Never Fuck Up: A Novel

by Jens Lapidus

  “I don’t fucking know.”

  “If they made a movie about your life, who’d play you?”

  “Why would anyone make a movie about me?”

  “ ’Cause of what just happened, for instance. It’s like a damn thriller.”

  Thomas almost laughed out loud. But he held back. To keep his distance.

  “He’s a real old ballbuster, Adamsson. But I don’t get what he was doing here.”

  “Exactly. Something is way off.”

  “But what?”

  “I have no idea,” Hägerström said. “Yet.”

  13

  The gym: beef-marinated, gorilla-infiltrated, muscle-fixated. Fitness Center: the place where Stockholm’s meatiest men hung out around the clock. The place where you didn’t show unless your biceps were at least sixteen inches in diameter—unpumped. But also—the place where the camaraderie wasn’t just based on a shared interest in bodybuilding and Dbols. The gym was open twenty-four/seven, year-round. Maybe that’s why it was a watering hole for so many of Radovan’s boys. Minions with the right attitude: protein shakes scored high, fat biceps scored higher, the Yugo boss came in first place.

  Always techno blaring from the speakers. Tedious, monotonous, and taxing, according to some. According to Mahmud: the only beat that kicked in his will to pump iron. Plastic plants in white pots on the floor. Faded posters of Arnold Schwarzenegger and Christel Hansson on the walls. Old machines with peeling paint. Sweat-soaked handles, fixed up with black electrical tape. Whatever—all serious guys use gloves. Anyway: machines are for pussies. Hard-core players rock free weights.

  Mahmud’d started working out there a few years before he got locked up. Now he was back. Loved the place. Loved that it’d given him the chance to work for the Yugos. It was a networking hub. People told stories about R.’s legendary life. The boss who’d started from scratch, who’d arrived with two empty hands at the Scania factory in Södertälje sometime before Mahmud was even born. Two years later, he’d made his first million. The guy was a legend, like a god. But Mahmud knew more: there’d been people at the gym who didn’t jibe with Rado. A couple old buddies of his. They weren’t exactly living in style these days. If they were even living.

  Today: Mahmud did his pecs. Two hundred twenty pounds on the bench press. Slow, controlled lifts. Muscle training was a purely technical sport. Easy to separate the newbies from the vets—the twigs lifted too fast, allowed the arm’s angle to change in the wrong way.

  He tried to think about the juice he was gonna go on soon; a few shortcuts never hurt anybody.

  Impossible to concentrate. Two days left till Gürhan’s deadline and Mahmud hadn’t scored a single peseta more. His dad couldn’t lend him any. Plus, Mahmud didn’t want to drag Abu into this. His sis’d already lent him five grand. Maybe her shabab could get more, but he wasn’t home. He’d tried to buzz with Babak and Robert during their night out the other day. His homies, boys he could trust—but they didn’t have any tall stacks to shave off. Babak’d promised to scrounge up thirty grand by Thursday. Robert could loan him ten, but Mahmud couldn’t get it till later today. He had other buds too: Javier, Tom Lehtimäki, guys from before that he really dug. But to borrow money? No, a man with honor didn’t do that from just anybody.

  All in all: he was still short forty big ones. What the fuck was he gonna do? Rob a bodega? Push baking powder on the corner? Beg for more time? Fat chance. He had to find that guy he had to find. Get the Yugos’ protection.

  Mahmud put the bar back on the bench. The thought remained: WHAT THE FUCK WAS HE GONNA DO? The same feeling of panic hit him as when he’d seen Daniel and the other Born to Be Hated players at Hell’s Kitchen. Felt like the room was spinning. His head was pounding.

  He stared up at the ceiling. Closed his eyes. Did everything he could not to think about what would happen if Gürhan didn’t get his cash at the designated time.

  Later, he calmed down. Worked his triceps. One arm at a time over his head. A sixty-five-pound weight in his hand. Lowered it slowly down behind his back. His elbow remained in a straight position. Even slower extension. Smooth movements. An ache in his muscles. Felt good.

  He thought more about the assignment. He hadn’t understood everything in the lawsuit paperwork Tom’d helped him get. But one thing was certain: someone in the security company responsible for the Arlanda vault was so dirty he must shit bribe dough. Tom’d helped him get the contact info for a couple guards that were known to do some special deals on the side sometimes.

