by Jens Lapidus
“Many. I’ve booked the rooftop terrace, too. Probably hundred and fifty people up there already. Gonna be wild. You’ve got to go up and check it out; that’s where the food is. There’ll be some stuff happening on the roof later, too.”
“What about your neighbors?”
“I booked rooms at the Grand for the families next door and below me. They were happy as hell.”
“Who wouldn’t be for a free night at the Grand Hôtel? Everything cool with the stuff?”
“Sure thing. Sweet that you could get it on such short notice. It’s in the bedroom.”
“Sophie here?”
“Yup, check the terrace.”
JW thanked him, moved on. Felt good that he and Carl were starting to become tight.
He walked out through the foyer, nodded to the bouncer, and took the stairs up.
The terrace looked like a forest of metal mushrooms-gas-powered heaters to soften the October chill. Carl didn’t take any risks-a third of the terrace was covered by a party tent. But there were no rain clouds tonight. The gas ’shrooms spurted heat and the girls felt good in their tiny tops and bling. JW was scanning the scene for Sophie. The crowd pushed from all sides. Enormous speakers blared Robyn’s latest hit.
A dozen or so girls stood in the middle of the crowd, trying to get the dance party going. Maybe it was too early; in an hour, the terrace would explode. People just needed more booze and a noseful of blow.
The buffet was stylish. Tiny portions on tablespoons: a crouton with fois gras, sour cream with fish roe and red onion, potato salad topped with Russian caviar. You just cleaned the spoon with one bite, tossed it in a bin on the table, and then chose a new gourmet spoon to your liking. Farther down were plates with wineglass holders attached. The buffet consisted of lime-marinated chicken kebobs, tabouleh, and sweet-and-sour chili sauce. The catering crew worked efficiently. The morsel-laden spoons were quickly replaced with new ones; the bucket was emptied in time with the filling of wineglasses.
Real New York vibe in the Stockholm night.
There were ads for Kharma posted everywhere. Jet Set Carl was no dummy-he’d write off this entire party as a company expense.
Sophie was standing at the far end of the terrace, where the party tent began. JW made his way to her. She was talking to a tall guy in a pinstriped blazer and skinny jeans. The guy had some sort of trendy image painted on the back of the blazer. He was unshaven, with hair as short as his stubble. JW recognized him. He was a famous ad guy with a cheesy smile permanently glued to his face. Named Sweden’s seventy-third-sexiest man by Elle a couple of years ago. Generally infamous cunt-catcher. A total tool.
He positioned himself near them, wanted to be introduced. Sophie dissed him majorly, kept talking to the trend tool. JW shoved his hands in his pockets, made a serious effort to nail the disinterested look again. His couldn’t-care-less chin hung.
She looked right through him.
He gave up, skipped her. Played the game and went downstairs to the living room.
A single word in his head: fuck.
Something was wrong with Sophie. JW worried. Did she see through him? Would she call his bluff? Predetermined tracks were hard to hide. A guy from Robertsfors just couldn’t make it with the Stureplan scene’s coolest chic.
A thought: What’s my yearning for Sophie about anyway? Maybe Sophie was like an incarnation of Camilla. A party girl with brains. Something’d happened to his sister, something he repressed. And still he was doing what she’d done. Moved to the city, partied, spent money. Was falling for girls who looked like her. Was faking Life, like she’d done. Camilla’d lived some kind of double life, definitely in front of his mom and dad, but also in front of JW. That had become apparent after he saw the pictures of her riding in the Ferrari, though she’d never told him about the car. She’d only hinted to JW once. Said, “I make more dough in two months than Mom does in a year.” Why? And how was it possible that she’d only had one friend at Komvux, Susanne? JW remembered her as Robertsfors’s number-one socialite.
The thoughts churned. He thought about what he’d found out three days ago from Jan Brunéus.
It was all so shady.
He had to know more.
The living room was more crowded than a late subway car on a Monday morning. In one corner, a stroboscope was spurting flashes of light. Six different-colored spotlights were moving and painting pictures on the opposite wall. There was a smoke machine on the floor, and gigantic speakers in the corners of the room ensured that everything vibrated. Two flat-screen TVs that were set up on top of the speakers were projecting video installations by the artist Ernst Billgren.
JW got it confirmed once again: People with money party better.
He was dancing wildly with some twenty-year-old silicone celeb from the Paradise Hotel when he saw the closed door from the living room. There was another bouncer positioned in front of the door. Older, subtler, slicker, with his hair gelled back. The revealing factor once again: his clothes. Black turtleneck, dark jeans, and a thin leather jacket-indoors. JW recognized him. He was the head bouncer from Stureplan’s biggest security guard company, Tom Schultzenberg.
