by Jens Lapidus
Midday, he rang the doorbells of the neighbors over, under, and next to him. Hid in the stairwell in case they opened. No one was home. He could watch TV.
Lowered the volume anyway. There was no cable. Listened to the news. Nothing about him. He watched reruns, matinee movies, and shopping shows. Got nervous.
Kept practicing his new walk. Nail the rhythm. Swing your arms. His right leg made an extra little swerve with each step. Nigga with attitude. Walk with soul. Movements with flow. Don’t overdo it; make it seem real. Felt as if he’d moved like this all his life. Had it in his blood. From birth.
He read the evening papers that Sergio’d brought with him. They hadn’t written much about the escape. Just a short article in Expressen on the first day after and a small notice in Aftonbladet.
According to Expressen:
A man convicted of possession with intent escaped from the Österåker Penitentiary on Thursday afternoon under spectacular circumstances. One of the correctional officers told Expressen that the fugitive, Jorge Salinas Barrio, was not a troublemaker and that the staff did not suspect that he was planning an escape. According to a source at the facility, Jorge Salinas Barrio climbed over the exterior wall with help from the outside. Then he is said to have run toward the woods, where it is probable that a car was waiting for him. The same source stated that the fugitive had been training long-distance running in what is described as a “manic” way for months before the incident. The prison administration has expressed self-criticism over what has happened, though they are pleased that the incident involved very little violence.
After the wave of escapes in 2004 when, among others, Tony Olsson, convicted of the murder of a police officer in Malexander, succeeded in escaping on two separate occasions during the same year, the control and security at the country’s penitentiaries have been improved. After yesterday’s incident, the Criminal Investigation Department has given word that an eventual investigation will be implemented to further heighten the level of security at penitentiaries of this kind.
Jorge smiled. So, they’d thought his training was exaggerated. Wonder what they’d thought about his studies at the city library? Had they even connected the dots?
There was nothing in the papers on day two. He was disappointed. At the same time, relieved-the less attention the better.
He missed running. Disliked the silence. Was scared his endurance and his fit body would break down.
Time slower than a Prius without a plug-in. He tried to plan. Jacked off. Peered between the blinds. Got nervous. Practiced the new Jorge over and over again. Listened for suspicious sounds on the street or in the stairwell. Fantasized about his success abroad.
Boredom: ten times worse than in the slammer.
He slept poorly. Woke up. Listened. Raised the blinds. Stared through the peephole in the door.
Paced. Looked himself in the mirror. Who would he become?
Jorge’s dilemma: The blow biz was all he knew. But how could he get back into it without disclosing his identity? As Jorge, he was respected. Not as whatever his name would be now. It was a tough scene to break into solo. Impossible without support.
He needed a personal identification number and an address in order to hide behind a temporary identity. Besides, he wanted to jump stiles. If you got collared, you could always give someone else’s digits and address to placate the subway controllers.
What’s more, he had to find a tanning bed so he could cut the self-tanner. Needed contacts with a darker brown tint than his natural eye color. Needed more threads than the dingy tracksuit Sergio’d given him. Needed a cell phone. Needed to get in touch with certain people. Most of all, J-boy needed cash. He missed Paola. Wanted to call but knew he shouldn’t. It’d have to wait. After five days, he started wigging out. Thought every single car that stopped on the street was the 5-0. Sergio came that night; they talked the situation over. The cops hadn’t visited Sergio yet. Everything seemed cool. Jorge, still buggin’. Wanted out.
Sergio picked him up at 6:00 a.m. the next day. Jorge was totally spent. Hadn’t slept a wink. Had crawled around the apartment with a sponge, wiping every piece of hair and other possible traces of himself off the floor.
They drove to Kallhäll. Jorge asked Sergio to make a few extra loops to lose any eventual tails.
Sergio shook his head, “You tweakin’ out, primo.”
The next place for Jorge to sleep: a room at Sergio’s best bud’s place, Eddie’s. The advantage: If the cops were on his heels, they’d definitely lose the trail now. The downside: The circle of trust widened.
