by Jens Lapidus
His belt rattled like a toolbox: the collapsible baton in a holder, handcuffs, radio, pepper spray, helmet holder, the old baton holder, key chain, a Leatherman, a gun holster. At least twenty-two pounds of gear.
He saw the body in front of him. The track marks. The washed cuts in the face that wasn’t a face anymore. The tag around the big toe. The pale, bluish skin that almost looked waxy. He didn’t know why he just couldn’t just let the issue go.
It was obvious: he ought to do something. With or without Hägerström. On the other hand—why should he care? Saving the world, that wasn’t his calling. It wasn’t his style to go out of bounds and be all serious. Not his thing to nail other cops. He should drop it. Stop thinking about it. Keep doing his own little deals. Keep cashing in a few kronor here and a few kronor there.
He got his gun out of the firearms locker. SIG Sauer P229, semiautomatic, 9 millimeter. Eight cartridges. The gun was completely made of matte black metal, with grooves on the grip. Small—but still better than the old gun, the Walther. Everyone in the Southern District knew where Thomas stood on these issues. A few years ago, a petition was made among the patrol officers: all police inspectors with the requisite license should be allowed to carry a personal firearm. Real stuff, like a Colt .45. Thomas’s name topped the list. Of course. When you had to fire for effect, the Walther would stop a high-charging lunatic with an ax about as effectively as if you were shooting a spitball through a straw. So, how would that end? With one, two, three shots to the chest. Then the policeman would catch heat ’cause the asshole happened to die. Give the police real weapons so that they could bring down a threatening perp right away, with one shot to the leg. So many fewer would bite the dust. The current SIG Sauer was a step in the right direction. Bullets that expanded on contact with tissue—spread at impact. Perfect.
Where the hell was Ljunggren? Thomas was dressed, charged up. Ready for a ride through reality. He picked up the intercom phone hanging on the wall by the lockers.
Katarina, the coordinator in charge tonight, picked up.
“Hiya, Andrén here. You know where Jörgen Ljunggren is?”
“Ljunggren had to cover for Fransson. So we’re having Cecilia Lindqvist drive with you. She’s on her way. Should be there in a few.”
“Excuse my French, but who the fuck is Cecilia Lindqvist?”
“A new patrol—you haven’t met her? She started four months ago.”
“You’re kidding. You want me to go on the beat with a cadet? I’d rather drive alone.”
“Cut it, Andrén. That’s against the rules. She’ll be there any minute. Stop whining and start loading.”
Thomas sighed. Katarina was a hardass. He liked her.
“Hey, you have to double check your scheduling. This is bullshit.”
“Yeah, right. You think I’m in charge of this?”
“No, I know. I’ll have to talk to management. I gotta go now. See ya.”
He started packing. Took out his bag, as big as a hockey trunk. Loaded up the heavier gear first: the leg guards, the helmet, and the gas mask on the bottom. Then the caution tape, flares, an extra radio, a first-aid kit, the old rubber baton, and a reflector vest. In the side pocket: forms, rubber gloves, and the Breathalyzer.
He dragged the bag and the heavy bulletproof vest out to the garage. Straight to their spots in the trunk.
And when exactly was this Cecilia planning on showing up? Did she think she was going out on some little exercise, or something? The rabble couldn’t care less that she was green. The rabble didn’t wait for late arrivals. He couldn’t wait around any longer.
He got into the car. Called Katarina again.
“I’m leaving. Cecilia Lindqvist still hasn’t showed. When she deigns to arrive, I can swing by and pick her up.”
“Okay, you do what you want. But you know what I think. I’ll tell her.”
He started the car. It would feel kind of good to be patrolling by himself for a while tonight. He needed time to think.
Right when he started backing out from the parking spot, the door to the garage flew open. A girl came running toward him, her trunk flung over her shoulder. He stopped. Rolled down the window. Looked at her.
She said, “Hi, I think we’re patrolling together tonight.”
Thomas eyed her: Cecilia looked okay. Medium-dark blond, short hair. Distinct cheekbones. Blue-green eyes. She seemed stressed out. Her forehead: sweaty.
Thomas pointed to the trunk.
“Throw it in back. Did you bring the heavy vest, too?”
