Never Fuck Up: A Novel

by Jens Lapidus

Ljunggren turned to Thomas again. “Yeah, that stuff was a little weird.”

  “A little weird? It was fucking insane.”

  Ljunggren ignored Thomas’s comment. “I don’t know what happened that night. But Adamsson was actually the one who called me and asked me to cover for Fransson. And I just followed orders. But that it’s some kind of plot, no, I don’t think so. That sounds a little too, what’s it called . . . ?”

  “Conspiratorial?”

  “Yeah, right, conspiratorial.” Ljunggren paused. Then, in a lowered voice, as if he was thinking about what the word meant, he said, “Conspiratorial, yeah.”

  They kept driving around for another hour. It grew darker. The glowing instrument panel in the patrol car made it feel homey. Thomas couldn’t forget what Ljunggren’d just told him. So, Adamsson had been the one who ordered him not to go on patrol. One thought emerged clear as day in Thomas’s muddled mind: now it was obvious. Adamsson was involved somehow.

  He didn’t say anything to Ljunggren.

  Ljunggren started driving back toward the shooting club to drop Thomas off at his car.

  He turned off the engine, but let the instrument panel continue to glow. His hands remained on the wheel as though he were still driving. His gaze somewhere far off, maybe directed at the clubhouse.

  “So, there’s something I want to tell you.”

  Thomas could tell right away by his tone that something was up.

  “What?”

  Ljunggren swallowed several times. Cleared his throat. A minute passed.

  “We got a call three days ago. A couple tenants who thought maybe someone was dead in an apartment next door. Through the mail slot they could see that there was tons of mail piled up inside the door and no one’d been seen there for several months. I went there with Lindberg. An apartment on Elsa Brändströms Street. We rang the doorbell, knocked. The usual routine. Finally, we tried the door. It was open, so we went in. We looked around, a thick film of dust on everything. Didn’t seem like anyone’d been living there for months. But we didn’t find any dead guy.”

  Thomas wondered what his long story had to do with him.

  “There was a ton of weird hard-core porn stuff, strap-ons and shit. We found a bunch of booze, a stinking fridge. We didn’t find anything else interesting. It didn’t seem like anyone’d been there for ages. I thought it was a routine check. But then I found a glass with dentures in the bathroom. Then it hit me that the person who’d lived in the apartment could be the smashed-up corpse we found on Gösta Ekman Road. The one you said you were helping Hägerström with. You told me you saw track marks on his arms and that he was missing teeth and stuff. I thought I should tell you. As a favor. In return.”

  The silence in the car was complete. Thomas almost thought he could hear Ljunggren’s heart beating. What he was doing: breaking the rules, going against investigation confidentiality. Usually, that wasn’t the kind of thing that worried Ljunggren. But this—there was something bigger happening.

  Thomas tried not to sound too interested. “Okay. Thanks for the info. I’m not doing that anymore, so. But, fuck, course I think it’s exciting. So, what was his name? The guy who lived in the apartment?”

  Thomas felt goose bumps rise on his arms. Really, he already knew the answer to his question.

  “The tenant’s name was Rantzell. Claes Rantzell. But that’s a new name. You can almost tell just by hearing it.”

  “What?”

  “Rantzell sounds made up, don’t you think? The dude’s name is actually Cederholm. He changed his name a few years ago. Does that ring any bells? Claes Cederholm?”

  Thomas shook his head, but the name did sound familiar.

  “Claes Cederholm was the chief witness in the Olof Palme murder trial. Get it? This isn’t just some everyday bull. The murder of Olof Palme, Sweden’s prime minister.”

  This was insane.

  Thomas was in really deep waters.

  Really, really deep.

  * * *

  THE NATIONAL POLICE

  THE NATIONAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION’s PALME GROUP

  Date: September 8 APAL—2431/07

  MEMORANDUM

  (Confidential according to chapter 9 § 12 of the Secrecy Act)

  Regarding Claes Rantzell

  (Previous name: Claes Cederholm)

  (Database number: 24.555)

  Claes Rantzell (previously named Claes Cederholm, database number 24.555 in the suspect and witness database) was most likely murdered on June 2 of this year.

