Easy Money

by Jens Lapidus

  Most already knew who the fugitive was, and those who didn’t got the passport pics shoved under their noses. A hero. A legend. Everyone wanted to buy the hero a drink. Celebrate the guy. Congratulate the guy. But no one’d seen him.

  Jorge’s mom lived with a new husband, and he had a sister, Paola. The mom lived outside Stockholm. The sister in Hägersten. He ordered passport photos of the sister and mom. Got two hits when he Googled the sister’s name. She’d written an article in the Stockholm University newspaper, Gaudeamus, and taken part in the campus Literature Days. Good girl. Was apparently trying to make her own way from scratch. He figured maybe he should take a closer look at the university.

  He called the Literature Department. The sis was taking the “level 3 course,” whatever that was.

  Mrado drove out to Frescati, university playground. Parked the car at the back of the blue high-rises. His Benz stuck out. The rest of the cars in the parking lot: dud cars.

  The university for Mrado: a foreign country. Population: stick figures, four-eyed bookworms. Players who preferred parlance to performance. Pussies. To Mrado’s surprise, however, there were hot chicks en masse.

  He eyed some signs. Found the Lit Department. Rode up in the elevator. Asked a lady in the hall who was responsible for the level 3 course. Got the name of the teaching assistant. Eyed more signs. The TA’s room was farther down the same hall. Tacked on the door was another sign: I LOVE MY WORK… DURING LUNCH AND COFFEE BREAKS. Mrado knocked. No answer. Asked a woman in the room next door. The TA was in a meeting in room C 119. Rode down again, all the way down. The halls felt half-finished. Pipes and ventilation systems hung from the ceiling. Some walls looked unpainted. White wood panels leaned up in a corner. He eyed the arrows. Found the room. Knocked. A guy in a blazer and frizzy bangs opened the door. Mrado asked to speak to the TA. The guy said they were in a meeting. Mrado cocked his head to the side. Put his foot in the door so it wouldn’t close. Stared the guy down. Mr. Frizz stood his ground. After fifteen seconds, he looked away. Went to get the TA. A young girl-twenty-five tops. Mrado’d expected an older woman. She asked what he wanted. He pulled some bull. Said he was supposed to buy books from a girl who hadn’t shown. Wondered if the TA had her number or knew where she had class today. She asked why he was in such a hurry. Mrado pulled some more bull, something about heading out of the country and needing the books today. An emergency. The TA: gullible and too nice, a cold trick. They went up to her office. She found Paola’s telephone number and the schedule for the level 3 course. Said Mrado was in luck. “Paola is in a seminar today in room D three twenty-seven.” Finally, a hot hand.

  How she let herself be fooled by a six-foot Yugoslav, he couldn’t even begin to imagine.

  To D 327. Eyed signs again. Found the room.

  Same deal as with the TA. Some dude opened. Mrado asked him to get Paola.

  Mrado closed the door of the seminar room behind her. Paola understood immediately that something wasn’t right. Jerked her head around. Took a step back, averted her face. Mrado had time to see her eyes. If unease had a face, it would look like hers.

  Not what Mrado had expected from a lit major. She was wearing a light blue blouse with wide cuffs. Dark, tight blue jeans. Straitlaced style. Black hair, pulled back in a ponytail. It gleamed. Innocent look. Something sparked within Mrado.

  He waved toward a bathroom. They walked in that direction. Paola: stiff movements. Mrado: focused. They stepped into the bathroom. Mrado closed the door.

  The bathroom was covered in graffiti. Mostly written in pencil and ballpoint pen. Mrado, surprised. College students weren’t supposed to do that kind of thing, were they?

  He told Paola to sit down on the toilet. Her face flushed.

  “Calm down. I don’t want to hurt you, but there’s no point in screaming. I prefer not to use violence on girls. I’m not that kinda guy. Just need to know a few things.”

  Paola spoke perfect Swedish. No trace of an accent. “It’s about Jorge, isn’t it? Is it about Jorge?” Near tears.

  “You got it, babe. It’s about your bro. You know where he is?”

  “No. I don’t have a clue. I don’t know. He hasn’t been in touch. Not with Mama, either. We’ve just read about him in the papers.”

