Life Deluxe

by Jens Lapidus

  What wasn’t according to the plan—that a security guard was lying on the floor, bloody. Above all: that they were bolting with two cars. Two cars that might be recognized. Two sets of descriptions of vehicles that were being wired out over the police radio. Two cars that they had to erase all their tracks from.

  Still: so far, everything’d gone like a penalty kick at a wide-open goal, except for the fact that they’d blown out the lights in the vault. The guards’d taken it easy—fag Sweden didn’t allow them to bear arms, but they all carried alarm buttons. J-boy and Co. got all the bags, lined up neatly with the handles facing out and the small, red LED that continued to blink as if nothing’d happened. Plus two bags with dough from the vault. Jorge decided to view them as a bonus.

  Losers, adiós.

  Five minutes later: they drove up behind Helenelund’s cemetery. The drive out of the city’d been smooth sailing. Slow traffic: thanks to Jimmy and Javier for that—the main arteries were probably still in flames. No cop cars on the road: thanks to Jimmy, Tom, Robert, and Babak—the pigs were probably still trying to figure out how to disarm Jorge’s fake bombs. No choppers: he thanked himself for that—felt bad for the dogs that’d died.

  No surprises, except for the wheel loader: thank God for that.

  He didn’t know how he’d handle things with Jimmy and Robert when they met up: the wheel loader was probably not really their fault.

  They turned up behind the chapel. Jorge’s stomach was almost ready to blow again: what if the getaway cars weren’t parked here either? What if the same shit happened as went down with the fucking wheel loader?

  In front of them: the parking lot.

  He saw it right away. The small truck was parked where it was supposed to be. A black Citroën. Gracias a dios.

  They pulled the Benz van up close. Jumped out of the cars. Opened the van’s back doors. Hauled over the sacks and bags with the valuables. One, two, three. They did it in no time. Four, five, six. The inside of the Citroën’s cargo space was also covered wall-to-wall in aluminum foil. Seven, eight, nine. Jorge got a message from Tom over the walkie-talkie saying everyone was on their way home. Ten, eleven, twelve. They grabbed the jammer too. Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen. Mahmud and Sergio climbed into the Citroën—drove off to the apartment.

  Two sacks plus maaaaany bags of bills on their way home to Daddy.

  Now the final step. One of the most important—wiping out their own tracks.

  Jorge got the fire extinguisher out from the van. Started spraying the inside of the Benz—that stuff got rid of fingerprints and corroded most DNA tracks. Babak was watching him.

  “What do we do with my car?”

  A question that was impossible to evade.

  “I won’t use all of the extinguisher,” Jorge said. “You can have the last of it.”

  Babak glared at him. “What the fuck is wrong with you? You think I’m gonna take a bigger risk than anyone else? All I’m gonna get are the dregs of your fucking fire hose?”

  Jorge continued to spray foam. Ignored the Iranian’s bitching. “You or the front man for this car should call and report this thing stolen tonight at the latest.”

  “The fuck are you talking about?”

  Jorge stopped spraying. “Stop bitching. When you used the car, you must’ve realized it was a risk. Now we gonna reduce that risk.”

  Babak kept on glaring at him. Jorge didn’t wanna go at it now.

  The Range Rover looked like a wreck—miracle that it’d made it all the way here. And even more of a miracle that no one’d reacted along the road.

  Jorge stopped spraying foam. Babak grabbed the fire extinguisher from him. Jorge told him to start with the wheel, the instrument panel, and the seat. That was where you had the greatest risk of fingerprints and traces of DNA.

  There was enough foam for everything in the front of the car.

  “Fuck,” Babak hissed. “I’ve driven people in the backseat too. There’s probably mad hair, boogers, and shit back there.”

  Jorge didn’t even want to deal with this huevon. Still, the Iranian was right. The van was secured: fire extinguisher goo covered all the surfaces. But the Range Rover was still a lethal threat. Even if it wasn’t registered in Babak’s name. The foam in the front seat wouldn’t cut it.

