by Jens Lapidus
The TV was wide, extremely flat, and disgustingly expensive.
Everyone wore their shoes inside-classic. The shoe question divided the Swedish indoor world. There are three types of people. The type who always walks in with shoes on and has the right attitude-is there anything worse than walking around in party attire and socks? The second type of person is the one who becomes insecure and checks out what everyone else is doing, who might keep them on if everyone else does. Wishy-washy, a turncoat. Finally, there’s the third type, who thinks you should always take your shoes off, who walks around soundlessly in sweaty socks, who only has himself to blame.
JW hated people who walked around in only their socks. Even worse if there were holes in the socks. His suggestion for a solution was simple: a bullet to the back of the head. Seeing an errant toe grossed him out. So Sven-style. So coarse. A true sign of plebs. A recap of the rules of the sock world: Keep your shoes on, never wear tube socks, and make sure there’s never any skin showing between pant and sock. The color should be black, or possibly fun socks in loud colors if matched with an otherwise-somber look.
To be safe, JW always wore kneesocks. Black. Always Burlington brand. His theory: Much easier to sort after washing if they’re all the same.
The plan for the night was simple. Bottle service was always a sure win. They easily fulfilled the requirements to make a reservation. You had to booze for at least six thousand kronor.
Straight shot from there. Drink, snort, drink, check out chicks, maybe dance for a while, converse, flirt, unbutton more shirt buttons, order bubbles, definitely hit on girls, snort again. Fuck.
JW couldn’t let the matter drop. Kept returning to it. The questions popped up in his head. How much can the dealer darky make? Does he have to work long hours? How dangerous is it? Who does he buy from? What are the margins? How does he get customers?
He said, “So, what do you think he makes a month?”
Fredrik, surprised: “Who?”
“The Turk. The blatte we buy C from. Is he a little Gekko, or what?”
Referring to Wall Street was standard among the boyz. JW’d seen the movie over ten times. Enjoyed every second of it: the simplicity of greed.
Nippe laughed. “Damn, you go on about money. What does it matter anyway? I’m sure he makes plenty, but, like, how cool do you think he is? Ever seen his clothes? Hick leather jacket. Thick Gypsy gold chain that he wears outside his shirt, baggy pants from an outlet or something. Huge cuffs on his shirts. I mean, he’s a real tool.”
JW let rip a belly laugh.
They dropped the subject.
Two minutes later, Putte’s cell phone rang. He held the phone close to his ear as he talked, while grinning broadly at the boys. JW couldn’t hear what he was saying.
Putte hung up. “Boys, I have a little surprise for us tonight. They’re just looking for a place to park.”
JW had no idea what he was talking about. The other guys leered knowingly.
Five minutes passed.
The doorbell rang.
Putte went to open the door. The other guys stayed put in the living room.
Nippe lowered the music.
A tall girl in a trench coat and a bodybuilder type in a black jean jacket entered the room.
Putte glowed, “Voilà, the evening’s warm-up.”
The girl went over to the stereo as if she were walking down a catwalk. Self-assured and steady, almost gliding, in sky-high stilettos. She wasn’t a day over twenty. Stick-straight brown hair. JW wondered, Is it a wig?
Changed the music. Raised the volume.
Kylie Minogue: “You’ll never get to heaven if you’re scared of getting high.”
The girl dropped the trench coat. Underneath, she was wearing a black bra, a thong, and nylons with a garter belt.
She began to dance to the music. Provocatively. Invitingly.
She gyrated. Smiled at the boys as though she were doling out candy. She rolled her hips, played her tongue across her top lip, put one foot up on the edge of the coffee table. Leaned forward and stared into JW’s eyes. He chortled. Yelled, “Damn what a fine bonus, Putte. She’s better than the one we had before the summer.”
The stripper moved in time to the music. Touched herself between her legs. The boys howled. She approached Putte, kissed him on the cheek, licked his ear. He tried to pinch her butt. She danced away from him with her hands on her back. Thrust her crotch back and forth rhythmically. Unclasped her bra and tossed it toward the bodybuilder, who stood motionless against the wall. The music kept pumping. She moved faster. Humped. Breasts bobbed. The boys sat as though in a trance.
She grabbed hold of her thong. Moved it back and forth. Put one leg up on the coffee table again. Leaned forward.
Little JW flexed.
The show went on for five more minutes.
It only got better and better.
Nippe joked when it was over: “I swear that was the loveliest thing I’ve seen since my confirmation.”
Putte settled the bill in the hall. JW wondered what the damage was.
When the stripper and the guard’d left, they each had another drink and put on more music. Kept talking about the experience.
JW wanted to hit the town. “Come on, boys. We’re walking, right?”
“No, let’s fucking cab it!” Putte roared.
It was time to get going.
Putte called a taxi.
JW wondered how he would be able to afford the whole night with the boyz.
3
The gym: Serb hangout. Anabola-fixated. Bouncer farm. Summa summarum: Radovan-impregnated.
Mrado’d hung out at Fitness Club for four years.
He loved the place even though the machines were shitty. Made by Nordic Gym-an old brand. The walls weren’t too clean. From Mrado’s perspective: didn’t matter. The free weights and the clientele mattered. The overall interior: ordinary gym kitsch. Plastic plants in two white buckets with fake dirt. A TV tuned to Eurosport screwed into the wall above two stationary bikes. Constant Eurotechno from the speakers. A poster of Arnold Schwarzenegger posing from 1992, another of Ove Rytter from the 1994 World Gym Championships. Two posters of Christel Hansson, the chick with a six-pack and silicone tits. Sexy? Not Mrado’s style.
Niche: big guys. But not the biggest training freaks-those guys weren’t made of the right stuff.
Niche: guys who care about their bodies, size, and muscle mass but who also realize that some things trump training. Work can take priority. Honor takes priority. The right stings have priority. Highest priority always-Mr. R.
Radovan was in on 33 percent of the gym. Brilliant business concept. Open 24/7, all year round. Mrado’d even seen guys roaring in front of the mirrors on New Year’s Eve. Putting up big plates while the rest of the country watched fireworks and drank bubbly. Mrado was never there on nights like that. He had his business to run. His own standard times were between nine-thirty and eleven at night. The gym then: perfect.
The place was an asset in other ways. Recruitment base. Information magnet. Training camp. Mrado kept his eye on the meatheads.
The moment right after the workout in the locker room-one of the day’s best for Mrado. Body still warm from the workout, hair wet. The steam from the showers. The smell of shower gel and spray-on deodorant. The ache in his muscles.
Relaxation.
He put on his shirt. Left it unbuttoned. They didn’t make shirt collars wide enough for Mrado. The definition of a bull neck.
His workout for the day: focus on back, front of the thighs, and biceps. Worked a machine for his back. Slow pulling motions for the muscles in the small of his back. Important not to pull with your arms. Then back-ups. Training for the back, lower region. After that, thighs. Seven hundred and seventy pounds on the bar. He lay on his back and pushed upward. The angle between your lower leg and foot isn’t supposed to change, they say. According to Mrado: crap they tell rookies-if you know what you’re doing, you can stretch it out a little more.
Maximum results. Concentration. Almost shat himself.
The last part: biceps. Muscle of all muscles. Mrado only used free weights.
Tomorrow: neck, triceps, and back of the thighs. Stomach: every day. It couldn’t get too much.
He kept a log with daily notes from every workout session at the reception desk. Mrado’s goals were clear. To go from 270 to 290 of pure muscle before February. Then change up his strategy. Shred. Burn fat. By summertime: only muscle. Clean, without surface fat. Would look damn good.
He trained at another place, too, the fighting club, Pancrease Gym. Once or twice a week. Guilt got to him. Should go more often. Important to build muscle power. But the power had to be used for something. Mrado’s work tool: fear. He went far on size alone. In the end, he went even further on what he learned at Pancrease: to break bones.
He usually hung around for about twenty minutes in the locker room. Soaked up that special amity that exists between big guys at a gym. They see each other, nod in recognition, exchange a few words about the training schedge for the day. Become friends. Here also: a gathering of Radovan honchos.
