by Jens Lapidus
They welcomed him like a king. J-boy: the legendary fugitive. The blow myth. The lucky Latino. Lent him paper for McDonald’s. Reminded him of happier times, asphalt jungle bros, Sollentuna hos.
So ill.
Vadim and Ashur: international friends. Vadim’d come to Sweden from Russia in 1992. Ashur: Syrian from Turkey.
According to Jorge, Vadim could’ve gone far. The guy was driven, smart, and had a flush family-they ran computer stores outta every single mall in the area. But gangsta dreams got him. Thought dealing a little blow would make him king of the streets. Okay, the clocker’d made out all right, only been in for shorter stints, not like Jorge. But damn, look at the guy today. Worn down like a fuckin’ Sven with barrel fever. Tragic. Homeboy should curb his habits.
Ashur: always with a big silver cross around his neck. Stayed straight. Worked as a hairdresser. Kept his eye on the chicks in the area. Highlighting by day, riding by night. Charmed the bitches 110 percent with his talk of bangs and toning.
Jorge should be safe. After all, his appearance was pretty altered. Vadim hadn’t even recognized him at first.
After the burgers, they went home to Vadim’s. Dude lived in a dump on Malmvägen. Cigarette butts, snort straws, beer cans, and Rizla papers covered the floor. Lighters, pizza boxes, empty booze bottles, and burned spoons on the coffee table. What vice didn’t Vadim have?
They popped the whiskey. Drank it with lukewarm water like connoisseurs. Plus beer. Later, they built a spliff fat like whoa. Maxed Beenie Man on the stereo. Jorge loved the camaraderie. This was freedom.
They got sloshed. Stoned. Speeded. Vadim spewed fast-cash schemes: We should be pimps. We should build a website and sell mail-order weed. We should sprinkle cocaine in middle schoolers’ lunch boxes so they get hooked early. Exchange their Tootsie Rolls for C paste. Jorge joined in. Riled. Get dough. Bake it out. Bake it out.
Vadim looked mischievous, pulled out a matchbox. Unrolled a homemade bag made of plastic wrap. Poured out two grams of blow on a mirror. “Jorge, man, this is to celebrate your homecoming,” Vadim said as he cut three lines.
What a party.
Jorge hadn’t even dreamed of tasting snow tonight.
Maybe not the most luxurious snort straw-the guys each got a straw that Vadim tore off three juice boxes.
Rapid inhale. First a tickling sensation at the root of the nose. A second later: a tickling sensation in the entire body. Grew into a rush. Felt on top of the world. Everything crystal-clear. Jorge the king. Long live the king. The world was his to conquer.
Ashur buzzed about bitches. He’d arranged to meet up down at the Mingel Room Bar in the Sollentuna Mall with two girls whose hair he usually cut. Good girls. He hollered, “One of ’em, man, you gotta see the back on that female. Beyoncé look-alike. Queen-bee bitch. I gonna promise her free stylin’ if one of us get a piece of it tonight.”
Course they were gonna get bitches. Course they were gonna go out.
Jorge, stiff, thinking of giving it to the Beyoncé look-alike.
They filled up, more whiskey and another nose each.
The cocaine pounded out the beat of the music.
They went down to Ashur’s car.
Mingel Room Bar: Sollentuna’s Kharma. But still not. Check Jorgelito out front. Jacked on blow, whiskey, and beer. He didn’t feel the chill in the air. Only felt himself. Only felt his party-mood rocket. They eyed the line. Twenty people max, sheepishly cued up. Eyed the chicks approaching the line from the commuter train. Ashur dissed them, “Fuckin’ Sweden, man. In this country, chicks don’t know howtta walk. Only the guys got it. You should see my home country. Smooth like cats.”
Jorge checked them out. Ashur was right: The chicks walked like bros. Straight, with purpose. Without swish, without ass swing, without sex in their steps. He didn’t give a fuck. If that Beyoncé broad was inside, he’d butter her into a back bend.
Vadim claimed to know the bouncer. Stepped up. They exchanged Russian pleasantries. Smooth sailing.
Jorge, Vadim, and Ashur were about to glide into the joint, when the bouncer put his hand up. Vadim’s questioning look was ignored. The bouncer gazed out toward the road. The line came to a halt. Grew silent. People turned around.