He thought, That’s gotta be it.
The bouncer checked JW’s name off the list. He slid in.
He found himself in Jet Set Carl’s bedroom, remade as a Lebanese café-super-privé. The bed’d been carried out; in its place were brass hookahs filled with fruit-flavored tobacco on the floor. Purple-and-red fabrics hung on the walls. A thick carpet and tasseled pillows with gold embroidery swallowed the sound in the room. Still, an amped aura: elated, active, sexy. JW clocked right away. In the middle of the room was a glass-topped table. In the middle of the table was a pile of snow.
Magnificent.
Six people were sitting on pillows around the table. Two of them were snorting lines. Two others were preparing theirs. All the people in the room were sniffling, wiping powder with the backs of their hands, sneezing, and babbling about the glory of existence.
JW regarded his work, his delivery. VIP room without borders. What an event, what class.
He sat down on a red pillow. Reached for a razor blade and started to cut a line. A girl across from him was staring him down, sucking him off with her eyes. JW smiled back, snorted the cocaine. The straw was made of glass.
Four hours later. JW was a little too sweaty for comfort. He’d danced, mingled, tried to make out with the girl from the cocaine room in front of Sophie. She kept up her don’t-give-a-shit act. They’d talked for a total of only seventeen minutes. He pulled out all the charm cards he had in his deck. Thought, If I can’t get her tonight, I’ll never fucking get her. He chatted with Jet Set Carl, his friends Fredrik and Nippe, snorted with them, snorted with the silicone bimbo from the Paradise Hotel. Chatted with celebs and silver-spoon babies. He sold himself in.
JW’s message was simple: I’m hot as hell and I’m your local cocaine dealer. Buy from me.
He didn’t see her coming. Suddenly, Sophie was there, took his hand, looked at him. This time, she wanted something more than to chat. He could feel it.
JW was already on a rush. He couldn’t distinguish between the heat in his pants, the heat in his nose, and the heat in his heart. They pushed their way through the party people. It was four o’clock and the party’d peaked. It was still crowded, but not as crowded as before. JW found his jacket on the floor of the foyer. Sophie’s was dangling on a hanger. They pushed the button for the elevator. Giggled together. JW squeezed Sophie’s hand. Still no other bodily contact. In the midst of the spell he was under, JW felt unease. Was it really all set?
On the way down, Sophie said, “What happens now?”
JW looked at her. Grinned. Pulled a cliché. “Can I come up for a cup of tea?”
She smiled. JW got even more nervous, tried not to let it show.
Out on the street, they could hear the music from the party pounding several stories up.
JW said, “Weird that no one�
��s complaining. Did Carl put the entire neighborhood up at the Grand?”
Sophie, with a Mona Lisa smile: “Maybe they like the music?”
They started walking. JW was unsure of the direction. He thought, Is she playing with me? Is it a joke? She’d done a 180-first ignoring him, as if he were no better than chopped liver, and now taking him home with her.
After a while, she stopped. Looked like she was about to say something. JW’s heart skipped a beat. “Of course we should go to my place for a cup of tea.”
Was happiness on the horizon?
They kept walking along Linnégatan, past 7-Eleven. At least ten people from Carl’s party were stuffing their faces with hot dogs inside the store. JW didn’t have the energy to say hi; he didn’t want to let anything break the mood.
He and Sophie were quiet, which was unusual for both of them. They just kept walking toward Sophie’s place.
They arrived at her apartment on Grev Turegatan-a small studio, 380 square feet. She went into the kitchen. JW, clueless. Was she really going to make tea? He wanted to caress her, kiss her, and hug her, just lie and talk all night with her. At the same time, he wanted to have sex with her more than ever.
The coke kick was wearing off. He got an idea. Went into the bathroom and turned on the tap. Created white noise. He pulled his cock out and began to masturbate. The inspiration came from the movie There’s Something About Mary. He thought of Sophie naked. He came after two minutes. He was pleased with the security measure-if he was to make it with Sophie, he’d be able to marathon it.
He unlocked the door and walked out.
Sophie was standing by the edge of the bed. Her top’d slid down over one shoulder. Was it a hint?
She looked him in the eyes as though she were saying, What are you waiting for?