  Background

  Claes Rantzell was found in a basement at 10 Gösta Ekman Road in Stockholm on the night leading to June 3 of this year (Incident Report, Attachment 1). He was dead at the time of discovery. Rantzell’s face was severely wounded due to external force and he showed a variety of other signs of having been gravely assaulted. More notable was the fact that Rantzell’s dentures had been removed from the scene and that his fingertips had been cut off (Autopsy Report, Attachment 2).

  Due to these circumstances, neither the police in the Southern District nor the National Laboratory of Forensic Science could identify Rantzell until September 7 of this year (Identification Report, Attachment 3).

  All of these circumstances point to the fact that Rantzell was murdered.

  Claes Rantzell’s File in Brief

  Rantzell has provided the most testimony in conjunction with the Palme Commission. Between 1986 and 1991, he was interrogated over twenty times (APAL—5970/91). At the time of Palme’s murder, Rantzell’s name was, as mentioned above, Claes Cederholm.

  During the early 1980s, Rantzell was a well-known drug dealer as well as co-owner of the gambling club Oxen on Malmskillnadsgatan. He was convicted of a number of drug-related offenses.

  In an interrogation on April 26, 1987 (APAL—151/87), he reported that, among other things, he had been a close friend of Christer Pettersson as well as that, on the night of the murder, Pettersson had been outside of the Grand Cinema—the movie theater Palme and his wife visited shortly before the murder. In an interrogation on February 3, 1988 (APAL—2500/88), Rantzell reported that his memory had changed. He then provided an alibi for Christer Pettersson’s whereabouts at the time of the murder. In an interrogation on March 17, 1990 (APAL—3556/90), however, Rantzell said that he had lent a Smith & Wesson Magnum revolver, .357 caliber, to Christer Pettersson. According to Pettersson, the weapon was intended for the shooting of a salute at a friend’s birthday. The revolver was never returned to Rantzell.

  The most probable murder weapon is precisely such a Smith & Wesson Magnum revolver, .357 caliber. The information about the borrowed revolver was, therefore, one of the central pieces of evidence during the preliminary hearing against Christer Pettersson. The prosecutor aimed to connect Christer Pettersson to the potential murder weapon.

  Rantzell has lived the life of a drifter. During the 1980s, he seems primarily to have supported himself by dealing drugs as well as running gambling events. During the 1990s and 2000s, he served as a front man for a number of companies, primarily in the construction industry (Attachment 4).

  From the middle of the 1980s to the middle of the 1990s, he cohabitated with Marie Brogren.

  Our assessment is that Rantzell’s murder does not have a direct connection to the Palme murder. However, it cannot be ruled out that such a connection exists.

  Suggested Measures to Be Taken

  Considering what has been stated above, we suggest that the following measures be taken:

  1. The Palme Group shall be brought into the Rantzell murder investigation. The Palme Group will be informed of all measures taken during the preliminary investigation. The investigator will be informed and will personally report to the Palme Group’s representative once a week.

  2. The Palme Group will order investigators to go through all documents regarding Rantzell and issue a report no later than October 30.

  3. The Palme Group will administer its own investigative team, made up of at least th
ree investigators, to monitor, review, and take their own investigatory measures.

  We order that a decision be reached regarding these issues at a meeting to be convened on September 12.

  Stockholm

  Detective Inspector Lars Stenås

  PART 3

  (Two months later)

  37

  Dig the procedure: cut the crystals with the razor blade. To break apart the stones. No face mask like when he’d laced blow with Tetramisole—animal medicine—earlier this week. No latex gloves. No Yugo standing over his shoulder watching his every move. Goading him. Distrusting him. Shitting on him. Just Mahmud, alone at his digs. His crib was a few blocks away from Robert’s. Take note: his own crib. Stylin’. Even Dad was proud.

  On the TV: Brazil against Ghana in some kind of international friendly. He didn’t give a shit.

  He cut up more than he needed. Like a rhythm. Irritation flowing out of him. Pissed-offness that was about to explode. Everything with the Yugos was fucked. Snorting was sweet. But these last few months, Mahmud’d started going for a heavier rush. Once the cocaine flakes were cut up, all they needed was three drops of water to dissolve. He picked up the disposable needle. The cocaine wasn’t like the doping shit—made his veins contract. It was maybe the tenth time in his life that he mainlined blow. Still remembered his virgin crank four weeks ago. White dynamite—the rush like a trip to paradise. Robert and him, together in a mad high-def video-game world. Grand Theft Auto number fourteen million. Un-fucking-real.

