by Jens Lapidus
Sebbe was pacing behind me. Maxim was next to the computer, watching everything I was doing. All I could think was that I didn’t have a choice.
The whole thing took less than half an hour.
On the way out, when we were in the elevator, Sebbe smiled. His fillings didn’t look Swedish—they were all gold.
“You should be proud of yourself, pal.”
The weeks after that were like normal, but I had loads to do at work. I was relieved, though. Back from hell. I’d made it, paid off my debt. I wouldn’t have to deal with Sebbe or his henchman again. All I needed to do was to win a bit more money so I could at least pay back my friends.
Cecilia and I went out to eat one night. Her parents had come down from Umeå to see the kids, so we were covered for a babysitter. I remember we went to King of India on Pontonjärgatan.
It was close to our place, and Cecilia loved Indian food. I had nothing against it, but the air conditioning in that place was lousy. Last time I’d been there, I’d had to send my jacket to the dry cleaner to get the smoke from their sizzling plates out of it. This was back when the smoking ban had just come into force in restaurants and pubs, but it didn’t seem to have made any difference in that place.
“It’s so good to finally get out,” Cecilia said when we sat down. I really agreed with her.
She ordered some vegetarian dish I can’t remember the name of, and I had a chicken tikka masala. We talked about the kids, like usual. Now that life felt better, I wasn’t longing for them the same way I had been. I felt more like just getting away somewhere with Cecilia, experiencing something different for a week—you know, just walking around, going to museums, whatever.
I looked out the window, toward the park on the other side of the street. Spring, five years ago. I don’t know if you remember it? It snowed like hell in February, and then the bad weather dragged on for ages. But then the sun arrived, boom, just like that, and everything turned green, and quickly, too. I remember thinking that it matched my life well.
“I had a call from the bank yesterday,” Cecilia said. “They were asking me questions.”
“About what?”
“Loans on the property, savings, stuff like that.”
I immediately felt sick. The panic welled up. I just said: “Do we have to talk about that tonight?”
And then it was summer. A few weeks into our vacation, my phone rang while we were down at the beach. I’d just been windsurfing, and all my equipment was lying on the sand.
I recognized the number.
I didn’t pick up.
It rang again a few hours later, from a blocked number this time. I went up toward the trees and answered.
“It’s me, pal.”
“What do you want?”
I looked over at the kids. Lillan was sitting at the edge of the beach, playing in the sand. There’s something magic about the combination of water and sand, it never gets old. Benjamin had a friend with him, out on the jetty. They were diving into the water and then bobbing back up with smiles on their faces. Then they climbed out and jumped back in. Ordinarily, I would’ve enjoyed watching them.
“I need you to help me with something,” Sebbe said.
“I’ve already done more than I should’ve. I’m not playing poker anymore.”
“I doubt that. The bug always comes back, you know what they say.”
“There’s no reason for us to talk.”
“Of course there is. I need your help. I just told you.”
“With what?”
“Bit of this, bit of that. I want you to come to Clara’s tomorrow. Know where that is?”
“Yeah, but it’s the middle of summer. I’m on vacation, in the country. And I don’t want to see you. You can understand that, right?”
“Come on, Mats. Why so boring? Someone fucking with you at your place in the country, or what? We used to work so well together, until you tried to screw me over. And if you’re going to be such a pain about it, I might just have to let your lovely employer know what you got up to when Maxim and I were with you a couple of weeks ago. It’s a rule of mine. You gotta keep a hold on people in this world. And I happen to have a pretty fucking tight grip on your balls.”
I looked over to Cecilia and the kids again. A few other families had spread out blankets on the grass and the sand. I wondered what they would think of me if they knew.
That was just the start. Jesus…
Clara’s wasn’t my kind of place. I didn’t go out for beers with my coworkers or my best friend, Viktor, very often, but when we did, we chose sports bars. O’Learys, Ballbreaker…Stockholm’s got plenty of places with that British kind of feeling, TVs on the walls. I just think it’s all so much easier if you can talk about what’s going on on the TV every now and then.