  “Cut it. I’m sure he cares about you. Of course he’s been in touch. Where is he?”

  She sobbed. “I told you-I don’t know. I really don’t. He hasn’t even called.”

  Mrado kept pushing it. “Don’t lie. You seem like a good girl. I can make your life a living hell. I can make your bro’s life good. Just tell me where he is.”

  She kept denying it, point-blank.

  “Listen carefully, little lady. Stop pouting. This bathroom looks like shit, don’t you agree? Walls totally scratched up. You’re leaving this kind of shit behind. You want to get out with your fancy education. Up in life. Your brother can get a good life, too.”

  She stared straight into his eyes. Her pupils big, glossy. He saw his reflection in them. She’d stopped crying. The mascara painted black lines down her cheeks.

  “I really don’t know.”

  Mrado analyzed. There are people who can lie. Dupe. Fool anyone. Stand up against cops, prosecutors, and lawyers in interrogation after interrogation. Even stand up against guys like Mrado. Maybe they believe their own stories. Maybe they’re just extremely good actors. Other people try to lie and it shows right away. Their eyes shoot up to the left, a sign that they’re making things up. They blush. Sweat. Contradict themselves. Miss details. Or the opposite: try to be calm. Pretend it’s raining. Speak slowly. But it shows. They’re too confident. Their stories are too sweeping, too big picture. They sit abnormally still. Seem too secure in their statements.

  He knew them all. Paola didn’t belong to any of these. Mrado’d been in the protection-racket business long enough. Had squeezed juice out of people. Forced them to show him where the cash was stashed, how much blow they’d dealt, where they were delivering their moonshine, how many johns they’d had. Held his gun to people’s temples, in their mouths, against their cocks. Asked for answers. Appraised their answers. Forced answers. He was an expert at answers.

  Mrado checked her hands. Not her face. He knew people control their mugs, but not their bodies. Hands speak the truth.

  Paola wasn’t lying.

  She really didn’t know where the Jorge fucker was.

  Damn it.

  He left her sitting on the toilet. Paralyzed.

  Jogged down to the parking lot. Jumped in the car. Pulled the door shut hard behind him. Drove off to meet Mahmud’s sis.

  Mrado felt stressed-out. He saw her right away. She was sitting with a Pepsi in front of her. The Arab joint was packed. Two veiled women with at least 140 ankle biters occupied the back half of the place. In the front were a couple of Svens lapping up multicultural Sweden. Mahmud’s sister held out her hand. Meaning: I want my two thousand cash. The chick’d been compliant last time. Now: considerable attitude problem.

  Mrado sighed. Thought something that surprised him: Too many people who are downright losers rock an attitude. He’d experienced it a lot. Unemployed Sven boozehounds, uneducated bouncers, and cocky project blattes played tough guy. Did that protect them? Did it keep them from feeling like the dregs they were? This chick was an obvious loser. Why did she even try?

  He sat down.

  “Okay, babe, let’s hold off on the money. You’ll get it soon. First, tell me what he said.”

  Before she’d even said a word, he knew the answer.

  “My man, he know nothin’.”

  “What do you mean? He knew about Jorge, didn’t he?”

  “No, I mean, like, they hung never, or whatever.”

  Got irritated. The chick couldn’t fucking speak straight. Someone should return her to the store. Reclaim the warranty.

  “Come on. Of course he knew who Jorge was. Think. What’d he say?”

  “What’s your deal? Don’t think I remember, huh? Me, comi
n’ from there now. I just said-they hung never.”

  “You want your dough or what? Did he know who the Latino was or not?”

  “He knew. Said tightest break he’d ever heard.”

  “You mean the escape? Did he see the escape?”

  “Shit, you nag. My man not there. Not on motivation.”

  “Girl, if you want the dough, you have to fuckin’ talk so I understand you.” Mrado was about to snap. Pushed back his chair. Signal: Wise up or I’ll leave.

  “He, like, in not same block. Not motivation. He somewhere else. You know?”