  He pointed the needle toward his arm. Made sure the vein didn’t roll away. Pressed. A drop of blood shot up into the barrel. He pressed some more. He let the blood flow up into the barrel again. Then into the vein. Ten second wait. Nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one. Blast off! Like a bolt of lightning straight to the brain. Weed paled in comparison, snorting felt weak, boozing was for pussies.

  The green color of the football field on the TV screen looked greener than the Amazon. This was life, deluxe.

  Where the fuck were Robert and the others? They were supposed to call. Maybe come by and check out his digs. Then they were hitting the town. Mahmud did a line. Regular old feeling. Nice, but once you’ve tried intravenous, intravenose just doesn’t feel the same.

  He considered his situation. Other than on nights like this, it sucked fag cock. He worked like a Sven, forty-hour weeks or whatever. Might as well’ve had a regular nine to five, as Erika’d suggested. He drove around the projects all day. Picked up the shit at Shurgard storage facilities over half of Stockholm. Sold to clockers in Norra Botkyrka, Norsborg, Skärholmen, Tumba, everywhere. At pizzerias after closing, at pubs, clubs, gyms, fighter clubs, in basement storage units, attics, at party pads, in continuing-education hallways, subway stations, the glassed-in meeting spots of the indoor malls, parks, playgrounds. Most of all, he dealt from the driver’s seat. ’Cause that’s how it was: he rolled in a real sweet ride—a Benz CLS 500. He was paying in installments, sure, but fuck it, you know? And he never would’ve gotten wheels like that with a regular gig.

  Under him he had six, seven dudes, and one chick, as a matter of fact: his regular dealers. Dijma was one of the best. Bought at least seven ounces a month. Mahmud—on his way to becoming the Snow King of southern Stockholm. Flipped at least two kilos a week. At least half a million on the street, cash. He paid the Yugos four hundred and thirty G’s for every kilo. Seventy G’s left for him. He was riding high, but had to work like a dog for the paper. And the heavy downside: Radovan wouldn’t loosen his grip. Mahmud: a well-paid serf. No matter how much he wanted to make his old man, his sisters, Erika, and everyone else happy. He couldn’t do it. So, he’d made up his mind: he might as well become the king. It was high time for an Arab at the top. Bigger than the Yugo Godfather.

  He got less time over at the gym. His training suffered. He wasn’t feeling too hot. The juice he’d been taking’d had side effects. The Winstrol fuckers were lethal, man. Acne’d spread all over his face and back like Ebola or something. His kidneys hurt. Weird, thick hairs’d started sprouting on his back. He hadn’t even slept two hours last night. But he had to take the Winstrol. The juice wouldn’t work otherwise.

  Now he had to take it down a notch. Couldn’t crank up both juice and C at the same time. He ordered better protein online instead. Upped his usage. But it could never make up for the fact that he was putting in less time at Fitness Center, or that he wasn’t taking steroids.

  The thoughts made his head spin: everything he was gonna do with the dough. At the same time: the Yugos could bring him down anytime. They were motherfuckers, all of ’em.

  The clock struck eleven. He picked up his cell. Called Robert. Homeboy didn’t have proper voice mail, just some blaring Arabic music as his message. No point in recording anything. Rob would see that he’d called, anyway.

  The clock kept ticking. Mahmud did another line. Played PlayStation like a video-game god.

  His cell phone rang. It was Rob, keyed up like a kid: “Fuck man, come out, we’re down the street. We’re gonna own this city.”

  Mahmud put his coat on. A leather jacket with Benz logos on the arms. Tucked a tin-foil ball with two grams in his pocket. Tonight: he was gonna show Stockholm—slay bitches like never before.

  First thing, Mahmud and Javier each did a line. Heavy beats on Rob’s car stereo. Mood: soaring. The only thing Mahmud was missing: Babak next to him in the backseat.

  Obvious: Rob’d tricked himself out for pussy-catching. Major backslick, short but well-trimmed stubble, gold chain around his neck, tight V-neck silk shirt. His biceps were stretching out the fabric.

  “Ey, you hot tonight or what?”

  Robert laughed. “Shit, I’m so hot I’m almost coming right now, man.”

  “Hustler’s hustler. Wanna take my CLS instead?”