He took two steps forward, ended up a few inches from her face. Waited for a reaction from her. Shit, he was such a pussy. Not even now, with all the vibes she was sending out, did he dare make the first move. He was too scared, too nervous. Didn’t want to make a fool of himself and burn his bridges with her. Miss future opportunities. Sophie took a tiny step closer. The tips of their noses touched. He hoped she didn’t suspect what he was feeling-his heart was pumping 230 bpm.
She kissed him. Finally.
He was flying. Soaring.
JW put his arms around her. Kissed her back. No one had ever tasted so good: smoke, alcohol, and Sophie smell. They ended up on the bed. He took her top off, carefully. Cupped her breasts over her bra. She licked his neck.
JW put his hand on top of her pants, over her butt. Began to kiss her neck, breasts, and belly. He unbuttoned her tight jeans and pulled them off. Kissed the inside of her thighs. She made sounds. JW was dying to put his cock in her, but at the same time he wanted to wait. Sophie started to take her thong off herself. Straight shot, Sophie-style. He continued to kiss around her pussy while he caressed her left breast. Carefully pinched her nipple.
He asked, “May I have a taste?”
Sophie mmmm’ed in response. He licked carefully around her labia. After a while, he let his tongue slip in and slowly swirl around. First around and around, then up and down. He could hardly believe it. He was making her feel good. He was making Sophie whimper.
Sophie pulled him up and pressed him down on his back against the bed. Took off his shirt. Pulled off his pants. Took his cock in her mouth. Sucked him in rapid mouthfuls. He looked down cautiously and saved the image in his mental hard drive-him and Sophie.
JW got up. He was scared he might come. She kept his cock in her hand. Reached over toward the nightstand. Looked for something. He wanted in and didn’t get what she was up to. She leaned back. Then she opened a condom wrapper.
JW, filled with angst-he hated condoms.
He asked, “Do we have to use that?”
“Don’t kid, JW. Of course we do.”
He regretted having said anything. Had to try. She rolled it onto his cock and pulled him down toward her. Right before she guided him in, he went soft. He tried to laugh it off. She looked questioningly at him. JW sighed. Lay down on his back.
Sophie asked, “You and condoms are not a good combo, or what?”
“Damn, Sophie. I’m so happy.” Almost told her this was the happiest day in his life but then shut it; he’d already said too much. Unnecessary to open up more, even though she was the most wonderful thing in the world.
“Don’t know what the deal is. I just don’t work too great with rubber is all.”
The condom hung loosely. She pulled it off. Started kissing his cock. He got hard again. She pulled back his foreskin and licked the tip. Kissed his balls. He got rock-hard. She pulled out another condom from the same drawer. JW tried to relax. Took the condom in his own hands. Put it on. Remained lying on his back. Guided her on top of him. She grabbed hold of his cock to put it right.
The smell of latex.
He went flaccid.
She said, “That’s okay. It can happen to any guy.”
JW thought back to something he’d read in the paper two years ago: a list of the most common lies.
21
Mrado was sitting at a table under the vaulted ceilings on the cellar level of Café Piastowska, on Tegnérgatan. He’d ordered schnitzel Belwederski with sauerkraut and Okocim, Polish beer. He liked the venue. Brick walls and dark wood paneling. A flag with the Polish eagle hung at one of the short ends of the room. Beer ads were glued to the ceiling. Genuine feel to the waitress: middle-aged gray-haired woman with integrity.
He took out pen and paper.
Around him: a racket. It was the weekend. Someone was celebrating their thirtieth birthday-the tables were pushed together to form one long one. The birthday celebrators ordered beer and called down the troubadour from the upstairs level.
A longhaired toothpick with an acoustic guitar attached to a black sash around his neck came down the stairs. Sang a folksy classic with a soft voice. The thirtieth-birthday revelers hooted with joy.
Mrado shut them out. He was tired, had slept worse last night than in the trench in Bosnia.
Was trying to think. Compartmentalize. Analyze. Find leads. In front of him on the table: a ruled notebook. Wrote questions in a column on the left-hand side of the page. What’d Jorge done? Where’d he gone? Who would know where he was? Wrote down probable answers in another column on the right-hand side. The Latino’d asked for a passport; the call’d come from a Swedish pay phone. Conclusion: Jorge hadn’t left the country.
Jorge must’ve planned large parts on his own. In other words, he was on the run, without too many helpers. He wasn’t hiding at his sister’s, probably not at his mother’s. If he was in the Sollentuna area, the Latino was staying indoors at all times. He couldn’t have that much money stashed away, either. According to what Mrado remembered, the blatte’d been cleaned out worse than Lehman after closing when he’d been locked up at Österåker one and a half years ago. And now he was hitting up Rado for money, too.