  Mrado knew. Bummed. Mahmud’s sis was a dud. There were two units at Österåker. One for inmates who wanted to get their lives back on track, where they got motivation to get off drugs. Learn society’s rules. Pedagogical programs, workshops, bullshit psychology and chat therapy. Of course that’s where Jorge’d been, the so-called motivation unit. Then it was true what she’d said: Her tired-ass man didn’t know zilch.

  19

  He moved on to another cottage. Stayed there two days. And now he was gonna switch it up again. Had to keep moving.

  He walked for over three hours. Wanted to get away from the area where he’d just stayed-watchful neighbors equaled foes. His nigger look a threat. One family has a break-in and suddenly every unknown individual with dark hair in the area’s a suspect. A miracle that no one’d stopped by the side of the road yet to ask him who he was and what he was doing there.

  A cold wind. The middle of October wasn’t his favorite time of year. But Jorge-boy’d planned ahead. The knit sweater and the winter jacket warmed. Thanked the thrift store for that.

  He turned off the main road. Read a sign that said DYVIK, 2 MILES. Smaller road. No houses yet. Pine trees all around. He kept trotting along. Hungry. Tired. Refused to lose heart. J-boy: still on the way up. Out. Onward. Toward success. Radovan would yield to him. Give him a passport. Kale. Opportunities. He’d head to Denmark. Maybe invest a few grand in blow. Deal. Make cash. Move on. Maybe to Spain. Maybe Italy. He’d buy a real identity. Start all over. Play drug kingpin with hard-core connections in Viking territory. Hook his old homeys up. Everyone except Radovan would bathe in his glory. The Yugo faggot would have to beg to get in on deals belonging to Jorge, King of Blow.

  The road sloped downward. The forest opened up. He saw houses. To his left, a barn with two run-down green tractors out front. Farther down, horses. Not good. Someone lived on the place. He kept going. Found another house. Broke in.

  A small kitchen, a living room, and two bedrooms-one with a queen-size bed, the other with a twin. It was cold. He turned on the radiator. Kept his jacket on.

  He unpacked his food. The fridge and the freezer were turned off-a good sign that the house was closed for the winter. Fried two eggs. Cut thick slices off the loaf of bread. Put the eggs on top. Checked the pantry. Almost empty: an old box of chocolates, two cans of crushed tomatoes, and beans. Worthless.

  Sat down in the living room. Opened the door of a corner cupboard that was painted with florid designs in red and blue: crammed with bottles of booze. Jackpot. City’s sickest juice-juju.

  Screw safety. Jorge-boy was gonna have a niiiiice night.

  No mixers. No ice. No fruit or drinks to blend it with. Fuck that. Real men take it straight. Jorge did a whiskey tasting all by his lonesome. Lined up five glasses on the living room table. Poured out five different brands. Picked the ones with the weirdest names: Laphroaig, Aberlour, Isle of Jura, Mortlach, Strathisla.

  Munched on stale chocolate. Turned on the radio on a huge Sharp stereo. A display with blinking yellow stripes and patterns began to glow to the beat of the music. Felt very 1991.

  Mortlach was the best. He poured himself another glass. Sang along to the songs from the radio. Tried to wail like Mariah Carey.

  Poured water into a glass and more whiskey into another. Not his thing to drink straight, but what the hell. He drained the glass.

  The house was spinning. Poorly built. Crooked corners. Tilting windows. He laughed at himself-the countryside’s new urban architect. The buzz washed over him.

  Joy. At the same time: little Jorgelito, so alone.

  Drunken rush. At the same time: He had to be vigilant.

  He sat down on the floor to steady himself.

  Suddenly, he remembered something he hadn’t thought about in a very long time. How he and Mama’d been walking together from the grocery store. He might’ve been six or seven. Paola was already at home, waiting for them. Preparing dinner. Everything but the rice-they’d run out and so Jorge and Mama’d had to go buy some. Rodriguez’d refused to help out, and Jorge’d been scared to go alone. He saw his mother’s face now, clearly: the dark furrows under her eyes and the lines in her forehead that made her look like she was always wondering about something but never could find the answer. He’d asked, “Mama, are you tired?” She’d set the bag of rice down on the sidewalk. Lifted him up into her arms. Smoothed back his hair and said, “No, Jorgelito. If we sleep well tonight, I’m going to be wide-awake tomorrow. That’ll be nice.”