Blue lights.
A cop car parked along the curb.
Mierda.
Two cops got out. Walked toward the line.
Jorge’s brain made coke-clear assessments: What were they looking for? Should he book it or have faith in his new look? One thing was certain: If he ran, they’d chase him, ’cause it was shady to dash.
He remained standing. How could he be so stupid that he’d gone out and partied?
Vadim shut his eyes. Looked like his lips were moving, but no sound came out.
Jorge felt stiffer than a substitute on the first day of class in his junior high must’ve. Didn’t move. Didn’t think. Did like Vadim-shut his eyes.
Squinted toward the line. Brass with flashlights.
Pointed them in each person’s face. The chicks in the way back giggled.
The dudes next to them tried to play cool. One told the cop with the flashlight, “If you don’t have a VIP card, you’re not getting in.”
The cop replied, “Take it easy, buddy.”
Cunt attitude.
They continued down the line. People wondered what’d happened. The cops mumbled something unintelligible. They turned the light on Ashur. He cracked a smile. Pointed to the cop with the flashlight. “Hi, I run Scissor Central down in the mall. I think you’d look great with some frosted tips.”
The cop actually smiled.
They continued.
Turned the light on Vadim. For a long time. His wasted face attracted the cop’s attention.
“Hey there, Vadim,” said the guy with the flashlight. “What’s up with you?”
“Nothin’. Fancy-free.”
“Everything cool?”
“Sure. Like always.”
“Yeah, right. Like always.” Cop irony.
Jorge stared straight ahead. Felt like it was all a twisted dream. He couldn’t concentrate. Time stood still.
What the FUCK was he supposed to do?
Paralyzed.
They came up to him. Shone the torch in his face. He tried to relax. Smile suitably.
23
JW with morning-after angst. He felt like a baked potato with a lead hat on his head. He’d woken up at nine-thirty. Crawled home from Sophie’s place. Sat on the floor beside the bed and felt nauseous for twenty minutes. Then drank four cups of water in a desperate attempt to curb the hangover. After the water, he puked in the toilet. Felt considerably better. Fell asleep.
Now he was awake again, after only two hours of sleep. Had gotten what he deserved. Couldn’t fall back asleep. He was racked with angst. Things’d gotten weird with Sophie. Felt like the definition of humiliation. On the other hand, he’d done his biggest C delivery ever. So, the night still had to be counted as somewhat of a success.
Promised himself to stick with coke in the future. No booze.
Promised himself to set things right with S.
He stayed in bed even though he couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t get up.
Promised himself for the six thousandth time: Only coke in the future.
JW woke up again. Remembered why he wasn’t allowed to sleep in. There were two projects he had to deal with today. First, he had to make sure the Jan Brunéus story checked out. Then he had to find that Jorge dude. He’d slacked off a little too much on that front. Abdulkarim’s expansion plans demanded action.
He skipped a morning lecture at the university. Returned to the Sveaplan high school instead. Went up to the reception desk. The receptionist recognized him and greeted him cheerfully. She was sporting the same pleated skirt as the first time he’d seen her.
JW said, “I have a question for you, ma’am. It may be somewhat unusual.”
The woman smiled. JW’d done a good job buttering her up with his manners las
t time.
“I’d like to see the transcripts for someone who studied here four years ago, Camilla Westlund.”
The woman kept smiling but made one of her faces: squeezed her eyes shut, twisted her neck, squinted at JW from the side. Meaning: Aren’t you going a little too far now?
“Sorry, we don’t release that kind of paperwork.”
JW’d spoken with the city agency in charge of academic transcripts. Had expected a reluctant response from Komvux. He was prepared. Had read up, sharpened his arguments. Felt confident. Brought out the heavy artillery right away. No point in mollycoddling the old hag.
“The transcripts are public documents that are to be released unless they are deemed classified for some reason. If you can’t prove that they are classified and provide me with the reason for that, they should be considered public and immediately be made available to me. If you refuse to release them, you will be committing a breach of duty, which may be punishable.”
The woman made another face but kept that same smile on her lips. Her eyes were staring down to the left. Insecurity.
