by Jens Lapidus
Fifty feet.
Teddy looked both ways. People had seen him running; they could point him out. He had no other choice. So, calmly and quietly, he made a decision: he entered the clothing shop.
Tweed jackets, corduroy trousers, hunting caps. The place didn’t exactly radiate a spring feeling. He moved deeper into the shop—still completely focused on what was going on behind him.
The police car: he hoped it had rolled on by.
And then he almost burst out laughing. In front of him, by the suits, Fredric McLoud was standing with his back to him. He was still clutching his plastic bag. He’d clearly had the same idea as Teddy.
Teddy tapped him on the shoulder and said: “I think it’s gone. If you and I can stay calm, anyway.”
McLoud’s face was no longer panic-stricken. He seemed to be close to tears.
“Who are you? Why are you doing this?”
Teddy said: “Bound by professional secrecy, I’m afraid.”
4
When the day’s conversation group ended, Nikola was already outside the classroom. That was him in a nutshell. Always first out. One image in his mind from all the classes of his youth: the empty hallway, the graffiti-covered lockers, the silence before the rest of the class came storming out seconds later. Nikola: always too much energy to calmly pack up his things, chitchat with his friends for a few minutes. Always stressed out by some invisible force, desperate for a nanosecond of quiet hallway. A slice of tranquillity.
But that was long gone. He hadn’t spent much time at school these past few years.
Linda and the director called his behavior mild ADHD. Not that Nikola took Ritalin or self-medicated with junk like some of the other guys did. They just wanted to stick a label on the energy that burned beneath the gold cross on his chest. The gold cross he’d gotten from Teddy, before he’d gone in to do his eight years.
But all that dick sucking faded into the background today. Life: fucking sweeeet. Today was the day. The last day.
Chamon was coming to pick him up and take him away from this shit hole.
One last little piece of crap: before Nicko could leave, he had to have a final chat with the director.
Somehow, Anders Sanchez Salazar managed to get his room to look exactly the same every time Nikola was forced to go there.
It wasn’t just that the two visitors’ chairs were pushed in under the front of the desk in the same way, or that the curtains were half drawn like they had been the last time. Everything was an exact copy. The papers on the desk, the pencil case behind the computer screen, the pictures of his kids. Everything was in the same place. Even the coffee cup with the Hammarby logo on it was on the same corner of the desk as the last time he was there.
The only thing that had changed was the color of Anders’s cardigan. Bright red today. It had been burgundy last time.
“So, Nikola. How’s it feel?”
Nikola tried to stop himself from smiling too widely.
“Really good, actually.”
“I know it can be a bit daunting to leave Spillersboda when you’ve been here as long as you have. What do you think?”
Nicko had to try even harder to stop himself from laughing.
“Yeah,” he said. “A bit.”
“But I’m sure everything’s going to be fine. You’re going to be living with your mother, aren’t you?”
“Yeah, she said she’d let me in. I promised her I’ll get my act together.”
“Are things better between you now?”
“Yeah, definitely. She’s the best.”
Years of contact with nags from social services, with head teachers, welfare officers, and cops—Nicko: the expert of all experts. It wasn’t hard to work out what they wanted to hear. The tricky thing was making it sound trustworthy. The only true part was that he really did think Linda was the best.
“One piece of advice, Nikola,” said Anders. “Stay away from your old pals. I’m sure they’re good guys, it’s not that, but it’ll just end in trouble. A load of grief, like you all say.”
—
Chamon fiddled with his rosary. It was less than three months since he’d passed his driving test, but the Audi he was driving looked newer than that. The twenty-inch rims were as shiny as Nicko’s gold cross had been when it was new. He knew the A7 belonged to his friend’s cousin, but when you came somewhere like Spillersboda, you wanted to show you lived a different life.
“Meksthina?”
Nikola grinned and pushed a piece of snus under his lip. He answered in the same language. “Abri, let’s go, man. Do a Zlatan.”
