Life Deluxe

by Jens Lapidus

  In the margin, next to a heading in one of the minutes from the co-op board meetings, there was a handwritten note: Dangerous.

  DANGEROUS.

  The thing about the note: it was written in Dad’s handwriting.

  The heading in the minutes was about how the apartment on the top floor wasn’t inhabited by the person listed as a member of the housing co-op.

  Despite the name of the owner, Natalie was certain this apartment had something to do with Dad. Dad had some sort of connection to an apartment in Stockholm that he hadn’t told them anything about at home. And it’d been dangerous in some way.

  She had to find out more. She wondered again who she could talk to.

  There was only one person.

  She called Goran. “I’ve got binders here that the cops want.”

  “What binders?”

  “Company stuff, binders that were at our house. They were here yesterday, the economic crimes guys, but I managed to get hold of some material.”

  “Hide them in a safe place. We’ll look at them together.”

  “I’ve already gone over them. I almost know them by heart.”

  She didn’t say anything about the note in the minutes for the apartment.

  “Okay,” he said. “Just hide them. We’ll have to talk about them as soon as possible.”

  “Yes.”

  “And one more thing, Natalie. Don’t do anything that you’ll regret. You have to understand something: your father’s life was not always easy. Some say he chose the easy path, but one thing is certain—not many walked that path with him. There were a lot of people who hated him, do you understand that? So now you have to choose your own path—remember that. And doing bad things won’t make it any easier.”

  For a second, Natalie considered asking what he meant. But she decided not to—he was right. Dad’s path hadn’t been easy. And she didn’t know what she wanted for herself right now.

  She was going in for questioning at the police station soon. She knew what she was going to do before then. Mom’d put Dad’s jackets in the office. They hadn’t even talked about it—what they were going to do with all his things: cell phones, watches, pens, computers, clothes. But Mom didn’t want the jackets hanging in the hall. Natalie agreed—no one wanted to be reminded needlessly right now.

  She walked into the room. A glimmer of hope in her mind. A goal.

  She gathered the jackets and his overcoat. They’d been hanging out in the hall up until the day before yesterday. A trench coat from Corneliani that must’ve cost a fortune. A Helly Hansen sailing jacket that seemed too young for him. A no-brand leather jacket—that felt the most like normal Dad.

  She went through them. The outer pockets, the inner pockets, the breast pockets. The sailing jacket had at least ten pockets.

  She didn’t find anything.

  She did the same thing one more time.

  Nothing.

  She sat down on the floor in her room. The binders were spread out around her. Thought: Where might Dad’s key chain be? Maybe the police’d found it and taken it with them.

  Then it struck her. Of course he must’ve had it on him the night he was killed. So it couldn’t have been in one of the jackets that he left hanging at home. But he hadn’t been buried in it, she knew that. Either Mom must’ve got it back from the police and put it somewhere or else it was still with the police.

  She made a lap around the house. Mom was sitting in the den. Natalie continued on to her and Dad’s bedroom. She approached the closet where Dad used to keep his clothes. Opened it. They were still there.

  A wave of pain washed over her body.

  She almost couldn’t look. Dad’s pants, sweaters, and shirts in the part of the color spectrum that stretched from white to pale blue to dark blue. His belts: on three hangers on the inside of the closet door. His ties: on four retractable tie hangers on the other closet door—the family crest on several of them. His jackets and suits, organized by color.

  His smell.

  Natalie wanted to turn and leave. Run into her room again. Stretch out on the bed and cry away the afternoon. At the same time, what she was feeling now: she knew what she wanted—she wanted to find the keys. She wanted to get somewhere.

  She took a deep breath.

  Pulled out a drawer in the dresser. A humidor. A small dial on the outside displayed the humidity. She opened it—Cohiba for thousands of kronor. No keys.

  She pulled out another drawer in the dresser. Cufflinks and tie clips with the K-emblem on them, lots of silk scarves, three empty wallets, a money clip with the Kranjic coat of arms on it again, four watches that probably weren’t expensive enough to be kept in the little safe by the bed: Seiko, Tissot, Certina, Calvin Klein.

  And: a key chain.

  She picked it up.