Really, the optimal thing would be to stay with people who didn’t know who he was, or who wouldn’t recognize him. You couldn’t fool Eddie. Laughed when he saw Jorge. El negrito. He was introduced to Eddie’s wife and two kids. Didn’t know squat about Jorge’s story. Not perfect, but okay.
Jorge lay on a bed for days on end. Listened to the kids crying. Studied the patterns on the ceiling. Thought about what it must’ve been like when his mom came to Sweden big with him. From the dictatorship. Alone with the memories. He was ashamed that he knew so little. Hadn’t asked enough.
The room was small. Belonged to one of the kids. Legos all over the floor. Kid posters on the walls. Some teen idols Jorge didn’t even recognize. Flowery curtains over the windows. He read comics. Wished he could play Eddie’s Xbox but didn’t dare leave the room. Yearned to be back in the old lady’s crib, but still knew he was safer where he was. Yearned for real freedom. Yearned to be out.
A few days later. Eddie knocked on the door at around 2:00 p.m. He should have been at work. Jorge knew right away: Something was wrong. Eddie was sweaty. His shoes were still on. His kids were screaming in the background.
“Jorge, you gotta go. They’ve picked Sergio up for questioning.”
“When? How do you know?”
“They called this morning and told him he had to show up before one p.m. He called me right away and said I had to tell you but that I couldn’t call.”
“Good. I’m the one that told him no calls. They can tap ’em, and God knows what else they can do. You weren’t followed?”
Eddie: not the world’s sharpest Latino. But he’d been around the block. Knew to keep a lookout.
Jorge started getting dressed. Besides the tracksuit, he’d borrowed a jacket from Sergio. Not much to pack: a tube of Piz Buin, the curlers, a toothbrush, two pairs of boxers, and an extra pair of socks. It’d all come from Sergio, along with five grand he’d borrowed.
Shoved the stuff into a plastic bag. Kissed Eddie on the cheeks. Waved to the screaming kids. Thanked the oldest niño for the use of his room. Hoped Eddie hadn’t told his wife his name or who he was.
He’d been on the run for ten days. Was it already going to hell?
Wrote a note in Spanish for Sergio, coded according to their agreement. Gave it to Eddie.
Stepped out of the apartment. Thought he heard a siren outside.
Opened the door to the street.
Looked around. No cars on the street. No people. Coast clear. Paranoid Latino on the run.
What the fuck was he gonna do now?
The air was getting chillier. September ninth. Jorge walked around the city all day. Downtown: Drottninggatan, Gamla Brogatan, Hötorget, Kungsgatan, Stureplan. Ate at McDonald’s. Window-shopped. Tried to check out chicas.
Couldn’t enjoy. Only stress. Whichever it was-OCD or rational security measures-he kept looking around like every hombre on the street was an undercover on the LO.
Get to know broken Jorge: El Jorgelito-a scared little shit. He wanted to call his sister. He wanted to talk to his mama. He almost wanted to go back to prison.
This wouldn’t fly; he had to wise up. Stop thinking about his mama and sister all the time. What the fuck was wrong with him anyway? Family’s everything, sure. That was rule número uno. But if you didn’t have a real family, if you had to take care of yourself, then other rules applied. He focused on the important stuff.
Nowhere to sleep and no bros/co-dees he could trust right now.
Five grand in his pocket. He could pay some old blow buddy to put him up for a few nights. But the risk was too big; they’d rat for anything, just show them the cheese.
He couldn’t stay at a motel. Probably too expensive. Besides, they’d want to see some kind of ID.
He could get in touch with his mama or his sister, but they were probably under surveillance by the cops and it was unnecessary to put them through that kind of crap.
Mierda.
During the days on the bed in the kid’s room, an idea had started to take shape: Go to a homeless shelter. Would solve the problem of needing a bed, but his need for cash remained. There was another, bigger idea, too. Dangerous. Dicey. He tried to push it away, since it involved Radovan.
Jorge asked some junkies downtown where he could sleep. They told him about two places: Stadsmissionen’s place by Slussen, Night Owl, and KarismaCare by Fridhemsplan.
