by Jens Lapidus
Jorge, eternally grateful. Promised to get Walter his five grand within a few weeks.
The screws waved.
Time to go back.
J-boy to himself: Rubber’s rolled on and I’m ready to dip.
5
No one in the posh parts of Stockholm knew the following about Johan Westlund, alias JW, the brats’ brattiest brat: He was an ordinary citizen, a loser, a tragic Sven. He was a bluff, a fake who was playing a high-stakes double game. He lived the high life with the boyz two to three nights a week and scraped by the rest of the time to make ends meet.
JW pretended to be an ultrabrat. Really he was the world’s biggest penny-pinching pauper.
He ate pasta with ketchup five days a week, never went to the movies, jumped turnstiles, stole toilet paper from the university bathrooms, lifted food from the grocery store and Burlington socks from high-end department stores, cut his own hair, bought his designer clothes secondhand, and sneaked in for free at the gym when the receptionist wasn’t looking. He rented a room from a certain Mrs. Reuterskiöld-well, Putte, Fredrik, Nippe, and the other guys did know about that. Being a boarder was the only thing about his real situation that he hadn’t been able to hide. It was accepted somehow.
JW became a pro at being cheap. He wore contacts only on the days he had to and used the one-month disposable kind much longer than recommended, until his eyes itched like hell. He always brought his own bags when he went grocery shopping to avoid the tiny bag fee, bought Euroshopper-brand food, poured budget vodka from Germany into Absolut bottles-miraculously, no one ever seemed to notice.
JW lived like a rat when no one was watching. Big-time.
He just barely earned enough to make it work. He got money courtesy of the welfare state: a student allowance, student loans, and housing assistance. But that didn’t go far with his habits. He found salvation in a part-time job-as a gypsy cabbie.
Balancing the checkbook was hard. He easily dropped two thousand kronor on a night out with the boyz. With luck, he could pull in the same amount on a good night in the cab. His strengths as a driver: He was young, looked nice, and wasn’t an immigrant. Everybody would brave a ride with JW.
The challenge of the game was becoming one of them, truly. He read etiquette books, learned the jargon, the rules, and the unwritten codes. Listened to the way they talked, the nasal sound of it, worked hard to eliminate his northern accent. He learned what slang to use and in which contexts, understood what clothes were correct, what ski resorts in the Alps were in, which vacation destinations in Sweden were it. The list wasn’t long: Torekov, Falsterbo, Smådalarö, et cetera. He knew the trick was always to spend with class. Buy a Rolex watch, buy a pair of Tod’s shoes, buy a Prada jacket, buy a Gucci folder in alligator skin for your lecture notes. He looked forward to the next step, buying a BMW cab in order to realize the last of the three b’s: backslick, beach tan, BMW.
JW was good; it worked. High society took him in. He counted. He was considered fun, hot, and generous. But he knew they still noticed something. There were gaps in his story; they weren’t familiar with his parents, hadn’t heard of the place he went to school. And it was hard to keep the lies straight. Sometimes they wondered if he’d really been on a spring break trip to Saint Moritz. No one who’d been there at the time remembered having seen him. Had he really lived in Paris, pretty close to the Marais? His French wasn’t exactly super. They could feel it: Something was off, but they didn’t know what. JW recognized what his challenges were: to create effective camouflage, to fit in and seem genuine to the core. To be accepted.
And why? He didn’t even know the answer. Not because he didn’t think about it-he knew he was driven by a desire for validation, to feel special. But he didn’t get why he’d chosen this particular way of doing it, which was the easiest route to humiliation. If he was found out, he might as well leave the city. Sometimes he thought maybe that’s exactly why he kept pushing it, because of some self-destructive desire to see how far he could take it. To be forced to deal with the shame of being found out. Deep down, he probably couldn’t have cared less about Stockholm. He wasn’t from there. Didn’t feel as though the city had anything profound to offer-other than attention, parties, chicks, the glamorous life, and money. Superficialities. It could be any city, really. But right now, the capital was where it was at.