  Maybe.

  22

  They began early today. Jorge’d been awake since five a.m. Opened his eyes without an alarm, like a baby who can’t fall back asleep. Had been thinking only about the hit.

  He made coffee. Walked around, in just his boxers. Drank water. Pissed over and over again.

  Jorge could feel his stomach. That damn anxiety: the curse of all G-boys.

  Today: the outbreak of war—D-day. Super Bowl Sunday. The CIT day.

  To conclude: the day when J-boy would become the most loaded Latino north of the Medellín cartel. Still: the worry was creeping around inside his body worse than during a bad trip.

  It was time. And they were all showing it.

  Robert and Javier’d called a bunch of times during the night to ask stuff, even though it was against the rules.

  Jimmy and Tom’d sent texts about planning stuff, even though they already knew the answers. He had to remind them to toss their SIM cards and phones.

  Mahmud and Sergio’d rung his doorbell at seven a.m., even though they’d agreed on eight o’clock.

  Even the Babak clown’d called at two in the morning to ask something. The Iranian who, otherwise, always knew best. That’s what he thought—who was the genius now, huh?

  Tension in the air so thick, you could cut it with a knife.

  In four hours, it would be time. An insanely packed schedule till then.

  They’d taken a boat from Värmdö, from the bombed hellies. Tom’d been prepared: had boosted a little motorboat the night before—easy peasy. It had been tied to some Sven’s summer dock, just locked with a padlock on a chain.

  A boat. Again: not something for Million Programmers. Honest—Jorge’d never sat in a dinghy before. Serious thoughts: boats, vacation homes, oceans, cows—for pureblood Svens, that was all probably as natural as taking a shit. For Jorge: as unnatural as forking over a pile of dough in taxes.

  The boat rocked. The water was dark. Close. If he were to stretch his arm out, he could touch the surface of the water. He tried to look down. Couldn’t see anything but a shimmer. The motor roared. Cut through the water like a machete. They rode past two other motorboats. A small red lamp on the left side, and a small green lamp on the right. Other than that, they were alone on the water.

  But there oughta be full-throttle response over at the helipad base by now. Except they wouldn’t find jack shit, just two dead dogs and two totaled choppers. Sergio’d driven the honest wheels out to the ferry dock and pushed it in.

  Back from his mind trip. Mahmud and Sergio were sitting on Jorge’s couch. Sergio hablando. Joked, messed around. Buzzed about the helicopter massacre.

  “Did you read Expressen? They wrote that now they won’t be able to use the choppers to blast the mosquitoes full of poison.”

  “Is that true? Fuck, man. That’s terrible. Don’t they have rescue choppers?”

  “Yeah, but they can’t use those for the mosquitoes. You get how we fucked the Swedish people—they’re gonna get bit. Dios mio!”

  Jorge grinned. Ran through his mental lists. The coveralls, the robbery phones, the SIM cards, the cars, the blockades, synching their watches. He thought about his and Mah
mud’s own scheme for cashing in—the bonus that was for the two of them alone.

  He and Mahmud inspected the weapons. An airsoft gun and the two AK-47s. They worked, at least they knew that by now. The rest of the gear was already with Tom and the others.

  They checked their phones. They’d used a separate set of phones for the helicopter bombing. Once they were in their given positions, before the hit, they were gonna turn on new phones. The reason: no way the cops could track the phones to towers near their apartments.

  Eight o’clock rolled around. Jorge got a text from Tom. One zero. That was the code: Tom was up and ready to go. Magnífico.

  Sergio and Mahmud studied the maps one final time before they went to burn them down in the garbage room.

  Lists scrolled past on the inside of his eyelids. The jammers, the aluminum foil, the walkie-talkies, the angle grinder, spike strips, the wheel loader. The last thing on the list: Jimmy’d gotten hold of one of those—it would crush the Tomteboda gate easier than the Lego set J-boy’d given Jorgito.

  Still: Would the guys pull this off?

  At eight-thirty, Jorge’s cell started blowing up: four texts: Four zero, Three zero, Five zero, Two zero. The G’s were awake and ready to go. He responded with the code: Good results. They’d understand: he, Mahmud, and Sergio were in position.