Clara’s had screens, too, in the entrance, showing close-ups of different drinks—the drops of condensation on the outside of a glass, mint leaves, ice cubes, straws.
We walked through the place. The black floor looked dusty with the lights on full. The red seats, they were probably faux leather, seemed to be flaking. The only impressive thing was the bar, it must’ve been at least forty feet long, with bright shelves along the walls and bottles of spirits being lit up from behind. It was like there was some kind of competition to come up with different flavors of Absolut Vodka: blackcurrant, peach, mandarin, vanilla.
Sebbe punched some numbers into a keypad by a black door at the back of the bar. We went in.
It was an office. There was a huge desk, room for two people on either side. It was covered in papers, folders, laptops, plastic pouches, hole punches, pens, and mini calculators. Empty beer glasses too. Water bottles, lighters, and I saw at least two knuckle-dusters.
There were framed photographs and diplomas all over the walls. Pictures of a man and woman on vacation in various places. Pictures of a kid. Pictures of more and less luxurious cars. The diplomas were even more varied: second dan in karate, Pub of the Year as nominated by stureplan.se, AAA credit rating, Best Restaurant from Dagens Nyheter.
There were pictures of the man from the family photographs hugging different celebrities: Joe Labero, Mikael Persbrandt, Princess Madeleine, Madonna.
A young woman was sitting by the desk. She didn’t look much older than twenty-five, and she had long, dyed-blond hair, dark brown eyes, and unnaturally big breasts.
Sebbe kissed her on the cheek. “This is Michaela. She’ll be helping you with whatever you need.”
The girl lit a cigarette and slowly blew out smoke through her nose.
“What exactly do you want from me?” I turned to him.
Sebbe moved a pile of papers from an armchair and sat down.
“You didn’t bring your phone, did you?”
“Of course I did.”
“Aha, because that’s my second rule: no private phones in here. At all.”
“Why not?”
“You’ll see soon enough. They’re listening everywhere these days.”
Sebbe held out his hand, and I gave him my phone. He pulled off the back cover and took out the battery.
“It’s all very simple, Matte. You’re a smart guy. You might not like me right now, but I’ve actually always been pretty cool with you. You’re gonna help us fix something.”
“Fix?”
“Exactly.”
“Meaning?”
Michaela took over. “It’s nothing to worry about. You’re going to help me. I’ve been doing this for a couple of years now, ever since I left school. We’re handling money. That’s what you work with anyway, isn’t it?”
“This is just too much, Sebbe,” I said. “I paid back every single krona I owed you. You can’t ask for more.”
Sebbe lit a cigarette. He took a deep drag on it. “You know the score,” he said.
The smoke made my eyes water.
11
The club on Storgatan wasn’t normally open this time of day. It was only four in the afternoon. But this was a special
occasion: they were using it for the thing.
Nikola and Chamon, on the door. Chamon with the list of names, and Nikola with the metal detector in his hand. Each with a piece hidden inside their jacket. The list: pretty much pointless—only eight people other than Isak would be coming. Nikola and Chamon knew exactly who they were. But Isak wanted things done professionally. He and Chamon should be polite, in shirts and jackets. Go by the list, just like the real thing.
Metim Tasdemir arrived first, with his number two, Christian Tasdemir, also known as Lil-Crille, even though he was as big as a Range Rover. Two of Metim’s gorillas were waiting outside. They went in a few minutes later. Isak wanted it that way: for one side to arrive fifteen minutes after the other, so they could avoid any trouble out on the street.
“Could you stand with your feet apart, and hold out your arms?” Nikola asked as clearly and calmly as he could.
They must’ve felt like they were in the slammer: he moved the detector over their arms and legs, backs and stomachs, shoulders and dicks. Degraded, humiliated. But on the other hand, Metim and his guys were probably more used to being searched before they got into places than they were being let straight in. Still: it felt risky—these guys weren’t the kind of men you messed with.