To most of them, he was just Nicko, but the brothers sometimes called him Bible Man, because they thought he spoke Syriac like people did in the old days. They were impressed all the same. Nikola was the only non-Syrian or Assyrian guy they knew who spoke their language. But was it really so surprising? He’d grown up with them. And like his granddad always said, when in Rome…
“What d’you mean, do a Zlatan?”
“Hat trick, man. I scored three joints from a guy in here. He owed me. We’ll smoke ’em all when we get home.”
“Too funny, bro. You gonna get in on the thing soon?”
Nikola knew what he was talking about. Yusuf’s question. The thing.
Directly for Isak. Real shit.
They started heading for the gates.
The guys in the yard moved aside as Nikola and Chamon passed.
“So, you been getting any? I didn’t even see you last time you were out.”
“Hell yeah, been getting more ass than the toilet seats in the ladies’ room at the Strip.”
Chamon roared with laughter. “Walla.”
They opened the gates and stepped out. The spring sunshine was strong today. The leaves on the trees outside were pale green. They looked a bit like marijuana leaves, only bigger. Sandra had said they were chestnuts.
“Shit, I should probably be Instagramming those leaves to celebrate. Last time I’m gonna set foot here, and I’ve been staring at those trees from my window for a year.”
“You’ve got Instagram?” Chamon asked.
Before he had time to answer, they heard a voice behind them. “Nikola, could you come back a minute?”
They turned around. It was Sandra. She was standing by the gates, her face beaming. Weird: she was actually pretty cute.
“What for?” asked Nikola.
“I just need to talk to you about one last thing. It’d be great if you had time.”
“I’m done here, Anders signed me out fifteen minutes ago. I’m in charge of myself now.”
“I know, you’re right. But this is important.”
Nikola glanced at Chamon. “She’s such a fucking pain, man.”
“She been cool or was she a bitch?”
“Today?”
“No, while you were inside.”
“She’s all right, really. She wants the best for you, you know what they’re like…”
“I get it, so you can show her some respect. You’re a free man. Just go see what she wants, then we’ll get outta here.”
Sandra walked ahead of him toward the main building. Nikola followed her.
The moment he stepped inside, he knew something wasn’t right. He couldn’t say what, it was just a strong feeling that came over him. He followed Sandra into one of the so-called supervisor rooms anyway.
It was calmer and cleaner inside than it was in the inmates’ rooms. Some kind of informative poster pinned up on the wall: Student integrity online. Sign up for our Internet Days now!
“Are you going to continue with your work experience place now, do you think?” Sandra asked.
“Dunno.”
“It was electricity and telecommunications you were working with, right?”
“Yeah.”
“And it’s almost summer. Good, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“How does it feel?”
“What?”
What the hell was thi
s? Sandra trying to make small talk like they were friends or something—he was done with this place, for God’s sake. He turned to leave.
Then he understood. A side door opened, and Simon cunting Murray came in.
Sandra must’ve known. Simon Murray was a cop. The plainclothes one who’d always been after Nikola and the boys. Who stopped their cars and paid visits to their parents. Who always turned up like some kind of genie outside Chamon’s house, at the club, at O’Learys. He was a part of Project Hippogriff—the joint action force in the southern suburbs, aimed at creating a safer city—as they called that shit.
Simon gave him a wave.
“How’re things with Nikola, then?”
Sandra showed them into a separate room. There were a couple of coffee cups on the table.
Simon closed the door and sat down. Nikola was still on his feet. He could turn and leave whenever he wanted. Simon had no right to keep him locked up or to interrogate him. He had nothing to say to the pig.
Simon: cropped blond hair. Black boots. A rubber pulse meter on his arm. Slim blue jeans and a gray sweatshirt with G-Star on it. He looked like he always had: cop from birth. There had to be something in his blood, in his DNA. Nikola didn’t get how the man could work as a plainclothes officer when it was so obvious to everyone what he was.