He walked down to the Hötorget subway stop. It was eight o’clock at night. The turnstiles didn’t look like how he remembered them before he was locked up. Harder to jump. High Plexiglas barriers that slid open and closed like doors when you swiped your pass at the front of the turnstile. He didn’t want to waste money. He didn’t want to walk to Slussen. Risk analysis. The turnstiles were too high to jump. He glanced toward the guard in his booth: He was reading the paper. Seemed to care less about his job. He watched the flow of the crowd. Not a lot of people. He made loops. Navigated. Speculated. Calculated. Finally, a group of youngsters approached. He walked into their group. Slid along. Close behind a guy in his early twenties. There was a beep from the turnstile when it sensed that he’d slipped through behind someone. The guard didn’t give a fuck.
Rode to Slussen. Checked the address on a map in the subway station.
He was tired. Longed for a bed.
Rang the doorbell. Was let in.
It looked cozy. The reception desk was right by the entrance. Farther in: a group of tables and chairs, a sink and an oven against one wall. A TV stood in a corner. People sat and played cards. Chowed. Watched TV. Talked. No one so much as glanced at him. There was no one there that he recognized. No one there seemed to recognize him. Super.
The receptionist looked like the librarian at the city lib. Same style, same dowdy threads.
“Hi, can I help you?” she said, looking up from a crossword puzzle.
Jorge said, “Yeah, I’ve had some trouble finding a place to stay lately. Heard this is a good place.”
Put on that saccharine-sweet pity-me voice. He didn’t have to fake it. He was broken, for real. The woman seemed to get it. Social Services ladies/welfare officers/shrinks were always understanding. Jorge knew their kind.
“We’ve got some beds open, so it should be fine. Have you been without a residence for long?”
Converse. Be nice. Say something believable. “Not too long. About two weeks. It’s been rough. My girlfriend kicked me out.”
“That sounds difficult. But at least you can stay here for a few nights. Maybe things will work out with your girlfriend. In order for you to stay here, all I need is your name and personal identification number.”
Fuck.
“Do you really need that info? Why?” He thought, I do have a personal identification number. Can I give it out?
“I know that a lot of people may not want to disclose that kind of information, but even a place like this costs money. We’ll send an invoice directly to your social welfare officer, if you have one. Two hundred kronor per night. So, unfortunately, I’m going to need your personal identification number.”
Cunt. He couldn’t give her fake digits. No way it’d work.
“I can’t do that. I’d be happy to pay cash.”
“I’m sorry, but we don’t take any cash payments anymore. We stopped doing that two years ago. Maybe you should be in touch with your social welfare office?”
Fucking cunt fuck.
Jorge gave up. Said his thanks. Stepped back out on the street.
Regretted trying. Hoped he hadn’t raised any red flags.
Wondered if anyone’d recognized him. Looked at his reflection in a shop window. Black hair. Curly. His beard was getting longer. His skin darker than it really was. It should be enough.
A thermometer pointed to fourteen degrees Celsius.
Where would he sleep?
He thought about his other plan-his cash idea. Did he dare? Challenge Radovan.
11
JW counted the money again. Twenty-two thousand clean, and then he’d still partied like Paris Hilton four weekends in a row, and on top of that been able to buy a Canali blazer.
He weighed the forty-four five-hundred-kronor bills wrapped with a rubber band in the palm of his hand. Usually, he kept them hidden in a pair of socks in the closet. Selling coke paid well. He’d made the money in a month. Paid back his debt to Abdulkarim and passed his Financial Analysis exam, too.
Abdulkarim praised him, wanted him to work with coke full-time. The flattery warmed. The flattery fed him confidence and sweet dreams for the future. But JW declined-he was planning on doing it all: partying, dealing, studying.
The boyz’d accepted that he provided the goods. They were polished boys. It suited them, having the goods delivered without needing to get their delicate hands dirty. The only one who reacted was Nippe, who dissed him as a joke, “Are you low on cash, or what? Kinda seems like it, since you’re, like, a runner all the time now. Just say the word and my old man will lend you some.” JW ignored him. Thought, Soon I’ll be able to buy Nippe’s old man and shut him up for good.
