by Jens Lapidus
After a few weeks, Sebbe decided I should go along to a meeting with a bank manager at Handelsbanken. It was the first time I’d be…fronting what I was doing.
But the minute I saw Michaela, I was worried. Maxim was waiting for us in the car outside. You can’t just go into a meeting with a serious bank manager looking like she did—in super tight jeans and a pale top that was so low-cut that her fake boobs looked like they’d pop out at any moment, plus such high heels that even she—and I’m assuming she was used to wearing them—couldn’t walk properly without something to lean on.
JS: Who exactly is Michaela?
M: Uhh, I don’t want to get into that right now.
JS: Is she in a relationship with Sebbe?
M: Definitely not. A guy like Sebbe is hardly someone the women flock to.
JS: What about you, then, you and Michaela?
M: What does that have to do with anything?
JS: Just curious.
M: I promised you I’d be thorough, tell you everything. And I will.
JS: So you don’t like women in that way?
M: I didn’t say that. But I always planned to be faithful to my then wife. I don’t really want to talk about this thing with Michaela anymore. That’s just how it is. What I will say is that when I saw her on the street that day, I said: “It’d probably be best if we got you a different top or some kind of scarf.”
She just looked at me like I’d suggested she have a sex change.
Fifteen minutes later, we were in the bank manager’s office. Michaela had made an irritated-sounding call in Yugoslavian or whatever it was, and then run off to a fancy department store. She’d come back ten minutes later wearing a round-necked blouse. There were small jewels around the collar, shining like crystals. To be honest, I wasn’t sure it was much better than what she’d already been wearing.
Anyway, the room wasn’t exactly fancy. Just glass dividers separating us from everything going on at the counters a few feet away.
The bank manager introduced himself as Stig Erhardsson. He seemed nervous, and when he hung up his jacket, I saw he had big damp patches under his arms.
After some pleasantries, I took over.
“I’m here on behalf of Power Work Pool and Power Kitchen Pool, and our business is run by people who’ve been in the staffing industry for ten years now. Our goal at PWP, that’s what we call ourselves, is to lease out a workforce to building firms and construction bosses across the whole southeast of Sweden. PKP is active within the catering industry. Our parent company in Sweden is called Power All Pool. We have other businesses, too, but we want to see how things go with you here before we move on to the others.”
Stig played with his pen.
I had no trouble reading him—years of trying to interpret people’s expressions around poker tables had certain benefits. The man just wanted to get out of there.
“Very good, and now you’d like to use us, if I understand you correctly?” he said quickly.
“Exactly. We have three companies that need transaction accounts, business accounts, and wage accounts.”
“Okay, fine, we can arrange that right away. I’ll introduce you to Gabriella Hernandez. She can help with all of the paperwork, and she’ll be your personal contact here at the bank.”
“Great. There’s just one thing I wanted to bring up. It’s sort of particular for us.”
I explained to Stig Erhardsson that our principal owner and some of the businesses were based in the Baltic states. I told him that we were busy with some internal restructuring and had strategies for reducing our tax liabilities.
He nodded.
I thought: He’s not even asking who the main owner is, hasn’t asked to see any share registers, no information about our past business. He’s happy with what I’m telling him. He didn’t even ask for copies of our IDs.
Before we ended the meeting, he opened the door and called for Gabriella, our new contact person.
In the car with Maxim later, Michaela grinned.
“Did you see the sweat stains under his arms?”
“Yeah, he was stressed.”
“Drove a nice car, too.”
Maxim laughed.
“A nice car?” I asked.
“You have to get to them when there’s something else on their minds,” Michaela said. “We smashed up his Mercedes-Benz CLS 350 AMG an hour ago. It was in the parking garage under the shopping center. Then we called the cops. They should’ve called with the bad news just before he spoke to us.”
“What the hell are you saying?”
