by Jens Lapidus
“Yeah, that’s what I thought, too.”
“Did I tell you stuff is still happening? I was being followed.”
Teddy continued in a low voice. He told her about the man from Swedish Premium Security.
Emelie felt like she needed something to calm her nerves.
It wasn’t an apartment, it was an entire floor. Mental calculation: at least thirty-six hundred square feet, nearly thirteen-foot-high ceilings.
A young woman met them in the hallway. She looked a few years older than Emelie. Long black hair extensions, shapeless silk trousers, a beige cable-knit cashmere sweater, and black ballerinas with the Chanel logo on the toes—the ultimate Stureplan outfit.
“Your little guests are here now,” she shouted into the apartment when Teddy introduced Emelie and himself.
A man came out. He had to be the girl’s father. He was wearing something incredibly odd: Emelie had never seen anything like it—it looked like a cross between a dressing gown and a tuxedo, burgundy colored, with an intricately patterned scarf around his neck. Then she realized what it was: a smoking jacket. The man shook their hands and introduced himself as Bosse. He showed them in. An oddball, clearly.
They passed a billiards room, a library, and something that looked like a parlor. Specially lit art was everywhere on the walls, surpassing even Magnus Hassel’s collection in the office, though these paintings were older—she was almost certain that a huge canvas in the hallway was a Miró and that another was a Rothko. The walls were painted varying shades of pale green and gray. On the floor, genuine Persian rugs. She’d probably never been to a more luxurious home.
Finally a room that matched the smoking jacket style.
“Please, sit down,” Bosse said. “This is what I call the men’s room. Either of you like Cubans?”
Neither Emelie nor Teddy were willing. She could see an oak bookcase full of books, plus two built-in cabinets with dark glass doors. She guessed they were humidors.
Teddy greeted the man who was already sitting in one of the armchairs.
He held out his hand to Emelie, a loose, unfocused handshake, and introduced himself as Boguslaw. “But you can call me Boggan. I’m the one who asked Teddy to call, in case you were wondering.”
Teddy nodded. “Right. And I’d like to get straight to the point. Did you know Mats Emanuelsson?”
“Hold on a minute,” said Bosse. “I haven’t even offered you anything to drink. What’ll it be? Whiskey soda? Maybe I can ask Ayleen to mix some cocktails? She’s a genius with a straw, if you know what I mean.”
Emelie didn’t know whether she should get up and leave, pay no attention to what he’d just said, or laugh along. Was that his own daughter he was talking about? Or was the girl who’d shown them in his partner? Either way, there had to be at least thirty years between them. She wondered what kind of reaction he’d wanted.
“Okay, so it’s like this,” Bosse said after a moment. “We were both friends with Mats. He was a nice guy, with a great mind for probability theory and a bit too much of a gambling habit. Though we probably all have that. Why do you want to know?”
Teddy looked at Emelie. This was her call—she was the one bound by confidentiality. She decided to waive it.
She briefly explained who she was, and then said: “Mats’s son is being held on suspicion of murder. So without going into any more detail, we’d like to know a bit more about Mats.”
Bosse took a sip from his tall glass. He’d made himself a Bloody Mary, and spent at least five minutes talking about how important it was for the component parts to be cold enough.
“Oh God, that’s not good. I met Mats’s son once, on the street, must be ten years ago. Cute kid. What happened?”
“I can’t say any more than that, I’m afraid. But we’d like to know as much as possible about his father.”
Boggan started to talk. “I mean, Mats, he was a real kosher guy. Always cool. Played real first-rate games sometimes. He brought in fifteen thousand euros one night, but he screwed up a lot, too. A lot. We used to play in Topstar, Oxen, and at Sumpen, too, but so did everyone else. He came with us to Vegas once, looking for nice big fish. I mean, you know, fish—every guy’s dream, loose players—idiots with too much dough who don’t know when they should stop playing. He had a sponsor for a couple of years, too. Then that bad stuff happened. He got kidnapped. And after that, he wasn’t the same.”