  They had to torch the fucking thing.

  Again: this was not according to plan.

  He opened the back door. Was still wearing gloves.

  Fished around in the bag on the floor. He’d planned only on burning his clothes. He pulled out a bottle of lighter fluid—squeezed out more than half of it over the car’s tan leather in the backseats.

  He felt stressed. They’d already been here too long. More than five minutes. He picked up the matches.

  His hands were shaking. He dropped a match. Difficult to do this while wearing worker gloves.

  If Mahmud hadn’t taken the weapons with him, they could have shot at the Range Rover until it caught fire. That’s what they did in movies all the time, but now all they had to work with was matches. Old, soggy matches.

  He pulled one glove off.

  Fuck—his hand was shaking for real. Was it the roofies? Was it the rush from the robbery of the century? Was it the familiar criminal anxiety switched into panic mode?

  One match finally flared up. He tossed it onto the backseat. Saw the lighter fluid catch fire.

  Babak laughed. The flames flambéed his luxury interior.

  Blue flames.

  Jorge started taking off the jumpsuit he was wearing. Felt so good to take it off. The sun warmed him.

  He pulled out a pair of jeans and a shirt from the duffel. Crammed the overalls, the gloves, and the ski mask into the bag. Sprinkled the last lighter fluid over it.

  The bag, the clothes, the traces of Jorge Royale went up in flames.

  Babak started bitching again, “Look man, the car’s not lighting on fire.”

  Jorge looked up.

  This was NOT according to plan.

  The fire in the backseat’d gone out.

  A minute later—as if they’d been there for three years. Jorge expected to hear sirens any minute. Cruisers with shrieking breaks. SWAT pigs with guns raised.

  Babak unscrewed the cap to the tank of the car, stuffed sticks and grass down into the tank, and pushed in a piece of bark by the actual lid in order to let in oxygen.

  Jorge picked up the matches again.

  His hands: shaking worse than a vibrator turned on max speed.

  Still, he succeeded. Lit four at once. Tossed them into the gas tank.

  Stepped back quickly.

  Waited for an explosion.

  Nothing happened.

  Finally: it looked promising. There was some smoke spiraling out of the opening in the tank.

  They couldn’t stay any longer.

  One final thing before they split. There were still three security bags with valuables left on the ground. He picked them up.

  “What the fuck is that?” Babak said.

  Jorge walked toward the mini Fiat that’d been parked there the night before. Hauled the bags into the tiny trunk.

  Babak repeated, “Weren’t those supposed to go with Mahmud to the apartment?”

  “This is our bonus,” Jorge said. “Mahmud’s in on it too, he knows about it. You want in?”

  Babak grunted. But didn’t talk back. X-tra cash para los tres.

  Jorge started the car. They drove toward the apartment.

  Hagalund. Blåkulla. All the apartment buildings looked like exact replicas of one another. Light blue, superhigh, crammed full of Iraqis, MMA fighters, and AIK soccer supporters. And chill chicos—J-boy knew a lot of good guys from here.

  When he and Babak arrived, everyone was already there. Also: the Finn’d sent a guy over to check the booty. He was leaning against the wall, trying to look cool. They were gonna divide the cash up immediately—the Finn would get his cut.

  Jorge followed Babak through the door. Was met with cheer
s.

  Mahmud hugged him. Tom Lehtimäki held up a champagne bottle. Jimmy was jumping up and down.

  At first Jorge was gonna say something about the wheel loader. But something inside him just let go. He smiled instead.

  “Bros, we’re fucking kings!”

  They laughed, screamed, hugged each other again.

  Even the Finn’s guy looked happy.

  “I don’t wanna get all serious,” Jorge said. “But we’re not done yet. First, I have some questions. After that, we’ll open these sacks and secured bags.”

  He gestured widely with his arm. The fifteen bags were lined up against one wall.