  Mahmud’d already called one of the guards, tried to be as polite as he could. Didn’t work. The Sven guard went all mall cop on him. Crabby, testy, cocky. Claimed he’d never heard of any Wisam Jibril—or even the Arlanda robbery. No better luck with the other guys whose numbers he’d gotten from Tom—no one wanted to admit they knew Jibril. Maybe they were telling the truth. But that they didn’t know about the Arlanda robbery? Real believable. Sure.

  Wisam Jibril: ghetto superstar, concrete hero. Was lying low. Trying not to be seen. Discovered. Revealed. But not like a pro—he’d returned to Sweden, to begin with. And: player lived la dolce vita, rained bills. Deluxed the luxe. Apparently let the money flow worse than a Kardashian. Mahmud was gonna follow Wisam’s cash trail.

  Over this past week Mahmud’d asked around for Wisam at as many places as he could think of. The clubs around Stureplan, the pizza places in Tumba, Alby, and Fittja, the gyms in the city. Asked around with old buds of the guy’s family, project boys who hadn’t rotted all the way through and bitches who used to run around with Wisam when they were kids. He’d even asked around at a couple mosques and prayer centers. Zero success. But he knew about the Bentley.

  Babak parked the car at Jungfrugatan. BMW M5: five hundred meaty horsepower under the blue enamel. Sport seats, cherrywood paneling, GPS. Extra everything. Sure, Babak’d borrowed it from his bro, but still—it was a hot whip. The chill part? Babak’s bro lived in a rented studio, 345 square feet. Even Babak had to laugh. But everyone knew: we’re not like the Svens who dream about some gray house in the shit suburbs. That crap was for squares. We don’t care about where we live in the same way. We care about class. And a man without a manly car is a man without dignity.

  “Jalla, it’s time.” Mahmud grinned.

  They climbed out of the car.

  Östermalm in the summer sun. Below them was Strandvägen. On the other side, people were walking out toward the Djurgården park. Lots of boats and seagulls on the water below. What were all these people doing here, anyway? Didn’t the Svens work in the middle of the day?

  He turned to Babak. “Check this. They whine that we don’t work and just look at ’em now.”

  “Mahmud, no way you can crack Suedi thinking. They say we don’t work, just live on welfare. But then the same Svens say we take their jobs. How’s that make any sense?”

  He saw the Bentley dealership a few yards farther up. The sign: BENTLEY SHOWROOM, in black letters on the façade above the display windows that reached all the way down to the pavement. The door was propped open.

  It was empty in there. He reached into his pocket: the brass knuckles were in place. Looked at Babak. Nodded. Babak patted his hand over his breast pocket. Mahmud knew what was inside the right side of the jacket: a sawed-off baseball bat.

  Mahmud walked into the store. Babak remained standing outside on the street, clearly visible from inside the Bentley place.

  White-painted floor and walls. Spotlights in the ceiling. Four big cars on display: two Continental GTs, one Arnage, and one Continental Flying Spur. Normally, Mahmud would’ve been staring those juicy bits down like crazy. Today, he didn’t even check them out.

  Still empty in there. Doesn’t anyone work here? He yelled, “Hello?” A guy appeared from a door behind a white counter that looked like a bar. Red pleated slacks, light-colored blazer with a kerchief in the breast pocket. Under the jacket: a tailored shirt with broad stripes, the top buttons undone. His cuff links were shaped l
ike the B in the Bentley logo. On his feet: loafers with thin leather soles and gold buckles. Backslick brat times a million. Didn’t seem professional. Mahmud thought, Who’d ever consider buying a car from this clown?

  “Hi there. How may I help you?”

  Raised eyebrows. Was it a diss or a hint of fear? Mahmud didn’t look like he belonged in the showroom.

  “I just wanna check out your Bentleys. You got more in than these?”

  “What you see here is what we have.”

  The player wanted to play tight-lipped. Signaled: You don’t look like a buyer. Mahmud didn’t give a fuck, he wasn’t here to shop.

  “But you got more in storage somewhere, right?”

  “Sure, we have a storage facility in Denmark and we build according to demand. It takes two to eight weeks to order a car from there.”