“A sponsor?” Emelie leaned forward on the sofa.
Boggan downed his drink: a martini—these were guys with some kind of shady elegance. Clearly gamblers, too. Clearly living in a financial gray area. Worn-out. But still with plenty of energy and humor.
“Right,” said Boggan. “Those of us that don’t have loads of dough or who didn’t inherit big bucks and properties like Bosse here, sometimes we need one. To be able to play the big games, you know. But Mats would never tell us who his staker was.”
Bosse didn’t know, either. “You never saw the guy, he never came to the actual club—it was like Mats didn’t want us to know who he was.”
Boggan butted in: “But he wasn’t just any old guy; once, a few years after the kidnapping…a real bloody mess, fighting and everything. Then you could see what he’d got himself into…”
Bosse wanted to finish Boggan’s sentences—these two reminded Emelie of a couple of girls from her class in high school: like two peas in a pod, Tweedledum and Tweedledee. They’d always been together. Liked the same music, had the same thoughts: that was what they’d said. They dressed alike, talked alike. They acted like one person.
Boggan said: “So that’s why we wanted to talk to you. Because it seemed like the guy had something to hide. We think Mats had more to do with him than just playing for his money.”
“Like what?”
“We don’t really know, but after the kidnapping, Mats was spending more and more time with him. And by then, he’d really cut back on the poker, so it couldn’t just be about financing some game, or not just that anyway.”
Bosse filled in: “And this staker of his, what I remember about him, he had a tattoo of a tiger on his arm, he was like you.”
He pointed at Teddy.
—
Emelie was working sixteen hours a day. Sleeping like crap at night. The stress was gnawing at her. The sleeping pills she was popping were about as strong as gummi bears. During the day, her exhaustion made her see double. She was worried about making mistakes. Exactitude was valued even more highly than legal shrewdness in this job. She recognized the warning signs, but right now, she didn’t have time not to take any shortcuts. She needed to do something.
After the meeting with Bosse, she took a quick walk into town. Not to go shopping or for a coffee. She needed something to help her. Maybe she was weak, but she had no alternative.
The doctor’s office was on Norrlandsgatan. She’d been there a few times before. A year or so ago, she’d had tonsillitis and needed penicillin. The insurance plan she had from Leijon had actually directed her to a big private hospital, but it was farther away, and she’d gotten a different vibe from this place.
Third floor: Direct Health. As far as Emelie knew, there was only one doctor working there, and it was Dr. Gunnarsson she wanted to see. After she visited last time, she’d looked him up—it should work.
She didn’t have to wait long. It was nice to be able to avoid the usual women’s magazines and the beady-eyed fish in the waiting room aquarium.
Gunnarsson checked her blood pressure and made some notes on his computer. Emelie explained: “I’m stressed. I’ve got so much to do. I’m not sleeping, my shoulders and back are so tense. I get anxious and can’t concentrate.”
Gunnarsson asked a few questions. If she’d experienced these feelings before. If they were worse in some situations than others. She answered yes to both.
“I think you should start taking better care of your overall health,” Dr. Gunnarsson said. “Do some more exercise, eat properly—no more fast food. Yo
u should try some form of relaxation, yoga, meditation, mindfulness maybe.”
Emelie didn’t have time. She said what she knew he needed to hear. “I’ve already tried all that. It doesn’t help. I need something else. I’m one hundred percent sure.”
She pushed an envelope over the table. Gunnarsson’s fingers looked well-groomed. He opened the envelope. Emelie had put three thousand in five-hundred kronor bills inside.
His voice was suddenly completely toneless. “I see. Well, let’s write you a prescription, then.”
Stesolid, 5 mg.
When Emelie got up to leave, he said: “Just be careful with these. Under no circumstances take more than the dose I prescribed. Stesolid can be addictive, it sometimes causes drowsiness. In the worst cases, it can cause depersonalization.”
“What’s that?”
Gunnarsson leaned forward over his desk. “Well, how to describe it? A feeling of unreality, uncertainty about your identity.”