“You like cars? It was a really nice one: metallic paint, eighteen-inch wheels, hardwood interior, two hundred and seventy horsepower. He bought it the day before yesterday. Right, Maxim?”
Maxim drummed at the wheel.
“Vrlo fino,” he said.
On the way back to our place in the country, it started—if you’ll excuse the language—absolutely pissing down, and I was stuck in traffic. We were planning on going back to Stockholm the next Monday. Everything would go back to normal—at least for Cecilia, Benjamin, and Lillan. I remember I called Viktor from the car, I wanted to tell him about the mess I’d gotten myself into. He’d just moved to Skåne, but maybe he could help me find a way out. The rain was pounding down like machine-gun fire outside.
“Heeeeeey, Matty boy.” He sounded happy.
“You seem well.”
“Yup, we get some sun down here. It’s different from up there.”
“It’s pissing down. What’re you up to?”
“Picking blueberries. We’ve got some friends coming over later.” The traffic finally started to move. The rain didn’t let up.
“Aha, listen, there was something I wanted to talk to you about.”
I heard another voice in the background.
“Sure,” he said. “But Fia is right here with me.”
The congestion eased. I stepped on the accelerator and followed the car ahead.
“I’ll call you later,” I said. Viktor sounded relieved. I could just see him shaking his head at his wife, letting her know the conversation wouldn’t last much longer. He had no idea what I was heading toward right then.
For a split second, a helplessly bleak thought raced through my head.
In the rain: I should undo my seat belt, turn sharply on the wheel, slam into the rock wall at the side of the road.
In the rain: how the slippery surface would explain my death.
In the rain: how it would wash away the blood from a tragic individual.
Memo continued on separate sheet.
14
Isak had headphones on. They were black, with a red “b” on the ear cups: Beats by Dre. Nikola wanted a pair of his own, but they were too expensive for a guy who’d just spent a year in a young offenders’ institute.
Mr. One was eating.
Mr. One was eating with headphones on.
The only sound he could hear: his boss’s chomping.
Nikola was still standing. He didn’t know if he could sit down. Waiting for Isak to look up. Or at least show he knew Nikola was in the room.
Isak: shaved head, stomach squeezed in against the edge of the table, even though he’d pushed the chair back. Syriac eagle tattooed on his forearm. Though it wasn’t really an eagle. Chamon had told him that: it was a flashlight, or maybe a sun, with wings. “The eagle should be red, for all the blood that’s been spilled. We’ve been persecuted for centuries.” Chamon’s voice had been serious. His friend’s words reminded Nikola of when his grandfather got going, started talking about the war down there, in the homeland. But it wasn’t Nikola’s war. And it wasn’t his homeland, either, no matter what the Sweden Democrats said.
—
A few days had passed since the events in the club: the masked men who’d forced their way in and taken the cash, who’d shot Metim’s guy in the leg.
Yusuf had asked Nikola to come to the Steakhouse Bar alone. Everyone knew that it was in this roo
m, in this restaurant, that Isak had a table. That this was where he ate his meals. That this was where he held his meetings.
The feeling in his stomach: shitty.
The vibes in the room: really, really crappy.
Nikola had stayed at home, in bed, since it happened. Hadn’t dared go out. Hadn’t even dared call anyone, afraid of what Yusuf or Chamon would say. Worried about police wire taps.
But then Isak called. When that happened, you came. Even if it might be the end.
—
The Steakhouse Bar was dark inside. The walls and floors were black, covered in fake Tex-Mex stuff: buffalo skulls, plastic cacti, sombreros, and stupid white guitars that looked more like drums with strings. There were usually more people here on the weekend.
In the first room, the one closest to the street, there were eight dark gray tables. Next to the windows, there were six booths, two sofas opposite one another. And above all: a purple bar, model XXL.
The next room was nicer. Seven round tables with white tablecloths. Chairs with burgundy-colored leather seats, wooden flooring that creaked as Nikola slowly made his way over to Isak.