Big boy talking points: BMW’s latest 5 series. A shoot-out on the city’s south side over the weekend. New triceps training exercises.
Two dudes were shoveling tuna fish from one-pound containers. A third sipped on a gray protein drink. Bit into a PowerBar. The idea: to scarf as much protein as possible directly post-workout. Rebuild broken muscle cells into even bigger ones. An unknown face among the guys, a newbie.
Mrado was big. The new dude: gigantic.
He defied the regular ritual: Come a few times. Keep to yourself. Check out the scene. Show humility. Show respect. This guy, the giant, sat right smack in the middle. Seemed to think he was one of the guys. At least he’d kept his mouth shut so far.
Mrado put on his socks. Waited. Was always what he put on last. Wanted his feet to be completely dry.
“I’ve got a job this weekend, if anyone’s interested.”
“What is it?” Patrik asked. Swede. Ex-skinhead who’d left his own and been working for Mrado instead for a year now. His Nationalist tattoos were all over the place. Hard to distinguish. A green mess, mostly.
“Nothing too big. Just need a little help. The usual.”
“How the hell’re we supposed to work if we don’t know what it is?”
“Relax, Patrik. Don’t get so worked up you shit yourself. I said it’s the regular.”
“Sure, Mrado. I’m just fucking around. Sorry. But what’s the deal?”
“I need some help collecting. You guys know my routes through town.”
Ratko, a countryman, Mrado’s friend and squire, raised an eyebrow. “Collecting? Something more than the usual? Aren’t they paying up every weekend like they’re supposed to?”
“Yeah, most of ’em. But not all. You know how it is. Might be some new bars who want us, too.”
One of the few Arabs at the gym, Mahmud, was smearing wax in his hair. “Sorry, Mrado, I gotta work out. Do another session every night.”
“You work out too much,” Mrado replied. “You know what Ratko says. There are two things that’ll give you blisters up the ass: being too small in the slammer, so you have to take cock, and always pressing at the gym ’til you shit your pants like a toddler.”
Ratko laughed. “The job, will it take all night?”
“I think it might take a while. Ratko, you in? Patrik? Anyone else? I just need some backup. You know, just to make sure I don’t look like I’m alone.”
No one else offered.
The new giant opened his mouth, “Seeing how fucking tiny you are, you probably need an entire army of extras.”
Silence in the locker room.
Two possible alternatives. The giant thought he was funny, trying to become one of the guys. Or the giant was challenging him. Seeking a confrontation.
Mrado stared straight out into nothing. Poker-faced. The music from up in the gym was clearly audible. Mrado: the man who could paralyze an entire bodybuilding club.
“You’re a big guy. I’ll give you that. But lay low.”
“And why’s that? Is joking not allowed in here, or what?”
“Just lay low.”
Ratko tried to defuse the tension. “Hey, you, take it easy. Sure, you can joke around, but-”
The giant cut him off. “Fuck yourself. I’ll say what I want, when I want.”
The mood in the locker room like at a wake.
Same thought in everyone’s head: The new giant is playing Russian roulette.
Same question on everyone’s mind: Does he want to be carried out on a stretcher?
Mrado got up. Put his jacket on. “Hey, man, I think it’s best you go upstairs and do what you came here to do.”
Mrado walked out of the locker room. No problem. Nice and easy.
Twelve minutes later, in the upstairs gym area. The giant was standing in front of the mirror. A one-hundred-pound dumbbell in each hand. Swaying slightly and rhythmically. Veins like worms along his arms. Biceps as big as soccer balls. Arnold Schwarzenegger-you can hit the showers.
The guy grunted. Growled. Groaned.
Counted lifts. Six, seven…
It was eleven-thirty at night. The gym was practically empty.
Mrado was standing by the reception desk, writing down the day’s workout in his notebook.
… eight, nine, ten…
Patrik came up. Talked to Mrado. Told him, “I’ll call you on Friday about the job. I think I’m in. That work?”
“Thanks, Patrik. You’re in. We can talk more when you call.”
… eleven, twelve. Pause. Rest a minute. But don’t let the muscles contract.