  “Can you get a Continental GT with nineteen-inch alloy fenders?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “You sold a model like that in the last few months?”

  Mahmud glanced outside. Saw Babak out there. Made eye contact. The brat followed Mahmud’s gaze. Also saw Babak. Looked back at Mahmud. Was that worry in his eyes?

  “I think so,” he said.

  Mahmud quit playing the interested customer.

  “I’m asking ’cause I wanna know if you sold a car like that to a dude named Wisam Jibril.”

  Silence in the showroom.

  “Hey you, I asked you a question.”

  “Yes, I heard that. But I don’t know if we sold a vehicle to anyone by that name. We don’t ask our customers what their names are.”

  “I don’t give a shit. You sell a model like that to an Arab lately?”

  “May I answer with a question? Why are you asking?”

  “Quit it.”

  “But how am I supposed to know who is an Arab and who isn’t? Anyway, there is no reason for me to give a further account of my customers. A lot of people don’t want to broadcast this kind of purchase, if you know what I mean.”

  Mahmud looked out the window again. Babak was in position. Mahmud walked over to the entrance. Closed it. “All right, McBrat. This is how it is.” He walked back to the shop boy, or whatever he was. “I need to know if Wisam Jibril bought a car here, either directly or through someone else. That’s all. You with me?”

  Mahmud was a hard-core guy. His broad jaw formed a square face. Today, he was rocking a tight, short-sleeved V-neck T-shirt and track pants. Freshly pumped arm, shoulder, and pec muscles were clearly visible through the thin fabric. His tattoos accomplished what they usually did. Obvious to anyone: unnecessary to mess with this dude.

  Still the guy said, “I can’t answer that. I don’t know what it is you want, but I am going to have to ask you to leave the store now.”

  The guy walked over to open the door. Mahmud caught up with him. Three long steps. Grabbed the guy’s arm. Hard. The brass knuckles around his fist, hand in his pocket.

  “Come with me, buddy.”

  At first, the brat barely seemed to realize what was happening. Babak came in. “What the hell are you doing?” the brat asked. They couldn’t care less about his whining. Mahmud held the hand with the brass knuckles down along the length of his leg. Didn’t want it to be visible from the outside.

  “Ey, come with us now. We won’t do nothing bad.”

  The brat—not a fighter. They dragged him into the inner room behind the cars. Closed the door. An office: stylin’ oak desk, a flashy-looking computer and pens. Bottles with ink, or something. This was probably where they signed the contracts for these million-kronor cars. Mahmud told the shop kid to sit down. The guy looked more scared than a seven-year-old shoplifter caught barehanded.

  “It’s simple. We’re not going to fuck with you anymore. Let’s try this one more time. We just wanna know if you’ve sold a Continental GT to an Arab named Jibril. It’s also possible that he was with someone else who bought it, like, on paper. But you know. You’re the only place in town that sells these cars and you can’t sell too fucking many a month. Am I right?”

  “What is it you want, really? You can’t do this.”

  “Shut up. Just answer the question.”

  Mahmud took a step closer. Stared the kid down. Clear as day how this prejudiced brat saw him: a huge, lethal blatte from some war zone somewhere where they killed one another for breakfast. A bloodthirsty demon.

  “We sold a car like that two months ago,” he finally peeped. “But it wasn’t to an Arab.”

  “Do better.”

  “No, it wasn’t an Arab. It was a company.”

  Mahmud reacted right away. There was something the kid wasn’t saying.

  “Stop playing now, bratty, you know more. What, Arabs can’t have companies?”

  Mahmud opened the door. Peered out. No one in the showroom. He bitch-slapped the shop boy. Gave him his craziest look.

  “Racist.”

  The dude was still sitting on the desk chair. His cheek red like a stoplight. Looking straight up at Mahmud. Babak with the baseball bat in his hand.

  Mahmud hit him again. This was awesome—pure American interrogation technique.

  The brat’s eyes watered. Drops of blood fell from his nose. But at least he held the tears back.

  “I don’t know. Honestly.”

  Mahmud exploded. Kicked the guy in the chest. Inspired by Vitali Akhramenko’s crazy kicks in the Solna sports center. The desk chair went flying into the wall. The guy fell on the floor. Screamed. His eyes twitched. Maybe a tear.

