by Jens Lapidus
Never Fuck Up
( Stockholm Noir - 2 )
Jens Lapidus
From Sweden’s internationally best-selling crime novelist, the author of Easy Money,comes the riveting second installment of the Stockholm Noir Trilogy. With his trademark live-wire staccato prose and raw energy, Jens Lapidus returns to the streets of Stockholm with an electrifying tale of seedy police officers and vicious underworld criminals.
Mahmud, an iron-pumping gym fiend raised among the city’s many concrete high-rises, is fresh out of jail and heavily indebted to a Turkish drug lord. To get free he accepts a job from the henchman of brutal mob boss Radovan—a job that quickly becomes something Mahmud wishes he’d never agreed to.
Meanwhile, Niklas is living at home with his mother and keeping a low profile after working as a security contractor in Iraq. When a man is found murdered in the laundry room of their building—a startling event that coincides with Niklas’s discovery of a young Arab girl being beaten by her boyfriend—Niklas decides to put his weapons expertise and appetite for violence to use and begins to mete out his own particular brand of justice.
Thomas is the volatile cop called to investigate the murder in Niklas’s building. When his efforts are suspiciously stymied and the evidence tampered with, he goes off the grid in search of answers. As the identity of the murdered man is discovered, the paths of these three men intertwine, and crimes and secrets far greater than a mere murder come to light—raising the stakes of Stockholm’s criminality to staggering new heights.
Jens Lapidus
NEVER FUCK UP
Translated from the Swedish by Astri von Arbin Ahlander
For Jack
“I’m a copper,” he said. “Just a plain ordinary copper. Reasonably honest. As honest as you could expect a man to be in a world where it’s out of style.”
—RAYMOND CHANDLER
PART 1
1
The taste of metal in his mouth didn’t tally. Like when you drink juice after brushing your teeth. Total confusion. But now—actually—it did tally. Mixed with fear. Panic. Mortal terror.
A grove. Mahmud on his knees in the grass with his hands over his head, like some fucking Vietcong in a war flick. The ground was wet; damp seeped through his jeans. Might be nine o’clock. The sky was still bright.
Around him stood five blattes. Each one = model lethal. True soldiers. Guys who’d sworn to always have each other’s backs. Who chowed on small-timers like Mahmud for breakfast. Every day.
Khara.
A chill in the air, even though it was nearly summer. Still, he could smell the sweat on his skin. How the fuck had all this gone down? He was supposed to be living Life. Had finally caged out—free as a bird. Ready to grab Sweden by the balls and twist good. Then this. Could be game over now. For real. Every fucking thing.
The gun was grinding against his teeth. Echoing in his head. Light was flashing before his eyes. Scenes from his life. Memories of whiny social-service hags, pretend-to-give-a-shit counselors, half-baked racist teachers. Per-Olov, his teacher in middle school: “Mahmud, we don’t do things like that in Sweden. Do you understand?” And Mahmud’s response—in a different situation, the memory would’ve made him smile—“Fuck yourself, this is how we do in Alby.” More movie clips: cops in the concrete who never understood what Sven Sweden’s shitty urban rearing did to guys like him. Dad’s tears at Mom’s funeral. All the buzz with the guys at the gym. The first time he got to put it in. Hitting bull’s-eyes with water balloons from the balcony on dog walkers down below. Shoplifting in the city. The chow hall in the pen. Him: a true Millionaire, a housing project kid from the Social Democratic Million Program high-rises, on his way up, like a deluxe gangster. Now: free fall. Wipeout.
He tried to whisper the Shahadah despite the gat in his mouth. “Ash-Hadu anla-ilaha illa-Allah.”
The dude holding the piece in his grill looked down at him.
“You say something?”
Mahmud didn’t dare move his head. Glanced up. He couldn’t say shit with the gun filling his mouth. Was this dude slow or something? Their eyes met. The guy still didn’t seem to get it. Mahmud knew him. Daniel: on his way up, becoming a name, but still not one of the big blattes. Thick eighteen-karat gold cross around his neck—true Syriac style. Right now he might be the one bossing. But if his brain’d been made of blow, the sales price would hardly cover a candy bar.