Mrado walked over to the giant. Stood next to him. Stared. Arms crossed.
The giant ignored him. Began the count over again.
One, two, three…
Mrado picked up a sixty-five-pound dumbbell. Did two lifts in time with the giant. Heavy on freshly worked biceps.
… four, five.
Dropped the dumbbell on the giant’s foot.
He screamed like a stuck pig. Dropped his dumbbells. Grabbed his foot. Jumped on one leg. Eyes teared up.
Mrado thought, Poor, stupid oaf. You should’ve taken a step back and raised your guard instead.
Mrado swung with full force at the guy’s other leg. Three hundred and thirty pounds hit the floor. Mrado over him. Unexpectedly quick. Careful to keep his back to the window. Pulled his gun. Smith & Wesson Sigma.38. It was small but, according to Mrado, functional: It could easily be worn under a blazer without being seen.
People outside couldn’t see what was happening. To flash a live weapon-unusual for Mrado. Even more unusual at the gym.
The barrel pushed into the giant’s mouth.
Mrado released the safety. “Listen up, kiddo. My name is Mrado Slovovic. This is our club. Never so much as set foot here again. If you have any foot left, that is.”
The giant as passé as a reality TV celeb three months after the fact. Realized he’d lost face.
Maybe forever.
Maybe he was done for.
Mrado got up. Angled the gun down. Aimed at the giant. His back to the window. Important. The giant remained lying on the floor. Mrado stepped on his bad foot-265 pounds of Mrado on fresh-crushed toes.
The giant whimpered. Didn’t dare wriggle away.
Mrado took note: Was that a tear he saw in the corner of the guy’s eye?
He said, “Time to limp home, Tiny Tim.”
Curtain.
4
Life draaagged.
When you’re locked up from eight every p.m. to seven every a.m., there’s a lot of time to think in your cell. One year, three months, and, now, sixteen days on the inside. Escapeproof, they said. Forget that.
Jorge was walking on eggshells. Craved smokes. Slept like shit. Back and forth to the crapper. Drove the screws nuts. Had to unlock his cell every time.
Slow nights brought serious though
ts. Memories.
He thought about his sister, Paola. She was doing well in college. Had chosen a different kind of life. Suedi-style with security. He adored her. Prepared things to say to her when he was out, when he could see her for real. Not just stare at the photo he’d pinned up over his cot.
He thought about his mother.
He refused to think about Rodriguez.
He thought about different plans. He thought about the Plan. Most of all: He was working out more than anyone else.
Every day he ran twenty laps around the compound, along the inside of the walls. The total distance: five miles. Every other day: a session in the prison gym. Leg muscles were top priority. Front, back of thighs, and calves. He used the machines. Meticulously. Stretched like crazy after. People thought he’d lost it. The goal: 440 yards in less than fifty seconds, two miles in less than eleven minutes. Could work, now that he’d cut back on smokes.
The area was well groomed. The grass well cut. The bushes low. No tall trees-the risk was too obvious. Gravel paths around the buildings. Good to train on. Big open lawns. Two soccer goals. A small basketball court. A couple of outdoor bench presses. Could’ve been a nice college campus. What sabotaged the collegiate snapshot: a twenty-three-foot wall.
Running: Jorge’s thing. His build was sinewy, like a guerrilla soldier’s. Not yolked, no extra fat. Veins protruding on his forearms. A nurse in junior high once said he was every blood bank’s dream. Jorge, young and stupid, told her to dream of someone else ’cause she was such a fucking dog. No checkup for him that time.
His hair was straight, dark brown, combed back. Eyes: light brown. Despite everything he’d been through in the asphalt jungle, there was an innocent look in his eye. Made it easier to sell snow when it came to that.
They slaved in the workshops during the weeks. Were allowed out twice a day: one hour for lunch and again between five o’clock and dinnertime at seven. After that: lockdown. Just you and your cell. They got more time on the weekends. Played ball. Hit the weights. The gangs shot the shit. Smoked, chatted, sneaked a roach when the COs weren’t watching. Jorge worked out.