“No, I was going to go back in for it. Will you wait?”
Thomas looked at her. He couldn’t believe they hired people who couldn’t even carry the trunk and the heavy vest at the same time.
An hour of boredom later. Cecilia tried to talk. Thomas thought she almost seemed hysterically scared of silence in the car. She discussed the differences between the Police Academy’s current program and the way it’d been back in his day. Thomas wondered why she thought she had a clue. She asked questions about the chiefs in the Southern District. Commented on the attorney general’s latest proposal to increase the uniformed presence on the street. Thomas wasn’t interested. Didn’t she get it? Sometimes it was okay to just listen to the police radio without talking.
After twenty minutes, she seemed to figure it out. Started to calm down, but still asked a bunch of stuff: “Have you heard about the new car thefts they’re investigating?” And so on.
Dispatch sent a call for anyone in the vicinity of Skärholmen. Apparently some kind of apartment brawl there.
Thomas didn’t even have to lie. They’d just driven past the Shell gas station on Hägerstensvägen, more than a mile away.
“Good thing we’re not in Skäris.”
Cecilia sat in silence.
They were cruising Thomas’s regular route along Hägerstensvägen. Past the center of Aspudden. Past Örnsberg’s subway station. It was eight o’clock. Still bright outside. A nice summer night.
The police radio rattled on. A drunk driver was slaloming down the Södertälje road northbound. Attempted robbery in an apartment on Skansbergsvägen in Smista. A teenage brawl down by the water outside the Vårbacka school in Vårby Gård. Maybe they should try to pluck the drunkard on the Södertälje highway. That was in their direction, after all.
Thomas sped up.
The radio crackled again. “The twenty-four-hour bodega in Aspudden. We’ve got an intoxicated man who is acting very aggressively. Can someone go there immediately? Over.”
Cecilia looked at Thomas.
“We have to take that. We’re just a minute away.”
Thomas sighed. Did a U-turn. Flipped the flashers on. Sped up.
Fifty seconds later, they pulled up next to the bodega. He could see through the window right away that something was wrong: instead of lining up by the cash register to pay for smokes, porn rags, or candy, a bunch of people were standing as if grouped together, but they weren’t. All looking at the same thing, but not acting together. Typical Swedish public crime scene. People were there, but still no one was where they were needed.
At the front, by the cash register, a large man with dirty clothes had the shop clerk’s arm in a grip, a young guy who looked totally crushed: on the verge of tears, darting gaze, trying to get the support of someone in there. The other clerk was trying to pry the man’s grip off. Tore at his huge hands.
The man roared: “You fucking cunts. Every fucking thing is going to hell. You hear me? Every fucking thing.”
Thomas took the lead. Rocked his strong, authoritative voice. “Police. It’s time to knock it off. Release him, please.”
The drunkard looked up. Hissed, “Pigs.” Thomas recognized him. The old-timer was big. Completely lethal appearance: ice-blue eyes, boxer’s nose, two scars over one eyebrow, bad teeth. But the guy didn’t just look lethal. He was a former boxer, used to hang out with the park-bench alcoholics, the so-called A-team, in Axelsberg—a walking barrel of dyn
amite. Was collecting disability or something, but probably had enough power in his fists to severely hurt the clerk kid. This could really get nasty.
Thomas walked up to the register. Put one hand on the A-teamer’s hands. The other clerk let go of his grip. In a calm voice Thomas said, “Let him go. Now.”
Cecilia was behind him. Fiddling with the radio. Maybe she was going to call for backup.
Then, something unexpected happened: the old guy released the clerk. Rushed at Cecilia. Thomas didn’t have time to react. Turned around.
The guy dealt Cecilia a blow to the chest. She wasn’t prepared. Tumbled into a shelf of penny candy. Yelled, “What the hell are you doing?” Good—finally, some balls.
Thomas tried to lock the guy in a grip. Damn it, he was stronger than you might think. Turned to Thomas. Head butt. Contact almost directly over Thomas’s nasal bone. A millimeter down to the middle and his nose would’ve broken. Hurt like hell. He saw stars. Blacked out for a brief second. He roared.