There was a pharmacy nearby. Emelie got into the line. She really needed something right away, her hands were shaking, her mouth as dry as a DD report, she was seeing triple.
Apotek pharmacies these days—after the privatization drive: they spent more time trying to sell moisturizer and hair conditioner than they did medicine.
It was her turn. The prescription should already be in their system. She gave her ID number to the pharmacist, who disappeared behind the counter to get what she needed.
“Hi there.”
Emelie turned around.
No. No.
Magnus Hassel.
From the corner of her eye, she saw the pharmacist heading back toward the counter with the tablets.
“Hey.”
She didn’t know what to say.
“Buying toothpaste?” she eventually asked, apropos of nothing at all.
“Why, you think I have bad breath?” He smiled.
She needed to get out of there. Run. Flee. But that would look even weirder. Plus, she still had to pay.
“No, no, just that’s what this place seems to be for these days.”
Emelie held out both hands, quickly cupping the bottle. Hoped Magnus hadn’t had time to read the label.
The pharmacist smiled. “Paying by card?”
Magnus was still next to her. Emelie clutched the bottle tight, hoped the pharmacist wouldn’t say anything about what she’d just been given. But how would she manage to get her card holder out of her bag with just one hand?
Magnus said: “No, just picking up some allergy tablets. Pollen season’s almost here.”
Emelie did it all in one movement: pushed her bag toward her left hand, dropped the bottle, grabbed her card holder.
She was out on the street two minutes later. This was all just too much.
She opened the bottle immediately and swallowed a pill. Hoped it would kick in soon.
21
Pirate Bay, swefilmer.se, megadownloader.com.
Linda didn’t have subscriptions to Netflix or HBO like any normal parent—she didn’t even have the cable channels C More or Viaplay.
Either it was because she was short of dough or because he’d been away from home too long, hadn’t been nagging her.
Nikola hated the pirate sites: everything looked so cheap. Homemade, poor. But that’s where he got all his vids from now. The Avengers, The Hobbit, The Fast and the Furious films: several times over.
At home: on his bed, in front of the TV, by the microwave—he’d lived on microwave pizzas these past few days. He felt so sluggish. Couldn’t even be bothered to jerk off.
Linda was constantly on him. “You need to call George Samuel again. He’s been so good to you, let you leave on time when you were there. I’m sure he’ll take you back.”
But it was already too late. George had called to say it wouldn’t work out: “Sorry, man, but it’s probably best if you look for a job somewhere else.”
Mom said: “I’ll talk to him, then, maybe he’ll change his mind. He doesn’t want to lose you.”
Nikola twisted on the sofa. “You know something, Mom?”
“What?”
“You’re actually pretty fucking fantastic.”
She looked up, probably thought he was just messing with her.
“You never give up when it comes to me, do you?”
She ran a hand through his hair like she used to do when he was little. “A Maksumic never gives up, Nicko. You know that, don’t you?”
Two hundred and fifty grand: what he needed to get hold of. Plus the other thing: find the guys.
The money: impossible. He’d thought about talking to Teddy—but it hadn’t been the right time when they met, when he’d asked Nikola and Chamon to shadow that guy.
Finding the robbers: dangerous shit—they’d had enough balls to go for Isak when he was surrounded by his people. They had to be insanely insane. Enough now. That was enough.
He had to take charge of the situation.
The robbers: one of them had dropped his piece on the floor when Nikola pressed the pistol into his back. That was all he had to go on: a Kalashnikov. An AK-47, which, right that moment, was hidden in a box of his old winter clothes in the basement.
Just having it down there: too much heat to live with—serious weapons offense. Ten months minimum if the cops caught wind of it.
His idea: take the weapon to Gabbe so he could have a look at it. The guy might be able to tell him where it was from.
The cash. Planning under way. He and Chamon had gotten some dark Everest jackets from a couple of friends, same with the pants. And their own shoes: dark as the night.