“I just want to ask you a few questions, Nikola. Is that okay?”
“No, it’s not okay. I just got out of here.”
“Sandra told me. Maybe I should say congratulations?”
“Say what you want.”
“Nicko, it’s nothing weird. Five minutes, tops. Can you just listen to me?”
“You all are snakes.”
“You hate the police?”
“Never met a good one.”
“It makes me sad to hear you say that. I don’t want to do you any harm. Honest.”
“Stop talking. You gonna arrest me for something?”
Nikola thought back to the hot computers he’d helped move right before he got sent here, and to the guy in the next room he’d demanded ten grand from—the guy who’d been about to piss himself, he was so scared—a few months earlier for trying to play boss. Then he thought about the thing in the forest when Chamon had almost lost his shit. They’d shot a man then. But for fuck’s sake—that was more than a year ago. It couldn’t be about that.
“I’m not here to bring you in,” Simon said. “I just have one question.”
Nikola was still on his feet. Yusuf used to say that sometimes it was smart to listen to what the cops had to say, to work out what they knew.
“I’m wondering about this trial I’ve been hearing about,” Simon said. “Have they asked you to take part?”
His head was burning. His stomach was rumbling. How the hell did Simon Murray know about the thing? It was internal. Top priority. Isak level and everything.
“I don’t have a fucking clue what you’re talking about. Is it some court case or something?”
“No, I think you know. You’re still in touch with Yusuf and Chamon. The problems between Metim Tasdemir and the Bar-Sawme family. I’m sure you know them?”
“No idea what you’re talking about.”
“You don’t know anything about it?”
“I just said I don’t have a clue. What’s wrong with you?”
“Calm down, I’m not here to put anything on you. I just wanted to say this—and feel free to pass it on to Chamon, as well, though it’s harder to get him to listen….”
Simon got up from the chair: face-to-face with Nikola. His eyes were small and grayish.
“You two don’t belong there. You’re too young. The whole thing could end really badly. I don’t know where you’re planning on having it, or exactly who’s going to be involved, but stay away, Nikola. Promise me that. Please. Don’t go.”
Nikola took hold of the door handle to leave. He didn’t want to listen to any more of this bullshit.
Simon said: “One more thing, Nikola. Take it easy tonight—I guess you’re planning to celebrate being out. Don’t do anything stupid. You don’t want to end up back inside, do you?”
—
Kendrick Lamar’s nasal tones, full volume. Chamon was in the driver’s seat, his hands drumming the wheel. Nikola climbed into the passenger seat. Audi S embossed into the leather.
“Shit, man, that took ages.”
“Fucking hell.”
“Everything okay, bro?”
“Yeah, no problem.”
Chamon grinned. “I’ve got big plans for you tonight. Best party ever, man; sickest release fest. Special effects and everything.”
“Sounds sweet.”
“You’ll see, man. I’ve organized everything.”
Stockholm County Police Authority
Interview with informant “Marina,” 11 December 2010
Interview leader: Joakim Sundén
Location: Älvsjö centrum
MEMORANDUM 2 (Part 1)
Transcript of dialogue
JS: Are you feeling better?
M: Yeah, a lot. Thanks for letting me go. Those few days were some of the worst in my life. So many memories came back.
JS: Did anyone ask where you were?
M: No.
JS: Not even Sebbe?
M: We haven’t spoken. I think he’s gone underground.
JS: I see. Well, I promised you immunity, and you promised to talk. So before you start, I just want to say that I need all the details, all your thoughts. Your impressions and ideas, too. Is that okay?
M: I think so. I’ve been thinking about what to say.
JS: Sounds great. Maybe you could start with an overview of the background, and then move on to everything else, in detail.
M: Okay, that’s roughly what I was thinking anyway.