The drunkard threw himself at Cecilia, who was back on her feet again. The guy was too dangerous. This was chaos. This was not okay. They couldn’t wait for backup.
She tried to push him away. The guy tried to get three punches in. Struck her shoulder. Cecilia backed up. Could be immediate blackout if the guy got in a good hit.
Thomas speed-analyzed the situation. It wasn’t time to use his service weapon. Too many people in the store and the guy wasn’t dangerous enough yet. But Cecilia was weak. They could never take this giant alone. Maybe with their batons.
He made another attempt. His nose was pounding like crazy. He tried to grab hold of the guy’s arm, get him in a grip behind his back. A lost cause. The ex-boxer was wild like an animal. High on booze and his little display of power. Knocked Thomas off. Shoved him. He lost his balance. Tripped over a tower of soda bottles. They went flying all over the floor.
“Use the baton, damn it,” Thomas yelled, on his knees.
Cecilia tried to shield herself. Pulled out the collapsible baton. Opened it.
The guy threw a punch at her stomach. She hit him over the thighs.
The effect: less than a bitch slap. The old drunk was too crazy to care about the whip of the baton. Pushed her up against the window. Thomas picked up his baton. Hit the guy over the back. Really hard. He reacted. Turned around again. Cecilia was about to collapse. The guy threw a punch in Thomas’s direction. He ducked. Struck again with the baton. And again.
Cecilia was on her feet behind the guy. She hit him. He roared. Threw a jab at Thomas again.
Thomas put some real force into it. He had to bring an end to this now. Lashed the old drunk once over the neck. Another time over the thigh. The guy kept on roaring. Thomas hit him again over the legs. The guy sank to the ground. Screamed. Kept kicking Cecilia from where he was, down on the floor. She got more lashes in. The booze-hound shielded his head with his arms. Cecilia gave him hell again. Hit the guy over the head, chest, back.
She was in a panic. Thomas understood her.
This’d spiraled out of control.
16
One of the first things you learn in the slammer: don’t pace in your cell. It doesn’t lead anywhere. Instead: stay in your head and you can travel far beyond the prison walls. Like Mahmud used to do: fantasize about a BMW Z4 coupe cruising smoothly down Kungsgatan on a sweet spring day, pocket full of bills, headed to a hot party, chill homies, willing honeys. Freedom at its finest.
But now, in his room at Dad’s place, he paced back and forth like a monkey in a cage. Nauseated. Dizzy. Head pounding. Only one day left.
He’d managed to scrape together eighty large. Total. He was twenty short. He’d gotten in touch with Daniel the day before—to negotiate with them. But the dude refused to understand: Mahmud was happy to pay interest as long as they were cool with eighty G’s in the first installment.
“Forget it. We said one hundred. One hundred is what Gürhan’s gonna get. Day after tomorrow.”
Click.
Mahmud slept extra crappy that night. His time asleep: shorter than a mosquito’s cock. An explosive headache. Anxious thoughts were spinning out of control.
He couldn’t even go work out. The only thing he could think about: where Wisam was. When he’d grabbed that gangsta, no one could hurt him. He didn’t plan on charging Stefanovic cash. Just asking for a favor in return—that they show Gürhan who’s in charge.
He talked to his homeboy Tom Lehtimäki: mad CSI dude—the Finn helped him work with the info he already had. Get facts. Sort possibilities. Analyze leads.
The company that’d bought the car from the Bentley brat down on Strandvägen was called Dolphin Leasing AB. The paper he’d swiped from the brat didn’t say much: Dolphin Leasing AB had a P.O. box in Stockholm. A registration number. The document was signed by a John Ballénius—some fucking name. Tom explained: the registration number was the company’s organization number—all companies in Sweden had to have that kind of thing. Mahmud called the Swedish Companies Registration Office. Got information about who was on the board. Two shysters with Swedish names. The first was John Ballénius. The other was Claes Rantzell. Both had P.O. box addresses: classic shadiness. Mahmud paid a visit to the post office. A fatso in a small office in Hallunda. Mahmud rocked the same style as he had toward the boy in the Bentley dealership. Why mess with a winning concept? After ten minutes, he had the home addresses for both of the two men. Tegnérgatan downtown and Elsa Brändströms Street in Fruängen.