In summation: Jorge was hiding somewhere cheap, in Sweden, probably in the Stockholm area. Alone.
Left in the middle of the page: a column for unanswered questions. Who’d last been in touch with Jorge? Where’d he gone directly after the breakout? Mrado underlined two central words: location now. He hadn’t really gotten anywhere in his search. Figuring out where the blatte was hiding was as easy as completing a jigsaw puzzle of a sky with all blue pieces.
He could wait for Jorge’s call and scare him then. Threaten to hurt the Latino’s sister, his mom. But those weren’t Radovan’s orders. Instead: Find him, hurt him, and make him understand who’s in charge. Also: Jorge’d broken with his family. In that case, threats wouldn’t help.
Mrado took a final swig of beer. Asked for the check. Paid. Tipped. On his way up the stairs from the lower level, he felt a vibration in his pocket. Service again. A text. He picked up his cell. Didn’t recognize the number. Read the text: Call me on this number at 8:00 p.m./Rolf. His cop connect. The
pussy used his son’s or daughter’s cell when he got in touch with Mrado. The text: good news. Maybe Rolf knew something.
It was eight o’clock. Mrado was sitting in his car outside the shoot club, Pancrease, on Odengatan. Called Rolf. Was careful not to be explicit with his own name, Rolf’s name, or other details. Kept it brief, as usual.
“What’s up? It’s me.”
“Everything cool?”
“Yep. And you?”
“Sure, sure, but I’ve had a tough day. Sat hunched in the driver’s seat of a car all day. My back’s giving out.”
“You should work out more. Go running sometimes and do fifty back-ups every night and I’ll bet you’ll feel better. Whattya got for me?”
“I’ve checked up on what we talked about. The northern precinct brought a guy in for questioning a month ago. Sergio Salinas Morena, a troublemaker from Sollentuna. He’s cousins with your guy. Didn’t lead to anything, but apparently he was suspected of aiding.”
“Nice. I bow in thanks. Will check it out. That all?”
“That’s all. Later.”
Mrado started up the car. Drove to the intersection of Sveavägen/Odengatan. Turned up toward Norrtull. There wouldn’t be any working out at the club tonight. He called Ratko-needed his contacts in Sollentuna. Ratko was with his girl in Solna. Didn’t seem too hot on joining the hunt. Despite that: agreed to be picked up at Råsundavägen. What could Ratko do? The bottom line: When Mrado asks, you deliver.
They drove on the E4 highway toward Sollentuna. Ratko didn’t know anyone named Sergio Salinas Morena. Called Bobban. He recognized the name. Thought the guy still lived in the Sollentuna area. Didn’t know more than that.
The road was poorly lit. Ratko made calls to old friends from Märsta and Sollentuna, asked about Sergio. Mrado was strangely unfocused. Didn’t have the energy to listen to Ratko’s phone buzz. He was tired. Thought about Lovisa. His preparatory hearing in family court was coming up. Annika didn’t even want him to see his daughter every other week. So fuckin’ low.
They tore down the highway. Mrado’d busted the speed limit more times than he could count. He remembered one time in particular: when Lovisa was born. Immediate cesarean. He’d been at Solvalla with some buds. Gotten a call from Annika that the contractions’d started but that the water hadn’t broken. She called the hospital. They said, “Take it easy until the contractions come more frequently.” Mrado stayed at Solvalla. Why go home if it wasn’t time? When he was leaving, he called home. No answer. Worry. Had she gone without calling him? There was a note on the kitchen table. Went to Huddinge. Had to hurry. Mrado ran back out to the car. Gunned it. Drove 110 to Huddinge Hospital. Took the turns on two wheels. Worried more than he’d ever done in his entire life. Ran the entire way to the hospital’s main entrance. When he arrived, drenched in sweat, Lovisa’d already been plucked out. Her heart rate’d started to plummet-there’d been no time to spare. Before Annika went under, she heard the surgeon tell the rest of the team they had only five minutes of game time. From emergency to catastrophe. Mrado’d been late to his own daughter’s birth. He would never forgive himself for that. But the following two hours had been some of the best in his life-in an adjoining room with Lovisa, 6.9 pounds, lying on his chest. She folded her head in under his chin. Grazed his neck with her tiny mouth. Seemed to become calm. Annika was still not awake after the cut. Just Mrado and Lovisa-the way it should be, always. Maybe the way it could be if he threw in the towel. Stopped with this shit.