  “Were the bags visible when you unloaded them?”

  “No,” Mahmud said. “We put them inside the duffel bags.”

  “Has everyone gotten rid of their cells?”

  They nodded.

  “Crushed and tossed the SIM cards?”

  “Burned your clothes?”

  “Dumped the angle grinder?”

  They nodded again.

  “Mahmud, d’you take care of the weapons?”

  “They’re in the bathroom. I took them apart and sprayed them with fire foam. They’re ready to go.”

  “Good, when I’m done, you’ll take them and toss the different parts where we decided.”

  Mahmud nodded.

  “Has the jammer been on the whole time?”

  They nodded.

  “Do we have protective clothes, masks, and all that?”

  Robert nodded.

  “Did we prep boxes?”

  Jimmy nodded.

  Jorge raised his chin. Looked at the guys, one by one. He felt like a general. A gangster boss inspecting his army. A godfather rewarding his men.

  “Then, gentlemen, it’s time to open these bags.”

  * * *

  Police Inspector

  Jörgen Ljunggren

  Granitvägen 28

  Huddinge

  REGARDING GROSSLY INAPPROPRIATE BEHAVIOR DURING A POLICE PROCEEDING

  YOUR DOSSIER NUMBER: K-2930-2011-231

  Undersigned represents Natalie Kranjic in the above-identified matter and hereby makes the following statement.

  You are part of an investigation into the murder of Radovan Kranjic in Stockholm. In the context of this investigation, my client has been questioned by the police on four separate occasions. You have led the interrogation on all these occasions. My client has recorded the three most recent interrogations with the help of recording equipment that she brought with her.

  I have had these interrogations transcribed and have thereby been able to note a great number of instances in which your behavior is grossly inappropriate. You also make yourself guilty of sexual harassment on at least three occasions.

  For your information, my client is considering reporting you for the above-listed crimes as well as grave professional misconduct. She is also considering reporting you to the ombudsman at the Justice Ministry. Undersigned will be in touch with you again with additional information on any such legal action. Attached you will find excerpts of the transcribed police interrogations with my client.

  My client also wants to stress that she, in order to show her good will, has only informed you privately at this point.

  Stockholm as written above

  Anders Nyberg, Esq.

  Attachment

  (TRANSCRIPT OF RECORDED INTERROGATION.)

  “There we go, now I’ve turned off our little recorder here. So what we say from now on will not be included in the interrogation. Do you understand?”

  “And why did you do that?”

  “Because we want to cut the crap with you, you see. Talk about some serious things.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “We know who your old man was. We’ve been working on him for years. He wasn’t one of God’s best children—you know that, don’t you? Frankly, he was a cowardly fucker who managed to scare people in this city. Isn’t that right? But we’re not scared.”

  “If that’s how you’re going to talk, I’m leaving.”

  “That’s what you said last time too. But you won’t. Listen to us. Your disgusting daddy ruined this city. People like him and you shouldn’t even be sent back to where you came. You should just be shot, straight up.”

  (The sound of a chair scraping against the floor.)

  “I said, I’m leaving.”

  “If you leave, I can guarantee that we won’t work to find your father’s murderer. You can forget that we’ll lift a finger for him or you. So you’ll stay right where you are, and you’ll listen to me, you snotty little brat. What I wanna say is that we have to collaborate on both ends here. If you want us to make an effort to collar the gentleman who ground your dad into hamburger, we want some information from you. Do you understand?”

  (TRANSCRIPT OF RECORDED INTERROGATION.)

  “Okay, so I want to bring up some of the stuff we talked about last time too. As you can see, I’ve turned the recorder off.”

  “If you start your bullshit again, we’re done for today.”

  “You know what I’ve said. You and me, we still want the same thing. We both wanna know who finished off your pop. If you want us to work on that, you’re gonna have to collaborate.”

  “You’re a pig. What do you want to hear?”