JW had a real story. He came from Robertsfors, a small town above Umeå, in the rural north, and moved to Stockholm when he was a junior in high school. He took the train down without his parents, with only two suitcases and the address to his dad’s cousin in hand. He stayed there three days, then found the room with Mrs. Reuterskiöld. Flung himself out into the world he now inhabited. Changed style, clothes, and haircut. Enrolled in Östra Real, a premier brat high school. Hung out with the right crowd. His mom and dad were worried at first, but there wasn’t much they could do once he’d made up his mind. After a while they calmed down-they were happy if he was happy.
JW rarely thought about his parents. For long stretches of time, it was like they didn’t even exist. His old man was a foreman at a lumber factory, pretty much as far from JW’s life plan as you could get. His mom worked at a job-placement agency. She was so proud that he was going to college.
What he did think about, a lot, was the family’s own tale. An unusual, unsolved tragedy. An incident that all of Robertsfors knew about but never mentioned.
JW’s sister, Camilla, had been missing for four years and no one knew what’d happened to her. It took weeks before anyone even knew she was missing. Her apartment in Stockholm revealed no leads. Her phone conversations with Mom and Dad didn’t give any clues, either. No one knew anything. Maybe it was just a mistake. Maybe she’s grown tired of it all and moved abroad. Maybe she was a movie star in Bollywood, living it up. JW couldn’t deal with home after it happened. His dad, Bengt, had buried himself in drink, self-pity, and silence. His mom, Margareta, had tried to keep it all together. Believed it was an accident. Thought it would help to get involved in the local Amnesty chapter, work longer hours, go to a therapist and talk about her nightmares, so that she, since she was reminded of them twice a week by the damn shrink, dreamed them over and over again. But JW knew what he believed: no fucking way Camilla would just up and leave somewhere without being in touch for four years. She was really gone. And deep down, everyone probably knew it.
It kept eating at him. Someone was responsible and hadn’t paid the price.
The mood at home risked crushing him. He had to move. At the same time, he was forced to retrace his sister’s footsteps. Camilla, who was three years older, had also left Robertsfors early, when she was seventeen. She wanted bigger things than to waste her life away behind some painted picket fence. Mom claimed that when they were little, Camilla and JW’d fought more than other kids. They had zero positive connection. But after she’d been in the city for two years, a relationship began to develop. He started getting texts, sometimes short phone calls, occasional e-mails. They reached a kind of understanding, that the two of them wanted the same thing. JW could see it now, they’d been a lot alike. Camilla in JW’s imagination: the queen of Stureplan. The party’s hottest it girl. Elevated. Well known. Exactly where he wanted to be.
The gypsy cab gig was easy. He borrowed a car from Abdulkarim Haij, an Arab he’d met at a bar over a year ago. He picked it up with a full tank and returned it with a full tank. The other city drivers accepted him-they knew he was driving for the Arab. The price was set ad hoc at each pickup. JW would write the info down on a pad: time of pickup, destination, price. Forty percent went straight to Abdulkarim.
The Arab would occasionally do tests. Like, one of his men would pretend to be a customer and take a ride with JW. Afterward, the Arab would compare what his controller’d paid with what JW wrote in his log. JW was honest. He didn’t want to lose the extra cash he made on the job. It was his lifeline, his salvation in the race to score points with the boyz. JW only had one road rule. He didn’t do
any pickups at Stureplan. The risk of exposure was too evident on his own turf.
JW was driving off the books tonight. He picked the car up in Huddinge with Abdulkarim, a Ford Escort from 1994 that’d once been painted a pure white. The interior was crappy. There was no CD player and the seats were frayed. He smiled at the Arab’s attempts to spruce it up-Abdul’d hung three Wunder-Baum air fresheners in the rearview mirror.
JW drove home. A cool August night-perfect for the taxi business. As usual, finding a parking spot in Ö-malm was tough. The SUVs hogged the streets. Driving by the latest beauty from Porsche made him drool: Cayman S. A 911 combined with a Boxter-hotness incarnate. He finally found a spot-the Ford wasn’t exactly a big machine.
He went up to his room at Mrs. Reuterskiöld’s. It was nine o’clock. No point in driving the cab before midnight. He settled down with his schoolbooks. Had a midterm in four days.
The apartment was located near Tessin Park. Lower Gärdet was okay for JW. Upper Gärdet wouldn’t cut it-too far off the grid, too bitter. The room was 216 square feet, with a separate entrance, toilet, and a big window overlooking the park. Peaceful and calm, just like the old lady wanted it. The problem was that he had to be so damn quiet when he managed to get a girl home.
The room was furnished with a full bed, a red armchair, and a desk from IKEA, where he put his laptop. He’d swiped it from some oblivious sucker at school. Piece of cake. He’d waited till the owner went to the bathroom. Most people took their computers along with them, but others chanced it. JW’d seen the opportunity-just slid it into his shoulder bag and walked out.
The lamp from his childhood room was screwed into the desk. It still had glue marks from old cartoon stickers. Embarrassing, like whoa. Important to turn it off when he had a girl over-home game.
Clothes were strewn everywhere. There was one poster on the wall: Schumacher in a Formula 1 uniform, spraying champagne from the prize podium.
There really wasn’t much to the room. Sparse. He preferred to go home with the chicks to their places instead-away game.
JW didn’t mind studying. He liked writing his own papers instead of copying stuff off the Internet. He participated actively in class discussions when he was prepared. Always tried to make time to do the practice sets after. Tried his best to be ambitious.
He cracked the books. The Financial Analysis course had the hardest exam. He needed more time.
Turned the sets over in his mind, counted, fed numbers into the calculator. His thoughts returned to the discussion he’d had with the boyz the night before. How much did the blatte really make selling coke? How much did he pull in a month? What were his margins? Risk versus possible income. He should be able to calculate that.
JW went through the list of his life goals. One: to not reveal his double life. Two: to buy a car. Three: to become loaded. Finally: to find out what happened to Camilla. A step toward getting over it-if that was possible.
Principles of Corporate Finance-he got through seven pages. The difference between financing a company through stocks or through loans. How does the value of the company change? Preference shares, beta value, rates of return, obligations, et cetera. He took notes on a pad of paper and underlined in the textbook with a neon yellow highlighter. Almost fell asleep over the pages covered in graphs and equations.
When he nodded off for a second, he dropped his pen. That woke him. He thought, No point to keep going at this hour.
Time to drive home the money.
He was on his way to Medborgarplatsen, on the south side of the city. It was quarter past eleven. He was driving Sibyllegatan down to Strandvägen, past Berzelii Park. Dangerous area, way too close to the boyz’ stomping grounds.
JW kept mulling over his thoughts. What did he really know about his sister’s life in Stockholm anyway? The texts, calls, and e-mails he’d gotten were often without substance. Camilla’d had a part-time job at Café Ogo on Odengatan and gone to continuing-education classes at Komvux to get better high school grades in literary arts, math, and English. She’d had a boyfriend. JW didn’t even know his name. He knew only one point of interest: The guy’d driven a yellow Ferrari. There were photos of Camilla in the car at home in Robertsfors. In them, she was glowing, smiling and waving through a rolled-down window. You couldn’t make out the guy’s face in the pictures. Who was he?
JW drove past the Foreign Ministry at Gustav Adolf’s Square. There were a lot of people out and about. Everyone was back from vacation and wanted to make up for what they’d missed by vegging out at country houses and on sailboats. He drove through the tunnel at Slussen toward Medborgarplatsen.
He parked the car outside the Scandic Hotel and got out. Positioned himself outside Snaps. There was always someone there who needed a ride home or downtown.
Three chicks stumbled out. Possible good pickup. He cocked his head to the side, pulled an irresistible JW. “Hey, ladies. Need a ride?”
One of the girls, a blonde, looked at her friends. They knew what was up, nodded. She said, “Sure. How much to Stureplan?”
Damn it. Gotta play this. Coax, smile. He said, “There’s so much traffic there. I know it sounds like a drag, but would it be okay if I drop you off by Norrmalmstorg?” Charm attack. Added, in a fake blatte accent, “Special price for you only.”
Giggles. The blond girl said, “Only ’cause you’re cute. But then you have to give us a good deal.”
It was settled: 150 kronor.