JW continued as though he were reciting from memory. “Other documents that you draw up here at Komvux are also public and most probably unrestricted. According to the Public Records Act, you have no right to withhold the documents. So, if I may trouble you to please produce Camilla Westlund’s grades for all the classes she took here. Thank you.”
The woman turned on her heel. Went into an adjoining room. JW heard her speak to someone.
Michael Moore-you can hit the showers.
The receptionist returned.
New expression: The smile on her lips was even phonier than before. Her eyes were glittering in a servile grimace.
“I have to go get them in the archives. Would you mind waiting?” She didn’t say a word about being wrong.
It didn’t matter. The score was still JW: 1, Grimace lady: 0.
The receptionist disappeared.
She was gone for twenty minutes.
JW got nervous. Sent texts, checked his calendar on his cell. His thoughts flitted from cocaine-selling strategies to Abdulkarim’s platitudes, Camilla’s Ferrari trips, and the Chilean he still had to track down. Everything hit him at once. No order to the chaos.
The woman returned. She was holding a plastic folder in her hand. She handed it to him.
JW scanned the documents: transcripts. Stockholm’s City Continuing Education Program. Sveaplan Gymnasium. Grades for Camilla Westlund. The grades were filled in by hand.
Language Arts: Levels 1 and 2: A
English: Levels 1 and 2: A
Math: Level 1: C
History: Levels 1 and 2: F
Social Studies: Level 1: A
French: Levels 1 and 2: C
JW remained standing by the reception desk. His gaze was glued to the grades. Something was wrong. He tried to get a grip on what. Camilla’d had Jan Brunéus in language arts, English, and social studies. She’d aced them all, just like he’d said she had. She’d only got a C in two other subjects, and failed one. Question was: How come she’d aced Jan’s courses?
JW had to know.
He called for the receptionist again. Asked her to get other documents on Camilla.
Less of a wait this time. She knew where to look.
The receptionist came back after five minutes with a similar plastic folder in her hands-other documents.
They addressed Camilla Westlund’s attendance record. The same subjects as were listed on the transcript. She had less than a 60 percent rate of attendance. His head was spinning. The Komvux reception area was contorting around him, threatening to swallow him up. He felt hot. Camilla’s attendance rate for language arts, English, and social studies-under 30 percent. Something was really fuckin’ wrong. No one could ace anything with that kind of attendance. Why had Jan Brunéus lied?
He turned to the receptionist and said, “Do you know where Jan Brunéus usually spends the breaks between classes?” JW made an effort to smile.
“He’s probably in the teachers’ lounge,” she said, and pointed.
JW turned. Booked it down the corridor.
The door to the teachers’ lounge was open. He didn’t bother to knock. Just walked right in.
Looked around. Seven people were sitting around a large table of pale wood. Eating Danishes and drinking coffee.
None of them was Jan Brunéus.
JW straightened up. “Hi, pardon me for intruding. I was wondering if you know where Jan Brunéus might be?”
One of the people around the table said, “He’s left for the day.”
JW let it drop. Walked out.
His cell vibrated on the way home from Komvux. At first, JW was going to ignore it-he had enough to think about. Then he realized it might be Abdul. He fished the phone out of his pocket. Too late.
The missed call was from José (cell).
José was one of the guys whose name JW’d gotten from Abdulkarim in the search for Jorge. The guy was a bartender at a place in the Sollentuna area, Mingel Room Bar. JW’d met him two days earlier and taken him to dinner at Primo Ciao Ciao-a moneymaking pizza joint. JW’d offered him two grand in exchange for info on Jorge. José was a perfect hit. Knew who Jorge was, worshiped him like a hero. He’d hung with the same crowd as the Chilean in the early ’00s. JW’d told him the truth, more or less: He didn’t wish Jorge any harm, wanted to offer the fugitive opportunities, wanted to help Jorge get back on his feet in his new and wonderful life on the outside. Like Jesus, Jr. But José hadn’t known anything about Mr. AWOL at the time.
JW waited fifteen minutes to call him back. Walked along Valhallavägen and thought through what he wanted to know and what he had the energy to do right now. Thoughts of Jan Brunéus got in the way. He had to concentrate. The Camilla thing couldn’t suck all the energy out of his coke gig right now.
