Deep State (Anton Modin Book 1)

by Anders Jallai

  Kent E went on with his amateur psychology. He could probably host his own talk show and become a male Oprah Winfrey, Modin thought. But a horny, middle-aged Swedish salty dog with dyed hair becoming a talk show host? Maybe not.

  “American girls are more liberated than Swedish girls,” Kent E said. “For instance, just watch what happens when a Swedish woman gets divorced. At best she will be looking at three hundred bucks a month in alimony, regardless if she was married to the unemployed paper boy or to Rockefeller himself. Either way she is a loser. An American woman will take a husband for half of what he owns. Either that or she will sue his ass off. You have to give it to the patriarchal ruling elite of Sweden, because they have really stacked the cards in their favor. And then they have the guts to brand this one of the most egalitarian societies in the world. My fucking ass it is, Modin.”

  “Man, this concoction really hit the spot, it is good stuff,” Modin said just to interrupt Kent E’s political rambling. “Gin is like lotion, not only to your soul, but to the body as well. Makes you want to piss a lot, though,” Modin winked.

  “Gin gets your prostate going, that’s why,” Kent E laughed. “It is like medicine.”

  Kent E, who was fifteen years older than Modin, tended to pull out cheap prostate or Viagra jokes, which Modin found embarrassing. Other than that, he was well versed in the art of conversation, and undoubtedly had the skill and patience to entertain just about any party or social class with trivia or meaningless banter. He had a degree in social studies, so he must have picked up something, Modin thought.

  The scents and sounds of the summer night began to affect Modin’s sensuality—slow desire mixed with quick and raw lust, a feeling he had not experienced in a long time. In fact, he had not had sex in years, had not wanted it, but tonight his body felt sensationally alive. At the same time, he could not push away thoughts of Monica, Ellinor, and Alexander. If they had lived, Alex would be eighteen and Ellinor sixteen.

  I wonder what they would have done with their lives, Modin thought, a sad smile on his face. What would they have chosen to study? They would have been here tonight, for sure. He experienced a sting of sadness looking at the empty chairs around his table. But at least he was able to think about them without falling apart. That in itself was progress!

  Kent E was still preaching as Modin’s thoughts returned to reality. He was starting to get pie-eyed, but raised his glass anyway. “Here is to life and death,” Modin said. “They are equal in the eyes of humanity. And here is to Sun Tzu.”

  “What did you say?” Kent E asked.

  “Oh nothing, never mind.”

  Modin made eye contact with the biker gang. They nodded slowly as he raised his glass and with his thumb and index finger fired an imaginary gun toward the fat, upscale yacht captain and his posh neighbors at the next table over. This will certainly upset them, Modin thought. Then he toasted and said loud and clear: “Here is to the one who has the most money and toys when he dies.”

  The scarf guy discretely whispered something into the ear of his closest neighbor.

  Modin let out a loud and grotesque laugh, nudged Kent E while emptying his glass with an evil grin on his face. A short while later, Julie came by with an ice cold screwdriver, which she put right in front of Modin.

  “Compliments of the gentleman in the red scarf,” she said.

  Modin turned toward the sailing party.

  “Oh, well thanks, but perhaps, you should waste this drink on some lamb chop teenage girls, gentlemen?” he said in a loud voice. “Giving it to me is like pearls for swine. No use,” Modin smiled in spite.

  The emerging argument was starting to draw the attention of the surrounding patrons.

  “On the contrary, Anton Modin.” The older gentleman in the red scarf got up and approached him. His nasal, upper class twang was irritating. “We thought you could make use of that drink. Why don’t you give it to a fourteen-year-old. That way you don’t have to go raping another young women. Cheers dude!”

  The scarf fired off his most spiteful grin revealing a set of perfect whites. His party laughed aloud and in unison, almost as on cue. Other patrons chimed in, too, while yet others just seemed to find the whole situation embarrassing.