Finally: Daniel understood the situation. Pulled the gun out. Repeated. “Did you want something, or what?”
“No. Just let me go. I’ll pay what I owe. Promise. Come on.”
“Shut it. You think you can play me? You gotta wait till Gürhan wanna talk.”
The piece, back in his mouth. Mahmud remained silent. Didn’t even dare think of the Shahadah. Even though he wasn’t religious, he knew he should.
Pounding thought: Was this it?
It felt like the woods around him were spinning.
He tried not to hyperventilate.
Fuck.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Fifteen minutes later. Daniel was getting bored. Fidgeted, looked unfocused. The gat was squeaking worse than a rusty old subway car against Mahmud’s molars. Felt like he had a baseball bat in his mouth.
“You think you can do whatever you want, huh?”
Mahmud couldn’t respond.
“You really think you could boost from us, huh?”
Mahmud tried to say no. The sound came from far back in his throat. Unclear if Daniel understood.
The dude said, “Bottom line: nobody boosts from us.”
The guys farther off seemed to sense that things were buzzing. Came closer. Four of them. Gürhan: fabled, fatal, fat cat. Inked all the way up his neck: ACAB and a marijuana leaf. Along one forearm: the Assyrian eagle with wings spread. Along the other forearm, in black Gothic lettering: Born to Be Hated. Vice president in the gang with the same name. Southern Stockholm’s fastest growing gang. One of the most dangerous people Mahmud knew of. Mythic, explosive, insane. In Mahmud’s world: the more insane, the more power.
Mahmud’d never seen the other three dudes before, but they all had the same tattoo as Gürhan: Born to Be Hated.
Gürhan gesticulated to Daniel: Pull out the gat. The VP took it himself, aimed at Mahmud. Half a yard away. “Listen. It’s pretty simple. Get the cash and stop dicking around. If you hadn’t made a fuckin’ mess to begin with we wouldn’t have to play this game. Capice?”
Mahmud’s mouth was dry. He tried to respond. Stared at Gürhan. “I’m gonna pay. Sorry I tripped up. It’s on me.” Heard the tremble in his own voice.
Gürhan’s response: a hard slap with the back of the hand. Exploded in Mahmud’s head like a shot going off. But it wasn’t a shot—a thousand times better than a shot. Still: if Gürhan flipped out, he was really screwed.
The dude’s neck muscles were stretching out the layered texture of the marijuana leaf on his skin. Their eyes met. Locked. Gürhan: huge, bigger than Mahmud. And Mahmud was far from a twig. Gürhan: infamous psycho-bandit, blood-loving violence addict, gangster Olympian. Gürhan: eyebrows more scarred than Mike Tyson’s. Mahmud thought: If it’s possible to see someone’s soul by looking in their eyes, then Gürhan doesn’t have one.
It was a mistake to say anything. He should’ve lowered his eyes. Groveled for the VP.
Gürhan yelled, “You cunt. First you fuck up and get collared. Then the five-oh confiscate the goods. We checked the court sentence. You didn’t think we were gonna do that, huh? We know there were over ten thousand ampoules missing from what they got. That means you boosted from us. And now, six months later, you start trippin’ when we want back the dough you owe. What, you gonna play hardball now ’cause you done time? It was three t
housand fucking packs of Winstrol you lifted. No one steals from us. You a slow learner, habibi?”
Mahmud, panicked. Didn’t know what to say.
In a low voice, “I’m sorry. Please. Sorry. I’m gonna pay.”
Gürhan impersonated him in a shrill voice: “I’m sorry, I’m sorry—stop speaking gaylish, you fucking fairy. You think that’s gonna help? Why’d you start messing?”
Gürhan grabbed hold of the revolver with both hands. Cocked the top break. The bullets fell out, one by one, into his left palm. Mahmud felt his body relax. They could smack him around. Beat him bloody. But without a gat—they probably didn’t plan on ending him.