  They went down to the street. People on their way to work, to day care with their kids. Stressed, speedy steps, stiff stares. Screaming babies. Whiny bosses. Bus drivers who shut the doors in the face of retirees who hadn’t quite made it to the stop in time. A life that Jorge never wanted to live.

  The van was parked four blocks away so no one would see it near Jorge’s building. He squinted at it. A Mercedes. Boosted this week, with one plate switched out and the other torn off. If they were stopped and asked why they were driving with a stolen plate, they could say that they were the ones who’d reported it stolen. Point to the torn-off plate. “Look, we’re missing one.” That’d been Mahmud’s idea. Real smart, actually.

  Sergio opened the back doors. They squeaked. Jorge climbed in.

  Inside the storage area in the back: silver wallpaper. As decided—Sergio’d dressed the inside of the back of the van with three layers of aluminum foil. They closed the doors. Lit a flashlight.

  Sergio pointed to the walls. “It took a whole day, man. And that spray glue, man, it was better than ten grams of hash.”

  Jorge’s finger on the foil. “This oughta be good. But like we said, we’re not taking any risks. Is that the jammer?” He pointed to a black garbage bag.

  Sergio nodded. He bent down. Pulled the garbage bag off.

  The jammer.

  Jorge grinned. “Fuck, cabrón, that’s so ill.”

  They played with the apparatus for half an hour. Turned it on and off, set it to different frequencies, checked that it was working against their own phones.

  Nine-thirty: Tom swung by and picked up Mahmud and Jorge’s cell phones. They checked the walkie-talkies, the police radio. In an hour: their robber cells would be switched on. Jorge eyed Tom—for the first time, hombre seemed stressed: was talking fast, playing with his walkie-talkie. Looked wiped—dark circles under his eyes, like he’d been punched in the face. Jorge could feel it too. Constantly: that slow churning in his stomach.

  Fifteen minutes: him, Mahmud, and Sergio in the van. Driving toward the city. On their way to pick up the wheel loader.

  They were driving in silence. Sergio’d quit his punning. Jorge was leaning his head back, looking up at the roof of the car. Mahmud was holding the wheel, concentrating on not driving too fast. The wheel loader: the key to their success. According to the Finn: the wheel loader made this hit invincible.

  Then Jorge thought: The Finn can hit the showers. Jorge and Tom were the ones who came up with the wheel loader idea—not the Finn. J-boy and the boys were the ones taking all the risks. And what’s more: the vault—a story in itself.

  Past Frösunda, Brunnsviken’s water on their left. Mahmud turned off the highway half a mile from their destination. Exit: Haga Norra. A sharp exit from the highway down toward the park: the Haga Park. The trees were green: looked like a rain forest. They drove up to the gates. A small parking lot. Vato stopped the car.

  Jorge reached for his backpack in the backseat. Picked up one of the new cell phones. Inserted a SIM card. Then he picked up a walkie-talkie: MOTOTLKR T7—Motorola’s hottest model. Over a six-mile range.

  He turned it on. Pressed the talk button. “Hello?”

  Crackling on the other end.

  He waited a while. Met Mahmud’s eyes. Every step of the way had to click now.

  He held it up again. “Hello?”

  Still just crackling.

  A third time: “Hello, can you hear me?”

  Crackling, buzzing, hissing sounds.

  Finally Tom’s voice. “Yo, man. I hear you. And I’m here. Ready to rock and roll. Over.”

  Jorge did thumbs-up for Mahmud and Sergio. “And the others? Over.”

  The idea: no calls would go to Jorge’s robbery phone. Instead: everyone reported to Tom, who was keeping track of everything and keeping Jorge informed over the walkie-talkie. Cop-block: no cell phone calls could be connected to the place where the actual hit would take place.

  Tom responded. He was using real names; the pigs couldn’t pick up radio waves after the fact.

  “Babak and Robert are in position by the big cop station downtown. Jimmy’s at Stora Essingen, ready to drive north on the Essinge highway. Javier is in position at Kungsholmen. Everyone’s ready. Over.”