  Modin instinctively realized he had lost the battle before it had begun and was staring down at the table. He was upset, but somehow managed to keep his cool. Without a single word, he emptied his drink and slammed the empty glass down on the table. Fuck! Now it is war, gentlemen, he thought.

  “Hey, go easy on the booze, Modin.” Ellie rubbed up against his shoulder. For a moment, he noticed the stern wrinkle in her forehead before she squeezed by and headed for the neighboring table. Modin reached for her, but too late.

  The music was in full swing. The DJ was playing the Beach Boys’ “Good Vibrations.” Modin yelled over the music, making it clear he wanted to dance with Ellie. She shook her head, and, by sign language, tried to explain that she was still working and that the attention was embarrassing her. People got up from their tables to fill in the wake the waitress had left behind, effectively blocking Modin’s way. Modin turned to Kent E instead, who was sitting there, concentrating hard, stirring his gin and tonic with the plastic spatula.

  Darkness was descending rapidly over the small fishing village as the clinking of glasses and laughter filled the evening. He watched an elderly couple stroll past The Rock and take a couple of dance steps as they heard the music. It was cute; their sense of togetherness touched Modin.

  Further out on a flat cliff sticking up from the sea, a charcoal grill spread its aromatic smoke over the immediate neighborhood. Apparently, a twenty-something boating couple was about to enjoy a late dinner. The older man who had danced a moment earlier waved enthusiastically at the couple by the grill, while his wife squeezed his arm and pointed at something out to sea.

  Modin stood up and realized his legs were a bit wobbly. He headed for the exit and the bathrooms. He chose to take the path past the posh sailing party, and in doing so, happened to nudge one side of the table. The gold yellow liquid spread all over the table and onto the floor in a tiny, bubbly trickle, as two full glasses of champagne were knocked over.

  “Oh, pardon me and my clumsiness, cutie pies, it seems like I spilled some of your bubbly. That means bad luck at the New York Stock Exchange tomorrow. I’ll be darned, how clumsy of me.”

  “You little shit, who the fuck do you think you are? I could have you crushed with just a single phone call? You get that?”

  It was the scarf piping up. Spit was flying from his lips as he was yelling at Modin. He got up and shook the remnants of the spilled champagne off his fingers. Modin made a serious attempt to hate him. He gave the scarf a hard push in the chest with an open palm. The guy, who was barely a lightweight, tumbled backwards, falling over a table topped with scattered beer jugs. It happened to be the table where the rough motorcycle crowd was sitting. Modin continued toward the exit.

  The scarf crawled to his feet among spilled drinks and leftover food, grabbing an empty beer jug as he got up. He ran toward Modin, caught up, and slammed the heavy glass hard into the back of his head.

  Modin dropped like a sack of potatoes. The glass shattered, fragments flying all over the deck. The music stopped. Kent E got up, but was brusquely stopped in his tracks by another member of the sailing party.

  Modin slowly got up, trying to preserve what little dignity he had left. Blood was trickling down his right cheek and he felt lightheaded. The scarf was barking like a junkyard dog. Modin raised his right knee and planted a hard kick right in the man’s solar plexus. The scarf folded in half like a pocket knife. Modin let out a guttural roar, picked the scarf up by his crotch and chest and swung the lax body over his shoulders. He went over to the railing, and with a perfect fireman’s drop hoisted him into the water.

  The two beefy guys from the sailing party both jumped Modin from behind. He was able to deflect the first attacker with a kick to his midsection. He fe
ll to the floor cramping.

  The other one, who looked like a wrestler, full of meat with a head shaped like an egg, let out a loud primal scream and was aiming for Modin’s throat. Modin quickly spun around, got a hold around the man’s waist, and planted a knee hard into his crotch. The wrestler dropped like a brick, hit his forehead on the sharp edge of the table, and slammed hard on the floor.

  Modin was on his back instantly, hitting him hard in the face, repeatedly and uncontrollably.

  He was fucking going to crush this egg. Blood was splattering on the floor and over Modin’s fists.