They lifted the balaclavas from Mickes MC on the edge of town—the biker guys called them bike hoods. Whatever: the point was to hide their faces from any CCTV cameras.
They’d been buzzing about the idea before. Ica Kvantum, Willys, Lidl, the huge food shops. There were loads of them. All over the Stockholm area. From nowhere: Swedes becoming Americans. Only shopped in massive out-of-town shopping centers. Crazy depressing parking garages. Shopping carts, model: supersize. Screaming kids and shelves of bread stretching half a mile into the distance. Nikola wondered what people used to do before these places turned up. Maybe the Svenssons had grown their own crap back then. Like weed these days. Every motherfucker had a mini greenhouse in their wardrobe at home, complete with sunlamps, fans, and nutritional additives in the pot.
Nikola had first come up with the idea on one of his periods of leave from Spillersboda. “One of those giant shops, could do a hit on one of those. They’ve gotta have so much dough in the safe after closing on Sundays.”
Chamon had grinned. “Get with the times, bro. They have those cash guards these days. All the cash from the checkouts gets guarded and picked up before the day’s out. But you’re right, though. They’ve got bills, shitloads of cash. Just not from the regular checkouts.”
It had to happen. He refused to be an outcast, relegated to the subs’ bench—playing in the lower leagues. He wanted to count.
If only he wasn’t so scared.
He needed to change now. Big-time.
He went over to Chamon. Sitting on the sofa like usual: GTA V on the screen, Red Bull cans everywhere, crazy pile of weed on a plate on the table. His friend had started to grow a little goatee—he looked like a cross between Jack Sparrow and some hard rocker: like the guys in Slayer.
Nikola tried to set the scene. “We go in, take what they’ve got, and then get outta there. Like, how hard can it be?”
Chamon laid it out for him: the shops had money from the other areas. BBQs and charcoal, compost and plants, fresh potatoes, strawberries, cinnamon rolls and bread: everything they sold from the stalls outside. Plus the lottery, the scratch cards, and the newspapers they sold from a special counter by the entrance.
Chamon paused the game. “There’s one thing we can’t forget, bro. We need an insider, someone who can tell us where to go, where they keep the cash.”
Paulina had sent him
a message a few days earlier. Nikola’s mind in chaos. But still, he was happy.
They met one night at O’Learys: same place they’d met the first time. She came alone: only the brave—seventeen years old and going to meet the mysterious Slav who talked Syriac, the Bible Man. Though maybe he wasn’t so mysterious. Off the market for a year. Plus: who exactly had he been before?
He ordered a beer and she had a glass of champagne, and they talked about everything: her school. His time in Spillersboda. And not least: the books they’d read—a weird feeling. He’d never talked about books with anyone but Teddy and his grandpa.
She had her hair up: you could see her entire face. Her straight nose, her eyes full of questions about him. What the hell, he should take her home now and get right on top of her. Then call one of the guys to tell them all about it. What a fox. She wanted me, like all the rest of them. Blew my load in her face four times.
The only problem: he didn’t know what to do. It was like someone had pinned him to the floor in the bar, his hand in his own pocket.
He should move closer to her, put a hand on her thigh, whisper gentle words. Flirt with her, just play it cool. We going back to your place or mine?
But he couldn’t. Same thing over and over again.
Him: weak.
Him: an idiot.
Him: so scared.
They went their separate ways at twelve thirty.
They weren’t like everyone else.
The next day, he called one of the guys who’d been in Spillersboda at the same time. Vague memory: the dude had talked about his cousin working in one of those massive shops. Saman.
Bingo: Saman’d had a job in the warehouse at the ICA Maxi in Botkyrka for seven years now. An honorable man with a crazy shurda for a cousin. But according to his friend: Saman was going through a divorce. He needed dough.
Nikola didn’t say what it was about, but they agreed to meet by the pool in Slagsta, probably close to the guy’s home turf. Nikola had no idea—all he knew: they had to make it work somehow.
He got out. He’d borrowed the car from Linda.