One of the other guys turned to Gürhan. Said something curt in Turkish. Mahmud didn’t get it: Was the guy giving orders or showing appreciation?
Gürhan nodded. Pointed the gun at Mahmud again. “Okay, this is the deal. There’s one bullet left in this cylinder. I’m gonna be nice to you. Normally, I’d just pop you. Right? We can’t be tolerating a buncha clowns like you who bitch as soon as things sour. You owe us. A lot. But I’m in a good mood tonight. I’ll spin, and if you’re lucky, it’s meant to be. You walk.”
Gürhan held the cylinder up against the pale sky. Clearly visible: five empty chambers and one with a bullet in it. He spun the cylinder. The sound was reminiscent of the wheel spinning on a roulette table. He grinned widely. Aimed at Mahmud’s temple. A clicking sound when the hammer was pulled back. Mahmud closed his eyes. Began to whisper the creed again. Panic took over. The flashes of light in front of his eyes returned. His heart was pounding so hard his ears almost popped.
“Okay, let’s see if you’re a blessed blatte.”
A click.
Nothing happened.
NOTHING HAPPENED.
He opened his eyes again. Gürhan grinned. Daniel laughed. The other guys howled. Mahmud followed their eyes. Looked down.
His knees were wet from the damp ground. And something else: along his left jeans leg. A long stain.
Loud laughs. Jeers. Cruel grins.
Gürhan handed the piece back to Daniel.
“Next time maybe I’ll fuck you instead. You little girl.”
Frenzied feelings. Hope versus fatigue. Joy versus hate. Relief—but also shame. The worst was over now. He would get to live.
With this.
Curtain.
* * *
VIOLENCE AGAINST WOMEN
Over the last ten years, the number of reported cases of violence against women has increased by 30 percent, to around 24,100 reported cases, according to the numbers provided by the Swedish National Council for Crime Prevention. This is probably due, in part, to the fact that more cases of abuse are reported, but also due to an actual increase in violence. Meanwhile, the number of cases that go unreported is high. In previous studies, the Swedish National Council for Crime Prevention has estimated that only one in five cases are reported to the police.
In about 72 percent of reports, the woman is familiar with the perpetrator. Most often, the man and the woman have had a close ongoing or ended relationship.
In 21 percent of the total number of cases, the perpetrator was brought to justice. This means that the prosecutor, after an investigation, has found that there is reasonable suspicion that the person has committed the offense and will proceed with the prosecution, or that the prosecutor has decided to dismiss the case (if, for example, the person in question is a minor or if the crime is of a negligible nature), or that the person in question is issued a fine and/or a suspended sentence.
Violence against women and children is a societal problem that has been given quite a bit of attention over the last few years. This is due both to the creation of new laws (regarding, among other things, restraining orders, and gross violation of a woman’s integrity) and through other measures, such as the formation of a National Center for Battered and Raped Women, as well as a focus on new educational initiatives. The attention of individual organizations has also played a significant role, for example through the creation of hotlines for women and young girls in around half of the counties in the country. Despite the significant measures that have been taken, the problem remains—thousands of women are abused and humiliated each year.
The Swedish National Council for Crime Prevention
2
Niklas was back.
He was living with his mother, Marie. Tried to sleep now and then, between the nightmares. In the dream world he was hunted, tracked, punished. But, just as often, he was the one holding the weapon or kicking defenseless people. Just like it’d been when he’d been down there. In reality.
The couch was too short to sleep on, so he’d put the leather cushions on the floor instead. His feet stuck out in the cold, but it was okay—better than being folded up like a Leatherman in a three-seater—even if he was used to that kind of thing.
Niklas saw a sliver of light through the crack in the door. Mom was probably reading ladies’ magazines in there—just like she’d always done. Biographies, memoirs, and gossip. An unvarying interest in other people’s failures. She lived vicariously through news of B-list celebrities and their divorces, alcoholism, and affairs. Maybe their tragic lives made her feel better. But it was all a lie. Just like her own life.