But Isak had told them in advance. They knew the score.
The detector started to beep over one of Metim’s pockets. Nikola saw Chamon straighten up, saw Metim’s gorillas freeze. But again: Yusuf had told them Isak’s rules about how things would go. “Arrive at four sharp, no metal objects, not even phones. I don’t want any crap here. You come as you are, like men.”
Isak didn’t compromise: that’s why he deserved the respect he got.
But now: bleeping like crazy over Metim’s pocket. He had something metal on him. It could be anything. What the fu—, man.
Metim moved slowly, but he didn’t take out whatever had set off the detector. He smiled, but his eyes were dead.
Nikola felt for the weapon in the holster under his jacket. He and Chamon had tested the Glocks that morning. He remembered the recoil, how he’d gripped the butt with both hands, how Chamon’d told him to keep his left thumb behind the right one so he didn’t get it caught.
Metim stood still.
Breathing through his nose.
Lil-Crille moved toward Nikola.
This wasn’t normal.
They were preparing for something.
But Nikola couldn’t see himself using his damn pistol on anyone. What would happen if Metim pulled one on him?
He felt the cold metal against his fingers. His hand was practically cramping. Chamon’s forehead was covered in sweat.
Nikola thought back to what Simon cunting Murray had said.
Chamon took a step back and shoved his hand under his jacket.
Eyes fixed.
The stink of sweat.
The tension in the room: a thousand megawatts.
Images flashed before Nikola’s eyes: scenes from Hollywood shootouts, from real shootouts, when Chamon shot that guy in the woods.
Fuck—he blinked. Had to hold back now.
Metim grinned. “You gotta keep your cash somewhere.” He took out a silver-colored money clip with at least twenty five-hundred bills in it.
Nikola breathed out. Relaxed.
“Leave that here, and take the coins out of your pocket,” said Chamon. “Isak wants the detector as quiet as a busted phone.”
Metim grinned again. “This is worse than a trip to the Kumla fucking bunker.”
“Yeah, exactly, just like in the slammer, so now I want you to drop your pants and bend over.”
Metim jerked back.
Chamon said: “I’m kidding, man.”
Nikola tried to turn away. How could Chamon be so ballsy?
Twenty minutes later, everyone in place.
Danny, the other one involved in this conflict, had arrived with his boys at the right time.
The two card tables were pushed up against one wall, and the office chairs that normally stood around them had been pulled forward into a U. Nikola thought back to a group conversation he’d had at Spillersboda. The obligatory how-can-I-change conversation. “I overreact sometimes, but I feel like I’m getting better at controlling myself.” “I’ve started to understand myself, I’ve had a pretty tough time. But that doesn’t give me the right to attack others.” The guys all suddenly had something angelic about them. They spoke softly. They all knew how to deliver the bullshit.
Isak greeted them all. They quickly got down to business. Nikola couldn’t follow everything: tons of talk about people he didn’t know, business deals he had no idea about. But on the other hand: he was just the helper’s helper. In truth: pretty incredible he’d even been allowed in—he had less Syrian blood in him than, like, the king. And he’d been out of the game for over a year. But Yusuf was Isak’s man, and Yusuf trusted Chamon, who trusted Nikola. They’d grown up together. One man’s friend was the next man’s friend. One man’s enemy the next man’s enemy. They were soldiers in the same army.
They were blood brothers.
—
The trial was important: they had to sort out the conflict with a capital “C.” Two months earlier, one of Metim’s cousins had been eating at the Kebab Palace. Danny’s cousin had been there, too. There was some pushing and shoving in the line: one of them had said all the usual crap about the other one’s mom. Then one of them had grabbed a Heineken bottle and smashed it into the other’s forehead. Two days later, someone had driven past Metim’s uncle’s dry cleaner’s and unloaded more than twenty shots into the place with an automatic weapon. Some of the bullets even got stuck in the extractor fan in the restaurant on the other side of the building. People said it was a miracle no one had died. And then a week after that, a masked man had gone into a restaurant where Danny’s cousin was eating lunch and taken four shots. He’d been hit in the groin, the knee, and the thigh. The guy would be in a wheelchair the rest of his life.