JW checked himself in the mirror. His lion mane was well groomed with the generous amount of Dax wax he’d just smeared into it, on top of all the wax that never completely washed out. He used to cut his own hair. Now he had other opportunities. Maybe he’d go to the same hairdressers as the boyz: Sachajuan, Toni & Guy, only the best. Fine thought.
All his clothes were secondhand: the Gucci jeans, the Paul Smith shirt, and the Tod’s loafers with the characteristic cleat-like rubber soles. That’s why it felt so good to put on the Canali blazer. No wrinkles, nice structure, crisp feeling. Even the smell was new.
He was nearly six feet tall, fair and with a slim face. Slim wrists. Slim neck. Everything slim. Piano fingers. Defined jaw. JW changed his pose in front of the mirror. I look good, but maybe I’d look better if I bulked up a little. Gym membership, here I come.
It was a Saturday. He was going with Nippe to one of his friend’s parents’ place, an estate in Sörmland. JW had met the guy, Gustaf, a couple of times before at the nightclub Laroy. The plan: dinner followed by a party. Everyone was staying the night. Sophie and Anna were going. Some people he didn’t know were going. Best of all, Jet Set Carl was going.
With some luck, maybe he’d be able to get with Sophie. With even better luck, he’d make a good impression on Jet Set Carl. Definitely an opening to C channels.
It was 3:00 p.m. JW felt sluggish, tired for no reason. He hadn’t even partied the night before. He sat down on the bed, pulled up his legs, and counted the money again. Relished the rustle of paper. Waited for Nippe to honk down on the street.
The sales curve pointed straight up. The weekend after he’d treated Sophie and Anna in the park, he’d made his first deal. It started with him treating a second time. But never in Humlegården again-he’d decided that was a one-time thing. Too lame.
They’d been hanging out at Putte’s, as usual. The whole gang: JW, Putte, Nippe, and Fredrik. Sophie, Anna, and two other prep school broads’d been there, as well. The boyz were in on the deal: JW scored the ice and they all split the bill. This time, the girls wanted in. JW played pasha, all generous and munificent, treating them each to a nose. The two new girls, Charlotte and Lollo, had never tried before. The mood got high, not just metaphorically. They felt molten-hot, impulsive-Autobahn-speeded. Everyone appreciated JW, the guy who brought the part
y. After three hours, they jumped in cabs and rode down to Stureplan. JW packed four grams. They went into Köket. Business as usual: danced, boozed, flirted. Nippe managed to get blown by two birds. After half an hour, one of the new girls, Lollo, came up to JW and said she thought the whole thing was so wonderful. Asked if he had any more and insisted on paying. JW looked concerned. Said she shouldn’t have to pay but that he’d promised another friend some. She said, “Come on, you just gotta give me a few noses. You gotta let me pay.” He said, “Sure, I’ll see what I can do.” He thought, Daddy’s paying anyway. He unloaded the whole stash for twelve hundred a gram. Wholesale price was six hundred. Profit: 3,400 kronor. Compared to the gypsy-cab gig, it was mind-blowing-a whole night’s work in the Ford equaled three minutes of ingratiating talk at a club, and he’d had a drink in his hand and a pretty girl to look at the whole time. Not bad.
Same deal the next weekend, but with different people. Pregame in a different apartment, party at a different club, after party in a different pad. He’d raked in seven thousand kronor net, even though he’d handed out a total of five grams for free.
The week after, he’d met Sophie for a coffee in Sturegallerian, by Stureplan. They talked about sweet clubs, stylish clothes, shared acquaintances. Talked about serious stuff, too. What they wanted to do when they graduated. Sophie was studying economics at Stockholm University but wanted to try to transfer into the Stockholm School of Economics for her junior year. Had to get top grades on all her exams, study hard, be disciplined. Then she was going to London to do right for herself, to work. JW wanted to work with stocks; he had a head for numbers. She got personal, asked about his parents and background. JW was evasive, said they’d lived abroad most of his childhood, that they lived on an estate in Dalarna now, and that she probably didn’t know them. She wondered why they didn’t live in Sörmland, or somewhere else closer to the city. JW changed the subject. He was an old hand, had a store of conversation topics up his sleeve. They talked about her family. That worked; Sophie let his background go and talked about her own instead.