JW said to himself, Focus. Drop the sis angst. It’s more exciting to play detective regarding a Chilean on the run than regarding Camilla. The Jorge dude on the run-JW’s chance to be part of something big.
He called José.
As soon as the guy picked up, JW knew José had superimportant act-fast-as-fuck kind of info. Someone who looked like Jorge’d been spotted in Sollentuna last night. The blatte’d partied hard together with two other Sollentuna gangsters: Vadim and Ashur. Infamous in northwest Stockholm. The Jorge dude’d left the bar at closing, 3:00 a.m. José’d gone out to the entrance, where the stragglers were still hanging. They were juiced up. Blabbered on about the close call they’d had with the 5-0. José asked Vadim if it really was Jorge he’d seen. The hero’d curled his hair, looked darker, more facial hair. Vadim just grinned. He didn’t reveal anything directly, but what he did say was enough: “He a new bad boy, yo. Gonna spend the night at my crib ’cause the Five-Oh be chasin’ him all the time. Tonight, too.” José read him.
JW asked two questions before hanging up: “Where does Vadim live? What time is it?”
José knew the address: Malmvägen 32. Near the Sollentuna Mall. It was 1:00 p.m.
JW stopped short. Tried to hail a cab.
He waited. Not a lot of cabs around at this time.
Thought about the Chilean he had to get hold of. What would he say to him?
Six minutes passed. Where were all the cabs?
Restlessness overtook him once again. Nothing worse than waiting for a taxi.
He waved at a cab that looked empty.
It drove past him.
Hailed another one.
It stopped.
JW got in. The driver said something in unintelligible Swedish.
JW said, “Take me to Malmvägen thirty-two, please.”
They drove toward Nortull.
Out on the E4 expressway. Felt like they were crawling.
JW evaluated: There were worse things in the world than waiting for a cab-such as sitting in a cab and waiting for the traffic to move.
Soon he’d have his talk with the Chilean.
&nb
sp; 24
Mrado’d just completed his weekend training. Murder-machine meeting place par excellence. His guilty conscience-he was there too seldom. Pancrease Gym: Krav Maga, shootfighting, thai boxing, combat tae kwon do. The basement venue consisted of a large room with padded flooring. Four seventeen-pound sandbags suspended by chains along one of the walls. A broad metal locker with sweaty gloves, pads, and safety vests in one corner. A boxing ring in another.
The head instructor was Omar Elalbaoui. Professional shootfighter, fourth dan, Japan. Fastest left hook in town. Middleweight champion in Pride Grand Prix MMA-mixed martial arts, all styles. Swedish-Moroccan prize-podium hunter. Poet of violence. Feared full-contact prophet.
Broken noses, busted knees, dislocated shoulders-legion. And the question: What does fear mean? Omar Elalbaoui’s philosophy: “Fear is your worst enemy. Everyone is afraid of something. You’re not afraid to get hurt. You’re afraid to do poorly, to fight a bad match, to lose. That is the only thing to fear. Never become a loser.”
MMA: everything allowed-kicks, punches, knees, elbows, throws, choke slams, grips. No pussy helmets or huge gloves. The only protection: finger gloves, mouth guards, and jockstraps. Sport of sports. Raw strength, agility, and speed were important factors, but above all: strategy and intelligence.
It was the ultimate thing: no props, no complex courses or plans, no complicated rules. Just fighting. The one who gave up first or was knocked out lost. As easy as that.
Mrado’s advantages: size, weight, the power behind his punches. Range. But the guys at Pancrease were good. Took punches. Avoided kicks. Blocked tackles. Mrado often got his ass kicked. Once, four years ago, he’d had to be rushed to the hospital. His nose was broken in two places. But the thing was, Mrado liked getting beaten. Made him feel alive. Made him practice not being afraid. To keep feeding jabs even though his head was going numb. To never give up.
Competitions were mostly held in Solnahallen, a large venue in Solna. The organizers easily sidestepped the national ban on boxing. Sometimes they fought in cages, Brazilian vale tudo. Mrado knew the guys; a lot of them trained or had trained at Pancrease. He knew their styles, their weaknesses/strengths. At the latest competition in Stockholm, he’d cashed in ten grand. Knew how to place his bets. MMA in its different incarnations was blowing up as a sport.