They were alone. Yusuf had met Nikola in the entrance, taken his phone, and then pushed him inside. The door closed.
Was it all over now? Would Isak say a few well-chosen words and then ask him to get into Yusuf’s car? Drive over the Brooklyn Bridge in the pouring rain. Sleep with the fishes. Spend two hours digging in the gravel pit at Tuvängen, and then stand on the edge of the hole, eyes closed. Waiting for the bullet.
Those idiots must’ve thought there’d be at least three hundred thousand in cash. Honestly, though: you needed your head checked if you thought three hundred big was worth the risk. Maybe they’d thought there was more. That Isak would demand a higher amount. They must’ve followed one of the runners—hoped he had all the money—and then just knocked on the door.
So the big question was: Who’d given them the code? Who was the traitor among them?
One normal knock. Four quick.
Isak took off his headphones and pushed the plate away.
“You tried the entrecôte here, the rib-eye steak?”
“No.”
“Come here.”
The boss cut off a chunk of meat. He clearly wanted Nikola to stay standing.
“They call you the Bible Man, yeah?”
“Sometimes.”
“You need dough?”
He didn’t even ask how Nikola was.
“No, not really.”
“You need attention?”
“No, what d’you mean?”
“You’ve been away a while.”
“I was in Spillersboda.”
“I heard the guys celebrated with you.”
“Yeah, it was pretty sweet.”
Isak scratched his ear.
“How’s Teddy—Björne?”
Isak and Teddy. Friends from waaaay back. Nikola didn’t think they’d seen each other for the past ten years, not while Teddy was inside or after. But still.
“He’s good, got his own place. Works for a law firm.” It was nice to talk about Teddy, or Björne, as Isak clearly called him.
He said: “Makes no sense to me. Björne working like every other Svensson. Paying tax. Grinding away for someone else. My old friend, the guy who never backed down, always had a piece hidden in the toilet, just in case, always beat millions out of the state—has a job?”
“Yeah, I dunno…”
“You have the same genes as him?”
Nikola could hear the music from the next room.
“If you weren’t Teddy’s nephew, I’d bitch-slap you, kick you out of here, and tell Yusuf to take you out to the woods. Grab a baseball bat, beat your knees to kebab meat. Understand?”
Isak drank the last of the Coke in his glass. “You stupid little son of a bitch. You fucked up. How the hell could you just let him run off? Why didn’t you blow that motherfucker away—he had his fucking piece right in my mug?”
Nikola’s mouth: dry, like he’d just smoked a mammoth blunt. Couldn’t utter a sound.
“I swear, I’d fuck their mothers in the eye…,” Isak continued.
Nikola felt relieved: at least the boss didn’t think he was involved.
“…so now, you little shit, you’ve gotta fix Danny’s money. The damages. Those bastards ran off with the bag with one hundred and fifty in it. Understand?”
Nikola couldn’t do anything but answer: “Yeah.”
“And they shot Metim’s man in the leg, eight inches from his dick. He’s gotta be paid for that, too. So there’s another hundred thousand. That means you’ve gotta get me two hundred and fifty grand. Understand?”
Nikola croaked something in reply.
“And one more thing,” said Isak. “You need to find out who those bastards were. I thought it was Metim at first—but then his guy got shot. Then I thought, it’s gotta be Danny—but he would’ve got the cash anyway. So now I think I don’t have a clue. You do what you want, however you want. I just want the names. Get it? Then I can forget you acted like a dickless wonder.”
Outside, on the street, his head spun worse than after his first joint as a free man.
The money was hard enough.
But finding out who’d been crazy enough to attack Mr. One: how would Nikola even stand a chance? He was done for. Still, somehow, he had to regain his position. If he ended up with a bad rep, he might as well leave the country.
He had no idea what to do.
“Nicko.”
Someone said his name. He scanned the street. The square was almost deserted. The courthouse in the distance looked like it was swaying.