  “Fuck, man, you’re crazy.”

  Mahmud didn’t answer. Punched the guy straight in the face. Bull’s- eye. Felt like something broke.

  The guy shielded his face. Curled up. Mahmud leaned down.

  “Tell me, now. ’Cause it’ll just get worse for you.”

  The brat bitch whimpered, “Okay, okay.”

  Mahmud waited.

  The guy whispered, “This is how it was. We sold a Continental two months ago. There were two guys in the store, I think. On paper, the official buyer was a company, but one of the guys was getting the car. Definitely.”

  In a calm voice Mahmud said, “Can we see that paper?”

  * * *

  The front door slammed shut. It sounded like someone had knocked something onto the floor out in the hall—maybe it was Mom’s umbrella, maybe it was the bicycle pump that was always propped up against the dresser.

  It must be him.

  No one else came over to their house in the middle of the week without ringing the doorbell, and no one else shut doors with such a definitive sound.

  It must be Claes.

  Niklas raised the volume on the TV. He was watching the same movie for the third time this week: Lethal Weapon. Mom didn’t like it when he watched what she called “scary and violent” movies, but she didn’t have the energy to stand up to his protests. He’d learned that a long time ago—Mom always gave in if you asked enough times.

  But Claes, he didn’t give in. Niklas knew it was pointless to even ask Mom anything when Claes was there. Not because Mom was less easy to convince, but because Claes got involved and ruined everything. He forbid Niklas to do what he wanted—to watch movies, to go out at night, to get candy from the grocery store. Claes messed everything up. And the old man wasn’t even his real old man.

  But sometimes he was nice. Niklas knew when—it was when Claes’d gotten money from his job. He didn’t keep track of exactly when that happened, but it happened too seldom. On those days, Claes came over with a bag of chips and some Coke, a couple of movies, and raspberry licorice. Always raspberry licorice for some reason, even though there was lots of much better candy. He brought bags for him and Mom that looked heavy. Niklas recognized the white bags with the text RECYCLING AT SYSTEMET, meaning the state-run liquor store. He knew what the sound of clinking bottles meant. Sometimes they uncorked that very same night. Sometimes they waited until the weekend. The result varied with Claes’s mood.

  Claes c
ame into the living room and positioned himself in front of the TV, right when Mel Gibson was about to dislocate his own shoulder. He looked at Niklas where he lay, slouched down in the couch. One of the sofa cushions was about to tip over the edge and fall down on the floor.

  “Niklas, turn the movie off,” he said.

  Niklas sat up on the couch and reached for the remote control. The numbers on the hard buttons’d been worn off. The TV was old and looked like it was sitting in a wooden box. But at least there was a remote control.

  He turned the TV off. The video continued to run in silence.

  “Turn the video off, too. It’s unnecessary to keep it turned on. Don’t you care that your mom doesn’t like it when you watch shit like that?”

  Niklas opened his mouth to say something, but no sound came out.

  Mom came in and stood in the doorway.

  “Hi Classe. How was your day? Can’t he watch the movie a little? You and me can make dinner.”

  Claes turned to her.

  “I’m damn tired, just so you know.”

  Then he sat down on the couch next to Niklas and turned the TV on again. The news was on.

  Niklas got up and went into the kitchen. To Mom.

  She was peeling potatoes, but stopped when he came in. She took a beer from the fridge.

  “Niklas, can you go bring this to Classe? It’ll make him happy.”

  Niklas looked at the cold beer. There were small drops on the outside of the can, like it was sweating. He thought it looked funny and wondered to himself, The fridge was cold—so why was it sweating? Then he said, “I don’t want to. Claes doesn’t need a beer, Mom.”

  “Why can’t you call him Classe? I do.”

  “But his name is Claes.”

  “Yes, that’s true, but Classe is nicer.”

  Niklas thought Classe was an uglier word than corduroy.

  Mom took the beer herself and brought it out to Claes.

  Niklas lay down on the bed in his room. It was too short; his toes stuck out. Sometimes it felt a little embarrassing: he was about to turn nine years old and he still slept in a kid’s bed. The same bed that he’d had his whole life, Mom said. They couldn’t afford a bigger one. But on the other hand, he almost never had any friends over anyway.