by Jens Lapidus
The Jorge situation’d cleared out well. Four months’d passed and the Latino’d taken it easy ever since. Laid low. No more attempts to fuck with them. Mrado’d gotten some indications. Jorge was still in the city, probably still rockin’ the dark look in order to survive on the lam. Scraping by the only way he knew how: pushing blow for some dealer. Mrado couldn’t care less, as long as the shit didn’t affect him.
Mrado’d been trudging along in the same old tracks. Longing for Lovisa. Cursing Annika. On February 23, the district court’d ruled: mixed verdict. A relief that he was allowed to maintain joint custody. Fucking ridiculous that he got a visitation day only once every other week. Sweden betraying the Serbs yet again.
Mrado woke up every night between 4:00 and 5:00 a.m., couldn’t sleep. Like an old hag. Usually downed a fat whiskey to fall back asleep. What the hell was going on?
Once, he went into Lovisa’s room to find peace of mind. Sat down on her bed. It creaked. The sound reminded him of something. Couldn’t think of what. He pulled out a drawer in her desk. Saw the crayons. Realized what the creaking reminded him of. He felt depleted. Racked with anxiety. What would Lovisa think of him if she ever found out about all the shit he’d done? Was it possible to be a good father and still break people’s fingers? He should stop.
Other than that, it was the same old. Business was booming. Cash was flowing. Important to-dos right now: fix the video-rental stores and figure out how to deal with the pigs and their new Nova Project. Radovan’d called everyone to a meeting about Nova. All the colleagues were supposed to talk about the cops’ efforts to stop them. Mrado, Goran, Nenad, and Stefanovic. Circle-jerk.
The video-rental companies’d been created after thorough research’d been done on the straw man, Christer Lindberg. Mrado didn’t want anyone who’d raise suspicions with the Man. He’d checked the public records to make sure the guy was registered as a Swedish resident, that he didn’t have any red flag-raising German-imported Beamers, that he was in the clear with tax records, bankruptcy records, and latepayment records. Finally, he’d checked the police’s internal lists-everything had to look clean as a Tide commercial. Mrado thanked his police hookup, Rolf, for the latter registry printouts.
Christer Lindberg was, at least on the surface, a responsible citizen. It would work.
Mrado didn’t want to meet Lindberg personally, kept his distance. He’d had Goran explain most of it. Mrado’d only spoken with the guy once on the phone. All he was told: Mrado was a friend of Goran and could fix fine flow in exchange for signatures on various documents and possible questions from the tax man.
Lindberg according to Mrado: proletarian caricature. Talked intense Sven Swedish, peppered with clichés and shallow insights. Mrado thought about their one and only conversation. Couldn’t help grinning to himself.
“Hi, I’m a friend of Goran. I’m calling about a business idea with video-rental stores. Has he mentioned something about it to you?”
“Yes siree.”
“Do you know what it’s about?”
“Let’s put it this way: I wasn’t born yesterday. I get the idea.”
“Can I ask you a question? What did you do before you started working for Goran?”
“Yours truly worked as a truck driver for Östman Åkeri, in Haninge.”
“And how was that?”
“That was like night and day, so to speak.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you know, Östman wasn’t exactly the type to turn down a drink. Göran showed up one day. Took over the entire operation. Strongly done, so to speak.”
“His name is Goran.”
“Ha, ha. Right, Goran. I’m not too good with names.”
That was enough. Mrado didn’t want to get close to Lindberg in any way.
He sent the guy paperwork. Asked him to sign. Explained some more what it was about, that a friend of Mrado and Goran was gonna open video-rental stores. Needed someone registered in Sweden to be on the board of the company. Lindberg would get a one-time fee of twelve thousand kronor if he signed. After that, they’d give him ten thousand every six months, as long as it all flowed smoothly. Mrado instructed him what to do if any nosy authorities got in touch with him.
It was “good as gold,” as Lindberg put it.
Mrado got in touch with a company that sold shelf companies. Bought two. Paid a hundred grand per company. Sent in all the paperwork that Lindberg’d signed. Changed the names: the Stockholm Video Specialist, Ltd., and Video Buddy, Ltd. Set up bank accounts. Switched accountants. Landed storefronts.
One of the stores was on Karlavägen. They took over an old videorental place, Karlaplan’s Video. Some poor Turks owned it. Mrado sent Ratko and Bobban to scare them a little. They stopped by ten minutes before closing one night in October. Explained the situation. The two Turks refused. Two days later, when the guys opened the DVD case for Batman Begins that’d been returned through the slot in the door-boom boom. One of the Turks lost four fingers and the sight in his left eye.
Mrado bought the space a month later for thirty grand. A steal.
The other video-rental store was in the Södertälje Mall. The store-front used to be a dry cleaner’s. Business was bad for the previous owner, also a Turk. Chance changed channels-the Yugos against the Turks. Low odds on the Yugos. The dry cleaner’s sold for twenty thousand kronor. Didn’t need convincing. They just moved right in.
He renovated and rebuilt the storefronts during the month of November. Used a Rado-owned demolition firm. