Life Deluxe

by Jens Lapidus

  Mom was even more conservatively dressed, in a black suit with a skirt that went down to mid-calf. She was wearing a hat with a dark veil.

  It was warm—probably two hundred people in the chapel. But Natalie knew that at least another three hundred were shoving elbows outside. And then the dispatched police on top of that, for some reason.

  Mom and she’d arrived two hours earlier. Seen the casket carried in, feet first. They accepted condolences, flowers, kisses on their cheeks. More than five hundred faces to greet. She didn’t know a tenth of them.

  She shut out the choir, the faces, the soft flames from the wax candles. She saw Dad in front of her. On Skeppargatan. On the gurney. Under a yellow blanket. Under tightened straps. Dirty. Bloody. Her ears were still ringing from the explosion. Still: Dad was without sound.

  The ringing in her ears. Dad.

  The chaos.

  She was running next to him.

  They’d had to tear her from the ambulance.

  After the car bomb went off, she’d sat in a cramped room in the hospital for ten hours. No flowers, no boxes of chocolate. Just machines with digital numbers on their displays. At first, they hadn’t wanted to say where they were caring for Dad, but this time Natalie demanded that they bring her there. The bed’s metal frame gleamed in the rays of sun that found their way in through the blinds. Half his face was covered in bandages, and there were tubes going up his nose and arms.

  Mom sat at the foot of the bed, sniffling. Natalie and Goran sat in chairs. Stefanovic ought to have been there—but they said he was also being cared for in the ICU. There was a policeman on guard outside the room. The police feared more violence.

  After a while, a nurse came into the room. “You have to go now. He is going into surgery one more time.”

  Mom stopped crying. “What are you going to do?”

  “You’ll have to ask the doctor.”

  “Is it as serious as the last operation?”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t know.”

  Mom and Goran rose. Natalie didn’t want to leave. She wanted to stay here. She wanted to sit next to Dad for the rest of her life.

  “Come, honey,” Mom said in Serbian. “It’s time.”

  Natalie rose, leaned over to kiss Dad on the forehead.

  Then: his hand trembled.

  Natalie looked down. Put her hand over his. It was more than a tremor. He was moving his fingers.

  “Mom, wait. He’s moving.”

  Mom hurried forward. Goran also leaned down. Dad raised his hand from the mattress.

  Natalie thought it almost seemed as though he wanted to say something. She leaned in even closer.

  Heard a breath.

  Felt Mom, close behind her.

  Another breath.

  Then, a weak voice. Dad whispered in Serbian, “Little frog.”

  Natalie squeezed his hand.

  “What is he saying?” Goran asked.

  “Quiet,” Natalie hissed, without turning around.

  Goran leaned in closer, tried to listen.

  Dad’s voice again. “Little frog. You will take over.”

  Natalie looked at him. She couldn’t see his lips moving. It was deathly quiet in the room.

  Dad spoke again, “You will take over everything.”

  The bishop held his speech. He was dressed in something that looked like a cross between a black dress with gold decorations and a magician’s cloak. Natalie’d been to Serbian Orthodox mass perhaps seven times total in her life, always on Easter. But the priest today wasn’t just anyone. The bishop was a hotshot on the holy circuit. Bishop Milomir: bishop of Great Britain and Scandinavia. Normally he lived in London, but he’d flown in for this right away.

  The bishop droned on. About how Dad’d come to Sweden in 1981, looking for work. Started working at Scania in Södertälje. How he’d advanced, started companies, created businesses. Become a wealthy man, a successful man, a respected citizen. How he continued to attend mass regularly, donated money to philanthropic causes and to the building of the church in Enskede Gård. Above all: how he always stood up for the Serbian people and the Serbian faith. He’d clearly heard some things from others, or else he’d made them up. Like all that about Dad going to mass all the time—that was about as real as the Easter Bunny.

  The choir began singing again. The bishop swung an oil lamp over the floor. Everyone sang together: the informal national anthem about Saint George—it’d never been more fitting. The candles that everyone was holding in their hands were burning low. The flames were flickering slowly. For over an hour now.

  The bishop began to read in Church Slavic. He poured oil over Dad’s body. Drops on Dad’s pale forehead.

  The smell of myrrh. The monotonous drone of the mass.

  It was over now.

  The Swedish priest from Södertälje announced that it was time for the last kiss. Mom started moving. It had to happen in a particular order, and you had to walk counterclockwise back to your spot.

  Natalie held her hand tightly.

  They approached Dad.

  His sand-colored hair looked lighter than usual. His jaw, which ordinarily looked so wide when he smiled at Natalie, appeared thin. His neck usually looked broad, strong. Now: fragile as a bird’s.

  Mom bent down and kissed Dad lightly on the forehead.

  Natalie stood above the casket. It felt as though everyone in the chapel stopped to look at her. Waited to see what she would do.

  She looked down. Dad’s face. His closed eyes. Shiny eyelashes.

  She bent down. Stopped with her lips a few millimeters above Dad’s forehead. She didn’t cry. Didn’t think. Didn’t mourn.

  She only had one thought in her head: Dad, I am going to make you proud of me. Whoever did this to you will regret it.

  Then she kissed him.

  The crowd was beginning to thin out. There were maybe a hundred people left in the graveyard. Even the cops were beginning to drive away.

  Natalie walked toward a taxi that she’d called over fifteen minutes ago. That alone irritated her—to have to wait more than fifteen minutes when there ought to be cabs around the corner.

  Viktor was walking a few paces behind her. Mom’d been clear: “You’re not married yet, so unfortunately, he can’t stand with us in the chapel.”

  Viktor hadn’t seemed to care about that. Honestly, he hardly seemed to care about anything lately.

  Farther off, by the fence, Goran was walking toward them.

  Head angled slightly down. Goran had shitty posture.

  He stopped when he reached her.

  Right, left, right. Even though he’d already kissed her cheeks before the funeral. “Natalie,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

  She wondered why he was repeating this routine.

  He extended his hand. Took Natalie’s hand in his. Held it for a few seconds. Squeezed it. His gray eyes bored straight into hers. His look was not pitying, like the those of the others. It was determined. Sharp.

  He released her hand. Continued walking toward the graveyard where Mom and a few others were still standing.

  Natalie remained where she was. Looked down at her hand.

  A scrunched piece of paper.

  She unfolded it—messy handwriting, in pencil; two words and a time: Stefanovic. Tomorrow. 1800.

  Viktor caught up with her.

  “What was that all about?”

  Natalie folded her fingers over the note.

  “Nothing.”

  The taxi was waiting outside the gates. She saw a cop climb into a car farther up the street.

  “Nothing at all.”

  16

  Jorge was on his way to visit Paola. And Jorge Jr. reined himself in, tried to keep to the speed limit. After that car chase business—even less room for risk taking.

  His head was spinning with details. The plan was now fully set in motion. After weeks of planning, it was almost time.

  Shiiiiit—so dope.

  The pieces were in place:
Javier’d stolen Taurus pistols from a hardware store. Copies of Parabellum, a Brazilian cop piece. Black, heavy enough. Realistic as shit. Crazy when he thought about it: the Swedish government wanted control over weapons—so why could any motherfucker get a perfect copy in a matter of minutes?

  The Finn’s idea: they were gonna dump the fake guns at the crime scene—so they couldn’t get slammed with aggravated robbery if things got fucked.

  Robert and Sergio’d boosted cars in Norway and parked them out at Jimmy’s vacation cottage—the Finn’s idea. They’d cleaned them, no fingerprints. Covered them with tarps.

  The Finn delivered mad connections with Syrian weapons dealers en masse. At least one Kalashnikov plus an ill brand gun’d been promised. Jorge hadn’t decided who was gonna have the AK yet—but it should probably be him. Heaviest heat for the heaviest hombre.

  Jorge drove around the city every day. Checked the police stations, the area around Tomteboda, flight routes. Kept an eye on the boys. Bounced ideas off the Finn. Talked to Tom about getting a sublet somewhere.

  Things were falling into place. But two things were still eating away at him: How would they force the fence? And above all: How would they get into the vault?

  You could cut the fence with bolt cutters in several places. But that wouldn’t be enough. They had to get in and out of the area by car. And the only place where there was a paved road was through the front gate. So that’s where they had to do it—the gate was what they had to break through—and it was thick as fuck. The Finn informed him: it was an industry-grade gate, security-class issue. A bolt cutter would never be enough, but the Finn said it’d work with sharp angle grinders. The problem: there wouldn’t be time to jump out of a vehicle to cut the gate. They had to find another way. The question was: how?

  Same deal with the vault. They’d have to blow their way in. Alternately, the insider might be able to get someone who could unlock it from the inside, but fat chance that would happen. So: they needed dynamite.

  The Finn was loud and clear: “In order for this to work, you need real blueprints for the place. Or else you can’t have someone calculate how much dynamite you need and stuff. You with me?”

  Jorge followed: no blueprints, no vault.

  Jorge really wanted to come up with his own solutions. But it was the Brain who was the brain in all this. What’s more: the Finn should have to work a little too. The way it was now: Jorge was working his ass off, while the Finn just gave orders and philosophized. Made claims. Commanded. Controlled. But in the end, it would be different. Reversed roles. Jorge and Mahmud’d planned their little side gig by now.

  Another problem was on the rise: Viktor. Like all his backtalk at the meeting wasn’t enough—the guy dragged his feet, was slow doing what Jorge asked him to do. He was supposed to’ve gotten work gloves, overalls, and other shit. Instead, he whined every time Jorge got hold of him. Said the whole thing was getting out of hand. That it was too dangerous, too crazy. The potential prison sentences were too long.

  Often he didn’t even call back.

  After a few days: the dude pretty much vanished off the grid. Jorge called two, three times. But the Sven fucker didn’t bother calling him back. Jorge talked to Tom. Asked him to deal with his buddy—make Viktor understand. Jorge’s patience was like a bomb with a fuse two millimeters long set to blow up in this clown’s face.

  The days passed. Nada.

  Jorge climbed out of the car. Robbery thoughts interrupted. Looked up at Paola’s apartment. Fifth floor. Hägerstensvägen. Örnsberg. Paola: had moved as far away from Sollentuna—their home turf—as she could. She was making a point—wanted to show that she made her own decisions. But Jorge wondered if she’d forgotten about Mom. Okay, she probably saw her more often than he did. But at least Jorge lived closer.

  He rang the doorbell.

  Heard sounds from inside. Saw something dark in front of the peephole in the door.

  Two seconds later: she opened.

  “Come in,” she said.

  He took his shoes off. Walked into the apartment. There were Legos and Playmobil parts on the floor.

  Jorgito came running. “Hi, hi, hi. Come look!”

  Jorge picked the boy up and threw him into the air, kissed him on both cheeks.

  Said the same things in Spanish that his Mom’d always said to him: “Caramba, cómo has crecido!”

  They walked into Junior’s room. Blue wallpaper with animals on it. A rug on the floor covered with the image of streets and houses. Plastic toys everywhere.

  Paola’s shuffling footsteps in the background.

  He set Jorgito down again. Looked at Paola. “What’s wrong?”

  “What?”

  “Paola, don’t even try. You may not know me, but I know you. What’s wrong?”

  Paola bent down. Took Jorgito’s hand. “Come on, let’s go to the kitchen.”

  Her face was stiff.

  He positioned himself in front of her, blocking her path. She brushed past him to the sink. Poured a glass of Kool-Aid for Junior.

  Jorge positioned himself in front of her again. Took her face in his hands.

  “Paola, what is it?”

  “I got fired today.”

  Paola looked crushed. On the verge of tears. She released her son’s hand. She probably didn’t want him to see if she started crying.

  The little guy looked up at Jorge. “Did you bring me an airplane today?”

  Jorge tried to smile. The last time he was here, he’d brought a Playmobil airplane. This time, he’d brought another gift.

  Fuck—he didn’t have time for family problems right now. The CIT planning was taking all his time. Still: he knew how happy Paola’d been about her job in the accounting department of an IT company. What’s more: he knew how tough she thought it was to be a single mom.

  He gave Jorgito the present, a Lego set. Totally crazy, if you thought about it: “Lego Racer 8199—Cash-in-transit robbery.” He read the text on the back of the box: The armored car has been stopped due to road construction when the green truck, which wants to take the money, rams into it.

  He tried to ask Paola what’d happened. Why she’d been the one let go.

  They talked for a while. Sat down. The wooden table had round stains on it from hot tea mugs.

  “I’m not the only one who was laid off. They’re making cuts everywhere. There are rules for this kind of thing.”

  “But what about in the accounting department?”

  “There were only three of us there, and I was the most recent hire. Last in, first out. That’s what it’s called, the rule. If I don’t get another job in ninety days, it’s gonna be tough.”

  Jorge felt bad for her. At the same time: guaranteed unemployment for ninety days sounded pretty sweet. She’d been a nine-to-fiver. Part of the system. And soon he would be financially independent—would be able to help her with anything she needed.

  He put his arm around her. Saw images in his head. Him and Paola together. Mama’s stereo turned on. CD cases all over the floor. Paola was digging through the CDs. Reading jacket texts. Trying to explain to Jorge why Janet Jackson and Mariah Carey were the best of all. She played songs, sang along to the lyrics: “Oooooh, I’m gonna take you there, that’s the way love goes.”

  But to Jorge: she was his biggest idol. Honest: the only idol he’d ever had.

  Jorgito came back into the kitchen. Looked at Paola. “I’ve built the robbery now.”

  “You gotta show me, little man,” Jorge said.

  Paola looked at him. “What did you say, Jorgito?”

  “I built the Lego now. A really nice robbery. The truck hits the car with the money in it.”

  Paola turned to Jorge. Sighed. “That is not okay.”

  Jorge tried to grin.

  “You have to go now,” Paola said. “We can talk more later.”

  “Don’t be like that, he likes Legos. And I promise it’s all gonna work out. You don’t gotta worry, hermana.”

&nbs
p; “No, you can go. And I don’t want your money. I don’t want dirty money here.”

  Jorge stopped. “What you mean? Don’t pull that old shit again. I thought we’d gotten past that.”

  Paola was on her way out to Jorgito’s room. “You can’t afford to support me on your café. I know that. So if you’re talking about doing something for me, I know you’re talking about dirty money. And we don’t want that here. No lo entiendes?”

  Normally: Jorge was a king. J-boy the man—the dude with whip-fast comebacks and mad flow. Now: stumped. Blank like a busted phone display. Pathetic like a beat-up brat on a bar floor.

  He walked out into the hallway. Glanced quickly into Jorgito’s room. Thoughts were bouncing around his head: If Paola didn’t want his help, then she could quit whining. If she didn’t want his cash, Jorgito wouldn’t have it either. If his dough was dirty, then the Lego set was filthy too. Right? He should go in there and take the Legos from Junior’s room with him.

  He took a step into the kid’s room. The boy was sitting with his Lego project. Waiting for him and Paola to come look at what he’d built.

  His curly hair, his smiling, slitted eyes. An unspoiled human being.

  Jorge walked out again. Into the hall.

  Opened the door.

  Closed it. As hard as he could.

  As he was leaving: a fat knot in his stomach. He turned the radio to The Voice. Robyn—as usual on every single station.

  His cell phone rang. He thought it would be Paola, calling to apologize.

  It was Tom Lehtimäki. A brief conversation, without mentioning names or details. According to Jorge’s rules.

  “We’ve got a problem.”

  “What?”

  “A bunch of shit, actually.”

  “Can we meet up?”

  “I’m home.”

  “Okay, I’ll be right over.”

  Jorge’d had a feeling this was coming. That Viktor fag was cracking. That Viktor dude tried to hitch a free ride on the rest of their backs.

  It was time to have a talk with that guy.