  “If you cool. We’ll be big pimpin’, man.”

  Javier just grinned at their buzz. They switched to Mahmud’s car.

  The feeling: so fly.

  On the road. Robert turned to Mahmud: wide piranha grin.

  “If I don’t score a hat trick tonight, I’ll give you ten times the cash. You feel me?”

  “What, you gonna fuck three chicks, or what?”

  “No, habibi. Hat trick, you don’t know what that is?”

  Mahmud could imagine a bunch of things, but he wanted to hear Rob’s latest idea.

  “Hat trick, okay. That’s when you get to spray in all three holes in one night.”

  Mahmud roared. Javier threw his head back. Rob looked pleased—laughed at himself. Three fly hustlers on a bitch safari—man, if they didn’t score some pussy tonight, they never fucking would.

  Mahmud, between the laugh attacks: “Fuck, man, I swear, I’m gonna rock a hat trick tonight too. You watch.”

  The laughter died down. They were approaching the city.

  Mahmud grew solemn. Wanted to run some serious stuff by his buds.

  “Something’s got me real pissed.”

  “What, something about Babak? Just drop it, man.”

  “No, not that. And I swear, I don’t wanna fight with Babak. Tell him hey from me, salaam.”

  “So, what’s the deal?” Mahmud could see Robert’s face in the rearview mirror. He looked curious for real.

  “Man, those Yugos are fucking me so hard. I wanna quit.”

  “So quit. Tell them to fuck themselves.”

  “No, I’m not the kinda guy who lights a fire. I burn low and slow like a spliff. But it can boil over. You follow?”

  Javier leaned back. “I don’t follow. You make mad cheddar. Cruise in an ill car. What’s the problem?”

  “I’m like their bitch. It’s different for you, Rob, you do your own thing. Entrepreneur, or whatever, but they keep me on a leash like a fucking whore. They’re like COs, decide what I do, when I do it. Threaten to tell my old man if I don’t do what they say, to ruin shit for my sister. They’re assholes, man. I gotta do something.”

  Robert
, in a serious tone for the first time all night: “Mahmud, listen to me. I might not believe in the Yugos in ten years, but right now—watch yourself. That’s all I’m gonna say. Watch yourself. They’re animals, don’t play with them. As long as you’re bringing it home, keep working and smile while you do it. I swear.”

  Silence in the car.

  The energy in the city: white hot. Mahmud remembered: the Svens were celebrating some kind of All Saints’ Day. The November darkness was lit up by platinum-blond pieces of ass rockin’ stilettos, legs shivering. Slick brats with Barbour vests that looked more like inner linings than like jackets.

  But the night was theirs. Javier’d booked bottle service at White Room. If Mahmud’d tried to make the reservation: he’d have been given the cold shoulder right away. He couldn’t gloss over his immigrant Swedish. And there was no way he’d get in the front door without a reservation. Been proven time and time again by some little blattes who were college educated or something: the kids’d filmed the apartheid regime ruling the Stockholm nightlife and made a big show of suing the clubs. They ought to be heroes in Sweden—but nothing changed for Mahmud.

  But Javier was almost like a Sven. Tight.

  Inside at White Room: ice buckets built into the tables, crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, bar lit up in pink with top-shelf vodka and bubbly. Jewelry on the walls—some kind of exhibit. The dance floor was a circle in the middle of the room. Crazy pull. The only shitty thing was that they didn’t get into the VIP room. Fuck it: they were gonna throw down. But don’t misunderstand: throwing down didn’t mean that Mahmud danced. A Million blatte like him would never humiliate himself like that. That was reserved for the Svens, the fairies.

  Still: the feeling of being on the inside couldn’t be beat. He thought of the time he’d seen Daniel and his boys at Hell’s Kitchen. The anxiety in his gut. The flashes of panic pulsing through his brain. He wondered what was worse: to owe Born to Be Hated stash or to whore for the Yugos?

  Three lines later: Mahmud, Robert, and Javier were sitting at their table. Mahmud went easy on the alcohol, as usual. The booze was for the bitches. The plan: get ’em drunk enough to fuck ’em, but not too trashed—no one wanted to end up with a vomit-stained cock. Mahmud thought the Sven brats were staring at him and his bros threateningly. Weren’t digging their game. The blatte kings were plucking the honeys.