  The entire time he was talking, Jorge was looking at Mahmud. Sergio was sitting in the backseat. The mood in the van: concentrated like in an ebola research lab.

  The clock struck ten-fifteen. Almost time now. Very soon.

  Jorge held the walkie-talkie up to his mouth. “Okay, let’s roll. Keep reporting to me the whole time. Over and out.”

  Tom’s voice sounded happy. The stress Jorge’d seen in him this morning was gone. He bellowed, “Yes, sir!”

  Jorge turned to Mahmud and Sergio. “We’ll check everything one last time.”

  They nodded. Mahmud climbed out—checked that the jammer in the back was still working. Sergio checked that he had the keys to the wheel loader. They checked the arsenal, the ski masks, the keys, and all the rest. One last time.

  The last time.

  The walkie-talkie on the instrument panel vibrated. Tom’s voice again: “Everyone’s driven up to their positions. We’re ready to roll. Just give us the word, boss. Over.”

  Jorge tried to grin even though he knew it looked forced. “Fire away,” he said.

  Mahmud started the van. Jorge was sitting with the walkie-talkie tightly pressed to his ear. Following every step of Tom’s ongoing reports.

  Tom was driving a boosted car. He’d parked a clean car on the street outside the pig station in Solna the night before.

  Mahmud was driving calmly. They were approaching the spot where the wheel loader was supposed to be parked. Ten minutes till strike down.

  Tom was describing what he was doing over the walkie-talkie: “I’m standing outside the car. I’ve busted the instrument panel. Torn out all the shit I can. They’re not going to get this bucket moving for hours. Not even the best booster in Alby could do this now. The only way is to get a tow truck. I swear. Over.”

  “Good, Tom. You heard from the others?”

  “Yep. Javier’s driving slow like a grandpa on the highway by Klarastrand. And Jimmy’s driving as slow as his mama on the Essinge highway. Over.”

  “A’ight, dope.”

  Tom kept doing what he was doing outside his police station. “All the tanks of gas and the car tires were already crammed in. This’ll be easy.”

  Jorge heard how he slammed a car door shut. Tom sounded out of breath. Jorge knew what the dude was carrying: one of the bomb bags.

  Mahmud and Tom’d built the bombs. Ones like it’d been used for Swedish CIT heists b
efore. But it didn’t matter, according to the Finn—the cops could never be careful enough. They’d lifted six cabin bags from a department store storage site where one of Sergio’s friends worked and let them in. Tom’d shoved old car batteries into the bags, hooked up starter cables. Mixed nine pounds of all-purpose flour with water, divided the dough into six plastic bags. Wrapped a couple turns of black electrical tape around the whole package. Tom spray-painted the word BOMB with white text on the bags. Fucking ill terrorist workshop. Al Qaeda would’ve been proud. Hamas would’ve been jealous. ETA would’ve scowled in the corner and wanted in on it all: you’re such bomb-building pros.

  Honest: they looked mad real.

  And now: Tom was panting like a marathon runner. “I’ve set down the fake bomb, in the middle of the street, and turned it so the text is visible. They won’t be able to drive past here with any cop cars. Now I’m walking toward the clean car. In thirty seconds, the gas car will go BOOM. Over.”

  “Sick. And the others? Over.”

  “Just got a text from Babak and Robert. They’re about to torch their cars by the Kronoberg station. Over.”

  “That leaves six minutes to go.”

  Mahmud drove the van toward Haga Södra. There were cars parked outside the restaurant, or whatever it was. Jimmy and Robert’d parked the wheel loader behind the building the night before. There were four tennis courts next to the restaurant—people were playing like crazy. Jorge slipped on a pair of shades.

  He heard a sharp bang. Then Tom’s voice in the talkie: “Abbou! Fuck what a boom, man!”

  Then: car doors opening. Tom must’ve sealed the deal: set out the bomb contraption, torched the burn car.

  The five-oh would have a hard time getting out of the station. The bomb squad would take their time. Stupid idiots.

  “You should’ve seen it!” Tom howled.

  Jorge tried to laugh along with him. “Drive away from there right away. Step on it! And brief me about the others.”

  He set down the walkie-talkie. The guys so far: band of brothers, so tight.