Life Deluxe

by Jens Lapidus

  Mom sent Natalie out to the dining room with napkins. White, pressed, with the family crest embroidered on them. They were to be folded like cones and placed in the crystal glasses, which also had the family crest engraved on them. She could do it blindfolded.

  She went back into the kitchen.

  “I’m so happy you’re home again,” Mom said.

  “I know. You say that every day.”

  “Yes, but I feel it today especially, when we’re cooking this kind of food and eating in the dining room and everything.”

  Natalie sat down on a stool. It had hinges in its middle so that it could be folded up to become a short ladder.

  “Is he a good guy?” Mom asked.

  “Viktor?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “He’s okay. But we’re not getting married or anything. And anyway, we can’t talk about him now when he’s here.”

  “He doesn’t understand Serbian, does he? And you know we just want the best for you.”

  The door opened. Dad and Viktor walked into the kitchen.

  Natalie tried to read Viktor’s face.

  A half an hour later. The meze plates’d been carried out. Natalie was helping Mom in the kitchen. The first half’d gone well. Viktor’d told them a little about himself: about his business with cars and boats. His plans for the future. It felt okay: Dad wasn’t interrogating him Guantánamo style, took it easy instead. Mom mostly asked about his parents and siblings.

  Viktor was a good talker. Natalie was usually impressed by him. That was one of the things she liked about Viktor—he could talk to anyone. It helped him in his business. And it helped him when he ended up in trouble. And it didn’t hurt that he looked good—he was a beefier version of Bradley Cooper, one of her fave actors. She and he were suited for each other. They shared views on a lot of things: the need for a plush financial situation, an appropriate attitude toward strangers and the State, the right social circle. Viktor seemed like a guy on the rise—she hoped.

  He prattled on. Fired off sharp comments about his business—stuff that, with any luck, would impress Dad. He tried to ask counterquestions, acted interested in Mom and Dad’s newly remodeled kitchen, their summer home in Serbia, the nice silver cutlery with the family crest engraved on it—maybe he’d prepared.

  The main course was served. Pork belly, onions, sremska, fried potatoes.

  Radovan raised his wineglass. “Viktor, my friend. Do you know what the difference is between a Swedish and a Serbian pork belly?”

  Viktor shook his head, tried to look genuinely interested.

  “We don’t put beer in our food.”

  “All right, but it looks good all the same.”

  “I can promise you that is it is. Because that’s the way it is with us Serbs. We don’t have anything against taking a shot or drinking fine alcohol. But we don’t need it. It’s not something we have to dump into every dish in order for it to taste good. Do you understand?”

  Viktor kept his wineglass raised. “Sounds interesting.”

  Dad didn’t say anything, but he kept holding his wineglass in his hand.

  Natalie waited. Microseconds as long as minutes. She looked down at the pork belly.

  Dad’s voice broke the gridlock, “All right then, cheers. And once again, welcome to our home.”

  An hour and a half later. Dinner was over. The dessert: baklava, schlag, and cake’d been eaten. Coffee’d been drunk. The cognac, Hennessy XO: drained from the glasses.

  It was time. Viktor’s smile muscles were probably sore by now.

  Natalie wanted to go out tonight. Maybe sleep over at Viktor’s place after. Or rather: she would be allowed to leave with Viktor only if Dad was satisfied.

  They rose from the table. Natalie eyed Dad the whole time. His dinosaur movements. Slow and goal-oriented, the head living a life of its own: it swung back and forth—right, left, left, right—even though the rest of the body was still. She tried to meet his eyes. Get a pleased expression. A wink. A nod.

  Nothing. Why did he have to play this game?

  They were standing in the hall, ready to put their jackets on. Their coats were hanging behind some drapery.

  Natalie didn’t plan on folding. If Dad didn’t want her to go with Viktor, he’d have to say it straight out. Viktor’s jacket rustled, a black North Face, so thick and downy that it could probably handle fifty below. Natalie slipped her feet into her Uggs. Then she put on her rabbit fur vest—it was warm, but probably not half as warm as Viktor’s Michelin coat.

  Mom prattled on: about what road was best for them to drive, when they were going to see each other tomorrow, how nice it’d been to meet Viktor.

  Dad remained silent. He stood, just watching them. Waiting.