In the mornings he remained where he was, on the cushions. Heard her get ready for work. Wondered what his life in Sweden would be like, life as a civilian. What was he supposed to do here, really? He knew what kind of jobs would be suitable: security personnel, bodyguard, soldier. The last was out, though. The Swedish armed forces wouldn’t hire someone with his background. On the other hand, it was what he knew.
He stayed at home. Watched TV and made omelets with potatoes and sausage. Real food—not dried stuff, tins, and canned ravioli. The grub down in the sandbox’d almost ruined his taste for quality meat, but now it was coming back. He left the apartment a few times. To jog, grocery shop, run errands. Not a lot of people out in the middle of the day—he ran senselessly hard. Drove the thoughts away.
He was living on borrowed time. His mom couldn’t handle his staying with her. He couldn’t handle his staying with her. Neither could handle knowing they couldn’t handle it. He had to release some pressure. Find a place to live. Make a move. Something just had to work out.
After all, he was back in easy, safe Swedeland. Where everything could be arranged with a little willpower, gung-ho, money, or Commie connections. Niklas didn’t have connections. But he did have willpower—harder than the armor on an M1A2 Abrams tank. Mom called him cocky. Maybe there was something to it. He’d been cocky enough to hold his own down there with guys who’d fuck with you for much less than a stupid English mispronunciation. And money? He wasn’t sitting on a lifelong fortune—but it was enough for now.
He was standing in the kitchen, thinking. The secret to a good omelet was cooking it under a lid. Get the eggs to coagulate faster on the surface to avoid slime on top and burning it on the bottom. He piled on diced potatoes, onions, and pieces of sausage. Topped off with cheese. Waited for it to melt. The smell was fantastic. So much better than all the grub he’d had down there, even on Thanksgiving.
His thoughts were dreary. He was back—felt good. But back to what, exactly? His mom was present absent. He didn’t know who he knew in Sweden anymore. And how was he doing, really? If he truly let himself feel, for once? Confusion/recognition/fear. Nothing’d changed. Except for him. And that was terrifying.
During the first years he’d been gone, he’d come back once a year or so. Often got R & R around Christmas or Easter. But now it’d been over three years since the last time. Iraq was too intense. You couldn’t just up and leave. He’d hardly even spoken to Mom during that time. Hadn’t been in touch with anyone else, either. He was who he was. Without anyone knowing. But on the other hand—had anyone ever known?
The day crept by in slow motion. He was sitting in front of the TV when she came home. Still full from the omelet. Watching a documentary about two guys ski
ing across Antarctica—the most meaningless shit he’d ever seen. Two clowns playing at fake survival—there was a camera crew there too, obviously. How did they survive if it really was as cold and awful as they made it out to be? Pathetic people who knew less than nothing about survival. And even less about life.
Mom looked much older than when he’d been home last. Worn out. Tired. Grayed, somehow. He wondered how much she drank. How much she’d worried about him during all those nights after watching the news. How often she’d seen Him with a capital H—the man who’d destroyed their lives. The last time Niklas’d been home she’d claimed they didn’t see each other anymore. Niklas believed that about as much as Muqtada al-Sadr believed the United States wanted the best for his people. But all that was over now.
She was strong, somehow. Had raised a punk kid on her own. Refused welfare. Refused to give in and retire early like all her girlfriends had. Toiled through life. On the other hand, she’d let Him come into her life. Let Him take control over her. Humiliate her. Wreck her. How could they be so different?
She set a grocery bag down on the floor. “Hello, hi. So, what’ve you been up to today?”
He could tell how much pain she was in just by looking at her. He’d understood already on his first day back in Sweden: her back’d given up. Still, she kept working—part time, sure, but still: what was the point, really? Her face’d never exactly radiated joy. The wrinkles between her eyes were deep now, but she’d always had them. They formed an expression of constant worry. She’d lower her eyebrows, scrunching them up, making her most noticeable wrinkles deepen by almost half an inch.
He kept studying her. Pink cardigan—her favorite color. Tight jeans. A necklace with a gold heart around her neck. Her hair had blond highlights. Niklas wondered if she still had it done at Sonja Östergren’s salon. Some things never change, as Collin used to say.