many checks for big sums. And both from Silja, too.”