  Viktor opened the door. Cold air blew in.

  A car rolled past out on the street—it may have been the same green Volvo that she’d seen earlier.

  They took a step out through the door. She was standing with her side to the door. Half her body in the light from home and the other half outside. She saw Dad out of the corner of her eye. She turned around. Looked at him head on.

  “See you tomorrow,” Mom said.

  “I’ll call. Love you,” Natalie said.

  Radovan took a step forward. He leaned out through the door. His torso out in the cold. A thin cloud of steam rose from his mouth.

  “Viktor.”

  Viktor turned to him.

  “Drive carefully,” Dad said.

  Natalie smiled inside. They walked toward Viktor’s car.

  The street was quiet.

  4

  Jorge was sitting in an armchair. Eyeing the place—his own digs. His café—his.

  Him: a dude who ran this place.

  Him: a dude who owned something.

  At the same time: still shadyish.

  Dig it. J-boy: Chillentuna’s ghetto Latino numero uno, ex-coke king with a reputation—was sitting on an ordinary fucking business. Worked an ordinary fucking gig. Paid a protection fee like an ordinary fucking bar Sven.

  He saw his face reflected in the windows facing out toward the street. The closely cropped, curly hair was smoothed back. The five o’clock shadow looked good. Dark, sharp, well-plucked eyebrows, but above them: wrinkles. He must’ve gotten those in the pen. Or else it was the sun in Thailand that’d carved the lines into his forehead.

  He remembered what he’d looked like during the year after his prison break. The memory still made him grin. The escape with a capital E: a magical attack on the Swedish corrections machine, a blatte display with class, a clear signal to all the brothas on the inside: Yes, we can. Jorge Royale: the blatte who fucked the screws straight up the dirty, salsa-style. The homebody who busted out of Österåker with the help of a few bed sheets and a hook made from a basketball hoop. The blatte who’d disappeared without a trace. Slam dunk—took his bow and split. Hasta luego, Big Brother.

  Back then: the man, the myth. The legend.

  Nowadays: that was all a long time ago. He’d lived on the lam. Sweden’s Most Wanted, like a fucking murderer. Remade himself. Rocked a new look—el zambo macanudo. Nigga Jorge in the free world. Tricked his old homeboys, tricked the pigs, tricked a whole bunch of family. But hadn’t tricked the Yugos. Mrado Slovovic, Mr. R’s piece-of-shit slugger, had found him, pounded him real good. But they didn’t win. Jorge rose from the ashes and shook Stockholm like a storm.

  And then: he’d jumped ship, gone to Thailand to get away from it all. But in the end, he came home again—he didn’t really know why. Maybe it just got too boring.

  The authorities collared him. What’d he expected? To live on the lam for the rest of his life? Only white-collar criminals and old Nazis who’d changed their names and bought houses in Buenos Aires did shit like that.

  He checked into Kumla. A heavy penitentiary for bros with a taste for tunneling. Release on temporary license: forget about it. Release on parole: nope. Unsupervised visits: don’t kid. Still: he’d patted himself
on the back—it’d been worth it. More than a year and a half on the run. He’d had time to whip up some thick shit, including a bunch of fruity Thai parasol drinks.

  And now: the new project was simmering.

  The café was closed for the day. He was waiting for Tom Lehtimäki. Was gonna ask him if he wanted in on the CIT gig. His first recruitment attempt, other than Mahmud. Important. At the same time: dangerous. What if the dude didn’t want in? What if he started yappin’ about how Jorge was spinning a web?

  Tom: an old friend of Mahmud’s to begin with. Jorge knew him from the café—Tom’d helped them with their bookkeeping. Lehtimäki: an economic fraud guru, like those dudes in the construction business that Peppe’d talked about. Lehtimäki: a street-smart motherfucker you could trust. The dude: like a mini-lawyer-slash-accountant at the same time. Tricked the tricks, fixed the fixes that had to be fixed.

  Clear: Tom would be an asset.

  Jorge’d texted him. Short and sweet, hadn’t mentioned what it was about. Just: Wanna meet me at the café after closing. It’s important.

  Jorge leaned his head back. Waited for Tom. Reminisced. How he’d talked to Mahmud the first time. A tougher talk than the one he was gonna have now. Mahmud: his right-hand man, his homie, his hombre.

  Jorge’d been anxious. Maybe the Arab would understand. Maybe he’d get pissed off. It didn’t matter. J-boy had to change his situation.

  After Jorge’d caged out, he’d bought himself into the fika joint with Mahmud. The Arab thanked Jorge for wanting to be his partner. Mahmud’d decided to make his papa proud: abandon the G-life. Become responsible. Almost become a Sven wannabe. Jorge planned on copying his style—try not to bounce back in, try to earn steady money, try to avoid sticking out.

  They worked their connects to get the place in order. Bought café gear from some Syrians that Mahmud knew through Babak. Got armchairs and sweet tables with mosaic in the wooden surfaces from a dealer in Alby. Bought mugs, plates, spoons, and shit like that online. Tom helped them with wholesalers for buns, pies, and pastries. The coffee retailer and the sandwich wholesaler were dudes Mahmud’d met when they bought love from the whores he used to poon-nanny.

  They even hired people. Three of Mahmud’s buddies’ little sisters were paid an hourly wage. They were young, but the idea was simple: pretty girls put people in the mood, especially for coffee.

  Summa summarum: tip-top feel. A 100 percent feel. After a few weeks: the place rolled like a Maserati on an autobahn.

  They poured their souls into the place. Worked twenty-four seven. Jorge almost quit blazing to keep his energy up. The Arab lifted weights only twice a week in order to have enough time for it all. Jorge saw it as an investment. Café security—no more chasing after easy money. Plus: he needed something to do. He used his last savings: from blow sales and other gigs during his year in freedom. Became Mahmud’s partner in the calm, easy, honest life.

  Months passed. The trend was unmistakable: everyone seemed to love to fika.

  They rolled muffin dough out and green dough rolled in. The days flew by at Matrix-karate-speed. They worked like maniacs. Got up at five every single morning to receive milk orders at the café or drive to the megabakeries outside the city. During the rest of the morning, they prepped breakfast chow. Prepped lunch salads pre-noon, flipped the same greens like idiots during the lunch rush. Rocked cappuccinos, caffè lattes, caffè macchiatos, caffè-whatever during the rest of the day, until nine o’clock at night.

  Mom grew prouder and prouder. His sister, Paola, looked at him with new eyes. She could honestly tell her son: Jorge es un tío bueno.

  It ought to feel awesome.

  Ought to feel phat as hell.

  Still: felt shady.

  Honestly: felt mad shady.

  Him: Government-grown, institution-infected, slammer-soaked. Had skidded through life like a ricochet. Dealt with prejudiced teachers, deadbeat counselors, whiny-feminist welfare hags. Tricked pretend-understanding parole boards, brutal screws, even more brutal cops. Stretched his arm out, roared, and gave society’s quasi-racist bullshit the middle finger. Sven Sweden’s rules weren’t for him.

  Plus: everything wasn’t rolling that smoothly anymore. The tax man didn’t like their bookkeeping. Racketeering cunts’d started showing up. The suppliers whined about advances.

  But still: he was basically straight. At least as honest as a blatte like him could get.

  But the deal: instead of feeling fly, it felt faggy.

  Instead of being peaceful, it was dangerous.

  Ideas were spinning in his head. Kept scratching his bandit-itch. The same thoughts every day. It was too early to get benched. Throw in the towel, blow off the game. It wasn’t time to give up, not yet. Not time to roll over and die.

  Jorge’d heard Mahmud’s feet on the stairs. When the Arab finally did ring the doorbell, J-boy was jumpy as hell. His bro: rollin’ like one chill hombre. Superthick puffy, gray sweats, and Sparco shoes. Not as beefy as before, but still double J-boy’s size. To most people: the Arab had authority. His calm way of walking—hands in the top jacket pockets, swaying back and forth with every step—sent clear signals: Take it easy. You don’t want to test this. But Jorge knew: in Mahmud al-Askori’s chest pumped a heart bigger than, like, Melinda Gates and his own mama’s combined.

  Mahmud met Jorge’s gaze, lowered his eyes—almost like he was shy. It was really true—his buddy was soft somehow.