  “Enough Modin! It is enough now. Stop!” Kent E shouted.

  Modin could not hear anymore. Did not want to listen. Julie was screaming at the top of her lungs until someone gently covered her mouth to dampen the cacophony. The sound of Modin’s punches to the wrestler’s head resembled the sound of someone violently slamming raw steaks onto a marble counter. Finally, four guys from the biker gang broke up the fight. They locked Modin’s arms behind his back and dragged him toward the kitchen area, away from the unconscious man on the floor.

  Kent E held the doors open while Ellie sneaked by and went to soak a towel in ice cold water. She kneeled by Modin and slowly and gently pressed the wet towel against his face and other wounds.

  “Modin, you fool. What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  He chose not to answer.

  Ellie wiped blood off Modin’s forehead and face just as the kitchen door flew open violently enough to hit the backstop. There was Matti Svensson, a hyena with a nose for trouble, Modin thought.

  “So it is you again, Modin? Yeah, I suspected as much. I have already called the police. Your ass is toast, my friend.”

  “Fuck off!” Ellie said and attempted to kick the door shut. Svensson instinctively took a step back before it hit him in the face. He caught the door half way.

  “You know I will get credible accounts from the patrons about what happened here tonight,” Svensson yelled, making sure Modin could hear him. “This will make a good story in tomorrow’s paper. A real scoop, as we say in the industry. Anton Modin arrested for assault at a seasonal, seaside restaurant—again.”

  Before long, an emergency response crew was on site, just as Matti Svensson had predicted. Two police cruisers and an ambulance.

  While loud rock music could be heard from the restaurant once again as everyone inside was trying to move past the incident, a Coast Guard vessel moored at the landing dock beneath the restaurant deck. It was full throttle on all resources, and Modin could not avoid seeing all the commotion through the kitchen window. He was still there and on the down slope of a mood swing, as two cops entered and demanded his side of the story. He was wasted and did nothing but rant and slur as they were trying to conduct this first interrogation. They turned to Julie, Ellie, and Kent E instead, trying to make sense of what had happened. Two men had been knocked out, and another man had been thrown into the water. There was substantial damage to some of the restaurant’s interior where the fight had taken place.

  “Anton Modin acted in self-defense,” was the universal testimony from all the witnesses.

  Before the cops packed up, they ordered Modin to show up at the police station the next day. Modin had almost lost it, but he could not have cared less. The Sun Tzu role-play had taken on a dynamic of its own, far beyond his control.

  Ellie gave Modin a soft kiss on his forehead and gently stroked his hair.

  “Come on, time to go home.”

  She put her arm under his and helped him up. They went out onto the restaurant deck where they could see the harbor. Ellie waved, getting the attention of the Coast Guard. She politely asked them if they could be so kind as to take Modin home. Only after a moment of hesitation and when invited to do so did she go onboard herself. She had put on a cream-colored cardigan and a navy-blue baseball cap and grabbed hold of the railing as the two diesel engines revved up. The boat quickly picked up speed, almost riding on top of the waves. Modin could feel Ellie’s warmth radiating through the clear air of the night. Or was it only his imagination?

  CHAPTER 49

  GRISSLEHAMN, WEDNESDAY, JULY 23

  Modin made a deliberate effort to keep his eyes closed as he turned around in his bed. His head was a giant, pulsating inferno of pain and ache. With gentle movements, he used his left fingers to examine the back of his head where most of the agony seemed to originate. He felt a bump the size of a lemon, tender to the point where it could barely be touched. A sudden wave of nausea washed over him. The room spun around. In the midst of this unpleasant wake-up experience, he sensed the hint of a familiar scent: Ellie’s perfume. She was lying right next to him and had apparently spent the night.

  Modin carefully pushed the covers off and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He took two deep breaths and slowly got up onto his legs. He was stark naked. His robe was hanging on a brass hook on the opposite wall. He stumbled over, grabbed it, put it on, and quietly tiptoed out of the bedroom.