  “Don’t use that tone with me, you little slut. If you do, I won’t be happy. I want to know the names of the guys who worked with your dad.”

  “Forget about it. If you call me that again, I don’t care if you get hold of the murderer or not. We’ll just end this little circus.”

  “I said, don’t use that tone with me. Maybe you want to spend a night in a jail cell? Maybe have some fun with me on the cement floor?”

  PART II

  (A Little over Two Months Later)

  29

  Gate-out party for JW. The guy had been out for less than twenty-four hours.

  Hägerström could have flashed his police badge and been let in. Then he realized: he didn’t have a police badge anymore.

  Instead, he mentioned JW’s name to the bouncer and was waved through immediately. It couldn’t be because JW was particularly well known in this place—after all, the guy had been locked up for over five years. But there were many other ways to put yourself at the head of the line. The premier method spelled out: money talks.

  Stureplan: Stockholm’s only real district for the party elite. This place was called Sturecompagniet. It was as far from moderation as you could get, miles away from the realities of ordinary Svens. A place that all Sweden loved to hate, but that everyone under thirty probably dreamed of getting into. It was jet-set-aspirational, glamorous—hetero-normative to the infinite power.

  This was where JW had come six years ago in the pursuit of happiness. To become emperor of the silver-spoon-bred, tsar of the brats, flashy king of the Stureplan hill. And how had he done it? By becoming the royal purveyor of cocaine. JW was the high-class dealer everyone had wanted to know, the backslick brat who bathed in Benjamins. And then he fell, flat on his face. The eternal rule could never have been truer: the higher you climb, the harder you fall. Icarus ignites.

  Hägerström wondered whom JW could have invited tonight.

  The chaos was almost as great beyond the gatekeepers as outside the velvet rope. The place was crawling with people ten years his junior. Boys from the countryside, who had smeared so much gel in their hair that it would take two months to wash it out, were waving their Visa cards in the air—not even Gold Cards—wondering if they could pay the cover. The cashier shook her head. “Cash only, boys. How’d you get in, anyway?” Less green dudes from the inner city and the better suburbs were wearing tight jeans and their shirts unbuttoned. They glided past in the VIP line, pretended to be blue-blooded for real. But their shirts were shiny, and their shoes had rubber soles. Still, the hosts in dark suits and gloved hands ushered them in. Clusters of girls in clownish makeup who were probably underage were giggling relentlessly—so h
appy to have gotten in. Other chicks with more confident style and purses that cost two monthly police salaries swept past the cash registers with long strides, putting one foot in front of the other as though they were on a catwalk.

  He thought about the girls he had tried to meet during his pre-Anna years. As soon as they had wanted to start dating for real or began talking about defining their relationship, he had pulled out. Of course he knew that he was turned on by guys, got hard for guys, even though he had no steady relationships. Instead, he was a regular at the Side Track Bar, the steam room at the S.A.T.S. gym, Zenit-gym on Mäster Samuelsgatan, US Video. He had visited the hill on Långholmen a few times on warm summer nights.

  But he hoped he might get turned on by girls yet. It would be easier that way. Still, the thought of a permanent relationship with a woman made him anxious.

  Then he thought of JW’s sister. The girl who had hung out at Stureplan so much, the one who had apparently disappeared. Who JW had been looking for. Hägerström wondered what had happened. And how it had all affected JW.

  Back to the present. It was Friday night, and Johan “JW” Westlund was celebrating that he had been freed. Gate-out bash for a former prince of Stureplan.

  Again: Hägerström wondered who would be there.

  He couldn’t find him. Hägerström walked around and around, up and down. The place was larger than he remembered from the last time he had been there. That was eight years ago.

  It was late—Hägerström had wanted JW to be good and tanked by the time he got there.

  He had to push through the crowd, carefully but forcefully shove aside the teenage girls and men his age who were ogling those very same girls. The scars on his stomach strained even though they had healed beautifully.