  They shook hands, not like regular Svens do: a weak handshake and a quick meeting of the eyes. No, they swung their arms before they slapped their palms together, letting their thumbs meet in a massive grip. Like the concrete. Like the Million Program. Like real friends.

  They ate and shot the shit. Ran through the city’s latest gossip. About who was really behind the massive heist—fifty millions for bootleg booze and smuggled cigarettes. And how things were going for Babak and the rest of Mahmud’s buddies—boys who still played the game. Jumped pussies who played tough, pushed product, boosted electronics from the chain stores’ huge warehouses, and flipped the same shit fourteen times retail online.

  All afternoon: Jorge’d tried to calculate how to present it. How to begin. Explain what it was he wanted to say. How he would make the Arab understand.

  Okay, they were having trouble with profitability. They were having trouble with the Yugos. But still: Mahmud could go apeshit. It might even make him weepy.

  Jorge put his hand in his pocket and fished out a Red Line Baggie. Held the bag in the palm of his hand.

  “Look what I got.”

  Mahmud shook his head. “Not for me. Not tonight. It’s my turn to go to Södertälje tomorrow morning at five.”

  Jorge slapped the bag against his other palm. “Stop sulking. Check it, we ate good, you pumped some iron, we feel good. Weed’s not gonna give you a hangover.”

  Jorge poured the weed out and mixed tobacco into it. OCB in a roll—nice to roll and extra thin. The roach would smolder slower.

  They took deep hits.

  Mahmud leaned back. “This is some good shit.”

  “Mahmud, I’ve gotta talk to you about something serious,” Jorge said.

  Mahmud didn’t even look up, just kept that crooked grin plastered on his face, the one he always had when he was high. “Sure, is it business?”

  “I’ve done this thing with you for six months,” Jorge said. “The café’s a good gig, pretty honest, we fork over alotta taxes, we got insurance and shit, we’re even saving for retirement, like real Svens, man. I dig you, Mahmud, we’ve got a sweet deal together.”

  He put the joint down. “But it’s just that it’s, like, not working for me, hombre.”

  Mahmud eyed him. Looked like the guy didn’t even blink.

  “I mean, it’s not that it’s not working with you. You’re my brother. But this life, you know?”

  Mahmud’s eyes narrowed. Jorge waited. Maybe the Arab would freak out now? Start cursing. Steam up, boil over.

  Jorge rose
. Started pacing back and forth. Tried to make the same words he had in his head come out of his mouth.

  “That last turn, you know, that I had to take at Kumla. I was in with a real old-timer, maybe you know him. His name is Denny. Denny Vadúr, from Södertälje.”

  Mahmud didn’t say anything. Just waited to see where Jorge was going with this.

  “My first long stint, I learned a lot about blow. Swallowed information like Jenna Jameson swallows cock. But there’s other stuff that’s better. That demands a real lotta brain.”

  Jorge paused. Gave Mahmud the chance to guess.

  The Arab stared at him. “What?”

  “You’ve read about it in the papers a thousand times. We’ve talked about it tons of times. The latest helicopter heist on the roof of the G4S. I’m talking CIT, man. And you don’t even know how much cash we’re talking about. When the papers write five million’s missing, the real take’s four times that. But the banks and the armored car companies don’t wanna admit how much they actually lose—then they’d get picked over more. And the people would be even more pissed off. You know the Spånga robbery—remember that?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Those guys are from Södertälje. They hit the armored car with a fucking steamroller. The papers said they got hold of four million. It was actually twenty-two million. You follow? Twenty-two million. This guy Denny Vadúr might have to sit out a few years, but when he gates out, he’ll laugh all the way to the ditch in the woods where he buried the cash.”

  “They’re kings.”

  “Exactly, huevon. They’re kings. One hit, and you can be set financially for the rest of your life. Not have to rot in a café. And you know what the thing is? You know what’s big?”

  “No.”

  “I saved Denny’s life in there. A couple players with fire extinguisher and Denny alone in the Ping-Pong room. They tried to break open his skull with the sprayer, but little J-boy got in the way. You with me? What Vadúr owes me can’t be paid back in cash. So he’s put me in touch with the guy who’s sitting on the recipes for CIT heists in Södertälje. He’s gonna get me in there. I’ve got a chance to do something dope.”