  Jorge reached for the bottle. Poured out more Mortlach.

  The living room was spinning like crazy.

  He stood up.

  Lost control.

  Passed out on the floor.

  Three days later. Jorge had some serious problems. He’d been out of food for twenty-four hours already and he had only four hundred kronor left. Couldn’t even muster sit-ups. Too tired to go to a new cottage. Unfortunately, you couldn’t live on whiskey and water.

  He needed to get to a store and buy food.

  He needed to get cash. The question: Would Radovan agree to his proposition? If not, his need for cheddar would grow even more.

  But worst of all: He felt so alone.

  He needed to talk to someone-meet some old friend or relative. Human contact.

  Was he already fried?

  He had to get to the city. Eat. Scrape up some extra dough while he waited to call the Yugos. That’s just the way it was.

  Jorge checked out map books in the bookcase. The scale was too bad. He checked the back pages of the phone book-he wanted to know how to get back to this cottage when he’d completed his mission in the city. Looked for Dyvik.

  Considered boosting a car.

  20

  It was, without a doubt, the bash to break all bashes-the year’s most prestigious, profligate private party.

  JW lived off the hype several days beforehand. It was high-gear, high-class, high-line. Most of all, it was so goddamn jet set.

  Carl Malmer, alias Jet Set Carl, alias the Prince of Stureplan, was turning twenty-five and was having a courtly revelry in his four-room, sixteen-hundred-square-foot apartment. The apartment was on Skeppargatan and the rooftop terrace’d been booked for months.

  The hottest chicks were booked; the kids from the best families were invited; the bottles and models set would naturally be featured at the party.

  JW arrived with Fredrik and Nippe. They’d pregamed at Fredrik’s. It was eleven-thirty. Overflowing coatracks stood in the foyer, as did an enormous black dude without bouncer tag but sporting a spot-on style: black leather jacket, turtleneck, dark jeans. Fredrik grinned. “A bouncer at a private party?”

  The bouncer checked them off a list and waved them through.

  They hung up their coats and walked in.

  Heat, perfume, party din, and the smell of eau de cash hit them as richly as at the velvet-roped entrances of Stureplan’s best clubs. They made their way through a crowd of underage girls who seemed to have just arrived-they were fixing their faces in front of the mirror in the hall. Nippe was drooling, couldn’t help himself; started flirt-chatting with one of the girls. Fredrik asked where Carl was. Someone pointed toward the kitchen. They pulled Nippe with them.

  The kitchen was nearly six hundred square feet. An island remade as a bar filled the middle of the room. Two guys in bandannas mixed drinks. The place was packed. The music from the speakers: the S
ounds. In the middle of it all was Jet Set Carl himself, wearing a white tux and a blinding smile.

  “Hey, boys.” Carl hugged and welcomed them. Introduced them to the two chicks he was talking to. Top-tier superbimbettes. Fredrik made conversation and Nippe pulled his telltale tail tales. JW looked around with a bored expression. Had to keep the surface ripple-free, couldn’t show how impressed he was.

  He thought, Carl must make a killing on his parties and club gigs, almost better than you make on C. The kitchen area was redone. Boffi, Italian design for people with black cards. Corian countertops. Slim, discreet cabinet handles. Oven in brushed stainless steel, Gaggenau-four gas burners and a built-in grill. Tap and levers in stylish chrome floated like a swan’s neck over the sink. The fridge and freezer were of stainless steel, American extra-wide size, with round, wide handles. To the left of the fridge was a wine cooler with a transparent door, filled with bottles. Having a kitchen like that scored more adult points than having kids.

  Right mix of A-, B-, and C-list celebs in the crowd. Bloggers, actors, models. Scenesters and artists. Princess Madeleine plus entourage. He glimpsed former Social Democratic minister Leif Pagrotsky smack in the middle.

  Nippe was swallowed up, disappeared on a mingle crusade. Fredrik lit a cigarette.

  Jet Set Carl turned to JW. “Good to see you. You haven’t been here before, have you?”

  “No, but it’s a damn nice apartment you’ve got.”

  “Thanks. I like it myself.”

  “How many people did you invite tonight?”