“Nicko, here.”
It was a girl, wearing sunglasses, though the sun was going down.
“Don’t you remember me?”
And then he understood: Paulina. The girl who’d been drinking wine with her friends in the park. The girl he’d met at the party his first night out. Who’d asked whether his grandfather read him the classics. “Yeah, hey. Cześć!”
“You learned Polish? That was quick.”
Nikola: head a total mess. First the stress of standing in front of Isak. The ultimatum. The terms. And now Paulina. He didn’t know how to handle this. He just wanted to go home and get into bed. But at the same time: he wanted to stay here, talk to her.
He said: “It sounds like Serbian.”
“Want to hang out? We could go to Stanleys?”
AC/DC crash. He was about to short-circuit.
Wanted to. Couldn’t.
Wished. Couldn’t manage.
He tried to smile. “Another time. Be great another time.”
“Okay, then I’m gonna take your number so we can talk sometime.”
—
At home, later that evening.
In the tub.
In the kitchen.
In bed.
His pulse thumping in a vein on his temple. Two hundred and fifty grand. Bom. Find two insane hitmen. Bom. Two hundred and fifty grand. Bom. Two insane hitmen. Bom.
He couldn’t let Linda see him cry.
How the fuck was he going to fix this?
She came back at eight. He recognized the sound in the hallway, the thud when she put down her bag. The squeak of the wardrobe door when she hung up her thin jacket.
He’d locked his door—couldn’t talk right now.
Hours passed.
He tried to play something on his phone. Tried to sleep.
Nothing worked.
He called Chamon.
“Hey, man.”
“Hey.”
“What’s up?”
“Nothing.”
“Haven’t spoken in a while.”
“Nope.”
“We okay?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Yusuf said Isak wanted to talk to you. That I should keep away.”
“I talked to Isak today.”
Nikola could hear video games
in the background. Chamon was probably home. Gaming like usual.
“So you talked? What’d he say?”
“He said I messed up when I let ’em go, and ’cause I didn’t shoot that guy in the back. But I’m still in. He’s not gonna throw me out. Not gonna hurt me. Not yet, anyway.”
“Shit, man, that’s great. Nicko, I’m happy.”
Good vibes. Warmth in his heart.
“But there’s a catch. I’ve gotta find two hundred and fifty grand in a month.”
“Oh shit.”
“Wait, that’s not all. I’ve gotta find out who those idiots were, too, who took the money.”
“How’re you meant to do that?”
“No idea. But I’ve gotta do it. I’m gonna find them, and I’ve got an idea.”
Nikola was lying. He had no idea how he was going to do it, but what else could he say?
Chamon said: “Listen, Nicko, you’re not on your own.”
Silence in the background. He must’ve paused the game.
“I’ll help you. You’re my aho.”
Nikola felt even more warmth.
Chamon: a real friend.
A brother.
15
The sun was shining. The sky was blue. Every single Stockholmer seemed to want to sit outside the cafés and restaurants, wrapped up in blankets but still shivering, and pretend summer had already arrived.
Teddy had read through the declaration of legal presumption of death from the Tax Agency. To sum up: Mats had been caught on CCTV as he jumped from the sun deck at the stern of the boat—level eight on the M/S Viking Mariella, one of the smaller Viking Line ferries. Forty feet above the water, rough seas, half-storm (47 mph), a farewell note, the lifeboats’ fruitless search over the following day. A cautious diagnosis, in conjunction with the declaration: Mats Emanuelsson had shown signs of deep depression. The rest of the documents were variations on the same theme. The Tax Agency’s officials considered it appropriate to make an immediate decision based primarily on the weather: In light of the circumstances, it is to be assumed that Mats Emanuelsson is deceased.
He, Emelie, and Jan had talked in the car on the way back from Värmdö the day before.
Could they test the blood they’d found? That was the big question, after all: Who was the dead man?