The police had just stood by, no idea what to do; they’d been watching from the sidelines for ages, it made no difference what happened—this city had its own rules. You didn’t talk to the pigs, because pigs are disgusting. Everyone was shitting themselves that things might escalate, full-blown war. If pistols and AK-47s weren’t already war.
So they’d turned to the church. The Syrians did that sometimes—the Orthodox Church was strong in Stockholm, and the priests could mediate. They had power. But things were inflamed, and Danny’s family were Assyrians; they weren’t religious the same way. So when the priest suggested reconciliation, Danny and his boys had just gotten up and left. It was an insult to the community. Metim swore at the God-defying cunts who didn’t even respect Jesus.
Talk in town got worse than after the triple murder a few years earlier. People in the neighborhood stopped going out at night, mothers half ran their kids home from day care, and the dry cleaner had to fight back—no one wanted to run the risk of having Kalashnikov bullets tear up their cashmere sweaters.
This shit had to stop, and there was only one way to do it if they wanted to avoid a mass tragedy—they had to get Mr. One to solve the problem, the guy who actually ran this town.
That was what real men did. This was their trial. Isak’s trial.
—
Metim’s voice was dark, gruff. He had authority, too, no doubt about that. But he knew the score. He had things to explain; it was his cousin who’d called the other guy’s mother a sharmuta.
“He was wrong. I talked to him, serious, no worries about that. He shoulda sorted it out through me. Instead, he got a concussion, in the hospital for two weeks, he’s got a two-inch scar down the back of his head and can’t even tie his shoes himself, his balance is so fucked up.”
Patches of sunlight darted in through the high windows. The men had ten minutes to give their side of things. Isak looked like a wax figure, the way he was sitting there listening to them.
These were guys who wouldn’t
hesitate for a moment before smashing someone’s head in just for breathing disrespect, but now they were here, like dogs on leashes. Under Isak, everything was civilized. He was this city’s only real bigwig.
They went through it all again. Talked about the injuries. About the different debts. Metim wanted to be paid. Danny did, too.
Chamon winked at Nikola and whispered: “Bet they all want Hook to pay ’em, too.”
Hook: the man with a nose so bent, it looked like a hook. A real player—professional poker star, gambler, betting specialist. Always at the bookies on Hornsgatan. The thing was, his game had been seriously off lately, so now he owed millions left, right, and center. Nikola knew of at least eight people who wanted their money back from him. And for that reason, he was probably the safest man in town—no one had the balls to clip him, because then someone else would automatically be angry that they’d lost their money. “Safe as Hook—no one safer,” that was what Nikola and the guys usually said about people with protection.
An hour later, they were done talking. All eight left the room. Metim and his guys went down to the entrance, Danny and the others into the kitchen.
Isak was left alone. Chamon and Nikola were still leaning against the wall.
“Come here,” Isak said.
The dark patches beneath his eyes looked like bruises. The only hint of life in his face came from the reflection of the bright patches of sunlight on the floor.
“You guys listen, understand everything?”
Chamon slowly opened his mouth. His lips looked dry. “I tried,” he said in Swedish. “I reckon he was wrong.”
“Who?”
“The one who smashed Metim’s cousin’s head with the bottle. It was too much.”
“Maybe, but did that give them the right—in your opinion—to almost slaughter his father, brother, aunt, two of their kids, and three customers at the dry cleaner’s?”
“No, guess not, but the guy could’ve cracked Metim’s cousin’s skull with that bottle.”
“What about you, Nikola? You’re a Slav—what do you say?”
Nikola had hoped Isak wouldn’t turn to him.
He tried to clear his throat, but it sounded more like he was about to have a coughing fit. All that came out was a gurgling sound.