  As he closed the door, he looked down at his hand. It was swollen and tender. The knuckles were red and scraped, and he could barely stretch his fingers.

  Ellie had come home with him. They had had a nice cup of tea. And then, as if it had been predestined, they had ended up in bed. Their lovemaking had been wild and passionate. Wet, sweaty, and loud sex. And now he was ashamed and had regrets like a teenager.

  What was she going to think of him?

  He decided to push away all misgivings. What was done was done, and he had needed the warmth and closeness of another human being. The booze had made him unpredictable and daring enough to request what he needed.

  Modin put the water on the stove and made some oatmeal. He used to have oatmeal every morning, way back when he lived with his wife and kids. He felt the craving again for the first time in a long time. He rigged and started the coffee maker, because he didn’t want to rattle around with the espresso machine at this early hour.

  With the water slowly trickling through the filter and the oatmeal simmering on the stove, he prepared four slices of crisp bread with ham, poured a large glass of orange juice, and finally put all of it on a wooden tray. With the tray firmly in hand, balancing so he would not spill the orange juice, he went out on the deck and sat down in one of the wicker chairs. He did not bother getting the morning paper or checking his e-mail or Internet news. He did not have the energy to read Matti Svensson’s self-righteous crap. Later on, maybe, he would read the article that was sure to be in today’s paper.

  “Good morning.”

  It was Ellie stepping out through the paned glass door. She had just woken up and blinked at the bright morning light. She was beautiful now with her dark hair let down. She was barefoot and had dug up an old white bathrobe somewhere inside, which she had wrapped around herself, tied tightly around her slim waist. Modin’s palms became moist and red hot from desire, cherishing memories of last night’s passionate encounter and her naked skin against his. But he tried to contain himself, hoping he was not blushing and ignoring the faint tension building in his crotch.

  “Good morning,” Modin replied after having cleared his throat. He reached for the thermos.

  “Care for some coffee?”

  “Yes, please, that’ll be great.”

  They ate in silence. Modin glanced at Ellie, and she smiled back.

  “Have you ever had oatmeal?”

  “Yes, but I am curious to try your Swedish version. I would like to learn as much as I can about Sweden and your strange customs,” she said with a chuckle.

  She grabbed the pan and scooped up a good portion. Modin showed her how to sprinkle it with granulated sugar and cinnamon before pouring in the milk.

  “Wow, this is good. I like it,” she said with a big smile. Modin was overcome by a warming sensation in his chest, but quickly decided to suppress his emotions.

  “Hey listen, that fight last night was not supposed to happen. I just completely lost it. I felt vio
lated.”

  “I understand,” Ellie said. “Was it about the rape allegations?”

  “Yes, in essence he was fucking with me in front of my friends. The few friends I still have left, that is: Kent E and you.”

  “Why did you have to all-out assault him? Would not a simple punch in the face have been enough to get the message across?

  “I don’t know. But it felt like I had to do that, to go all out.”

  “I’m heading back to the States, soon,” she suddenly said.

  “I know.”

  “And maybe I will not return for many years,” she said.

  “In that case, I will tell you what happened when you return.”

  He reached for a slice of crisp bread and took a large bite, wiping off some of the crumbs falling on his robe and the table.

  “Have you ever had crisp bread?”

  “Yes, I have, even with Kalle’s creamed smoked roe.”

  She tilted her head and dragged her fingers through her hair.

  “Will I see you tonight?” she asked.

  He wanted to embrace her, take her in his arms, hold her tight, and squeeze her, but he felt bewildered. He realized this was the exact moment where he should have said something nice about their recent intimacy, but the words he had lined up suddenly escaped him. Now the fleeing sparkle in her eyes would fade away and die at any moment, he knew that. She had another question for him, one that could be sensed in the undertone of her kind and soft words, one that was at the tip of her tongue, if only he would stop ranting about oatmeal and crisp bread.

  “I will be at The Rock every night for the next two weeks boozing my brains out,” Modin said. “You want to go for a morning swim?”