JW drove toward Norrmalmstorg. The chicks chirped in the back. They were going to Kharma. It had been so nice at Caroline’s. Amazing food, crazy atmosphere, sweet drinks. They were soooooo drunk. JW shut them out. Couldn’t get interested in anything but driving tonight. He smiled, looked mysterious.
The girls babbled. Did he wanna come? JW felt the vibe, it would be so easy to score. But there was a major hurdle: These weren’t the kind of girls he wanted to meet. Svens.
Before he dropped them off, he said, “Ladies, I have to ask you something.”
They thought he was going to make a move.
“Have you ever met a girl out named Camilla Westlund? Tall, pretty, from the north. Like, four years ago?”
The babblebrauds looked like they were thinking, hard.
“I’m not too great with names, but none of us recognize Camilla Westlund,” one said.
JW thought, Maybe they are too young. Maybe they weren’t partying at the right places back then.
They got out by the bus stops at Norrmalmstorg. He gave the chicks his cell phone number. “Call whenever you need a ride.”
Time for more driving.
He parked by Kungsträdgården Park. Couldn’t stop thinking. It was the first time he’d asked anyone about Camilla. Why not, anyway? Maybe someone would remember.
Seven minutes passed before the next passenger was seated in the Ford.
It was a calm night. Everything went off smoothly. The clubbers were into it, wanted to get home. JW delivered.
Later. The night was a success; he’d made two thousand kronor so far. Mental arithmetic. That meant twelve hundred in his pocket.
He was waiting outside Kvarnen on Tjärhovsgatan. Mostly jailbait and soccer fans. The line was long, more orderly than the one outside Kharma. Lamer people than at Kharma. Cheaper than Kharma. No one was being let in just then-something’d happened inside. Two police vans were parked outside. Their flashing lights illuminated the walls. JW wanted to get out of there fast; it was needless to take risks with the car.
As he was walking back to the Ford, a familiar figure came toward him. One who walked with rhythm, dressed in a well-tailored suit with billowing pants. High hairline and short, curly hair. Without really being able to make out the figure’s face, JW knew who it was: Abdulkarim. He had his big friend in tow, his very own gorilla: Fahdi.
JW looked at him, hoped nothing was up.
Abdulkarim said hi, opened the car door, and got into the passenger seat. The gorilla folded himself into the back.
JW jumped in behind the wheel. “Nice to see you out and about. Anything in particular you want to check?”
“No, no. No worry, man. Just drive us to Spy.”
Spy Bar. Stureplan. What was he going to say?
JW started the car. Held off answering. Made a decision-he couldn’t stir shit up with the Arab.
“Spy Bar it is.”
“There a problem?”
“Absolutely not. It’s all good. It’s a pleasure to drive you, Abdul.”
“Don’t call me Abdul. It means ‘slave’ in Arabic.”
“Okay, boss.”
“Me, I know you donwanna drive to Stureplan, JW. Know you donwanna be seen there. Got fancy buddies there. You’re ashamed, man. Never be ashamed.”
The Arab fucker knew. How? Maybe not so strange, if you thought about it. Abdulkarim was out a lot. He’d seen JW with his friends around Stureplan. Connected the dots. Understood why he didn’t tend to make pickups there. The rest was just simple math.
He had to do damage control.
“It’s not that bad, Abdulkarim. Come on, it’s no big deal. I just have to make some money. Want to be able to party and stuff. This isn’t the kind of thing you tell everybody.”
The Arab nodded. The Arab laughed. The Arab controlled the convo. Small talk.
Then it happened. The offer.
“Me? I know you need the big cheese. I got a suggestion. Pay attention. Could be up your alley.”
JW nodded. Wondered what was coming. Damn, did Abdulkarim like the sound of his own voice.
“I have some other business, other than the cabs. Sell C. I know, you’ve bought candy from me. Through Gurhan, you know, the Turk you and your buddies get it from. But Gurhan won’t work. Big Jew. Tryin’ to rip me off. Skims the top. Sells too high. Doesn’t keep good books. And, worst thing, he buys from some other guy, too. Tryin’ to be clever. Play us against each other. Pressure me. He says, ‘If I can’t get it for four hundred a gram I don’t wanany this week.’ Messy. No good. That’s where you come in, JW.”