So, it was like this: I’ve always loved games, and in high school I started playing backgammon with a few friends. At first, we were just playing for fun in cafés after school, messing about with the pieces and trying to figure out how the game really worked. We were all pretty interested in math—I was taking the science route in school, probability theory and differential equations and stuff like that, so I picked it all up pretty quickly. Then after a while, a load of Iranians, Turks, and other people from the Middle East, guys who were older than us, started coming to the café to see who these Swedish kids were, kids who thought they knew how to play their game. Shesh besh, they called it. We used to wipe the floor with them whenever we played.
JS: When was this?
M: The mideighties. I was at Brännkyrka school then. Anyway, I finished high school, did my military service in Berga, and then worked for my dad for a couple of years. He had a little printing company. I started at Stockholm University when I was twenty-three, the same year I met Cecilia, my wife. That was 1990. Three years later, we had our first child. I’d just turned twenty-seven, the same year I finished university. I kept it in check all those years, the gaming, but we would see each other from time to time, me and the guys.
Then I started at KPMG, the audit company. I think it must’ve been 1995. That’s where I met another guy who was into backgammon—poker, too. He invited me to a club by St. Eriksplan, the kind of place you could play pretty much all day long. I started going there sometimes, after the kids were in bed, or on the weekends. In a way, it was a really dynamic and creative environment. Or it would’ve been, if it hadn’t been for the hunger. The bug, we call it. I mean, most people there were absolutely crazy for it.
JS: What did Cecilia say about the club?
M: I told her that I went there every now and then, maybe not every time I went, but usually. She just accepted it as an odd hobby of mine, but she never came with me.
I went to other places, too: Carlo’s Poker in Sundbyberg, Pot Raiser on Folkungagatan. I made quite a bit sometimes, even though I didn’t really play all that many money games. I went home with more than ten thousand kronor once. I remember I just put the money in a nice little heap on the k
itchen counter so it would be the first thing she saw in the morning.
JS: Didn’t she think it was strange?
M: Maybe the first time, but then she thought it was pretty cool. Plus, it was hardly ever that kind of money. So in the beginning, there was no problem. But later, well…it was different later…though I’ll get to that.
Anyway, at some point in early 2002, I played my first poker game online. It was a revelation. Now I could play whenever I wanted. This was when broadband was just starting to develop, and I’d bought a better computer, so that meant I could play multiple games at once. I often had four or five going at the same time. On my work computer, too. Cecilia was happy I wasn’t going to the “game hole” as much anymore, that’s what she called the club, her joke. But she had no idea how much I was playing at work. Online poker’s different from the real thing. It’s more aggressive, and it’s usually quicker. Above all, it’s less psychological and more mathematical. I mean, you never see your opponents when you play online, so your game is all that matters, no stupid poker faces or psyching people out. That was an advantage for me. I learned a lot about the game, stuff I could use when I played real games in the club.
I sometimes call the years that came next the golden era. Tons of players, but not many good ones. There was so much hype around poker. In the Stockholm clubs, you could bring in plenty of dough playing Texas Hold’em and PLO—that’s Pot Limit Omaha. Just to give you an example, at one point in 2004, I made fifteen thousand euros in one night. The levels I was playing at, you had to have a proper bankroll, because even though I had a certain amount of credit with the clubs, I would sometimes lose thousands of euros in a single week, and you didn’t get any credit online. It wasn’t good for the nerves, the wallet, or your relationship with the clubs. So I started asking around. I needed a backer, a sponsor. Eventually, I got a tip about someone who could help.
JS: Who?
M: Sebbe.
JS: From Gamla stan?
M: Yeah. Sebbe offered to be my staker. That’s what it’s called. My financier. The deal was that he’d pay all my tournament and cash game stakes, and he’d bankroll me, give me credit of up to two million kronor. For that, he took 60 percent of my winnings. The club raised my credit up to one mil, too, but whenever I needed more, I just went to Sebbe’s guy, Maxim, and got more cash. They trusted me completely, that I accounted for it all.