Mahmud looked them up with Tom’s help. They called the passport authority, went to Kungsholmen—got copies of the old guys’ passport photos. They didn’t drive any flashy cars, according to the national registry of motor vehicles. But, according to the tax authorities, they were saddled with some heavy tax debt. Mahmud went to John Ballénius’s address, Tegnérgatan. Waited outside. After four hours, the guy came staggering up the street laden with two bags from the liquor store. Looked half-marinated in booze. Still good—now he had his eye on the guy. Mahmud went to the other dude’s address. Waited all night. Nothing happened. Either Rantzell stayed home twenty-four/seven, or he was abroad, or he didn’t actually live there. Craven cunt.
Most likely the guys were front men for the leasing company. Stinky fish like that couldn’t buy flashy cars, at least not if they wanted to register and insure them. Wise guys knew the solution was luxury rentals.
The guard lead from the robbery’d unfortunately not panned out. A couple hustlers he’d spoken with’d heard talk that the Lebanese was back in town, maybe they’d even seen him, but no one knew where Wisam Jibril was hiding. Mahmud and Tom’s conclusion: the only lead Mahmud could go on was the Bentley.
He had to get one of the golden oldies to talk.
But how? Time was ticking by.
He called Babak and Robert. Even called Javier and Tom. Needed more help than ever. Couldn’t face any more attempts at negotiation with Daniel or Gürhan. More humiliation. In twelve hours, he had to have that cash. Twenty grand more. Couldn’t be impossible.
They met at Robert’s house.
Mahmud served up a blunt—weed rolled in cigar leaves instead of cigarette paper. Tried to seem a thousand times more chill than he really felt. They buzzed quick cash schemes. He needed to get his homies amped. Hoped they didn’t see the panic in his eyes.
Robert alternated between hip-hop and Arabic hits. His apartment was so permanently hotboxed that you mellowed out just by walking through the door.
Babak was babbling as usual.
“We should do like the heavy boys, Fucked for Life and those guys. Go to Thailand and just plan.”
“Just plan?” Robert looked at Babak. “What about the hookers?”
Babak laughed.
“Okay, we’ll bukkake some Thai chicks, too. But mostly plan.”
Mahmud dug the way they spit.
Babak said, “Who are we, anyway? What should we do? Society already fucked us. We knew that early, right? School, high school, that s
hit wasn’t our beat. College, not on the map. But not slaving away at a McDonald’s or working as a cleaner forever either. None of that bullshit. And now there ain’t no good jobs for us to get. And honestly, we don’t want their normal jobs anyway. Just look at your dad, Mahmud. Sweden isn’t for blattes like us, not even the straitlaced ones.”
Mahmud was listening.
“Imagine a scale, you know what I mean. On one side you put the Sven life, nine-to-five, maybe an okay car, and some bust-your-nuts gig, a house somewhere. On the other side you put excitement, freedom, bitches, and cash. And the feeling. The feeling of being a don. Which side’s got the most weight? It’s not even a fucking choice, man. Who doesn’t want to swag it up, go from ashy to classy? Give society the finger, you feel me? They’ve pissed on us anyway so why not piss right back on ’em? Just think, the feeling, to be a Yugo boss, Gürhan Ilnaz or one of those real hustlers.”
Robert took deep hits off the blunt. “You’re right, man. No sane fucker’s gonna choose nine-to-five. But, yo, know what the thing is?”
Babak shook his head.
“The thing is, how you get there. Right? You can work corners for years, still someone else’s skimming off the top. Or else you can do all that fraud shit, like the guys I was telling you about, who tried to gyp Silja Line. But that’s gotta be too much stress.”
“True. That’s why we gotta go to Thailand. We gotta stop working corners and doing this petty bullshit. Explosives, that’s what it’s all about, yo, like I always say.”
Mahmud and Robert, at the same time: “You mean CIT?”
“Ey, I do. We learn to explode, we can do anything. Know what that’s called? The big fish call it technical crime. That’s the real shit, the kind of shit that needs planning, that needs technique. Plastic explosives, percussion caps, fuses—I don’t got a clue, but the guys who can do explosives can do anything. Imagine, getting ten million on a hit instead of a few grand here and there.”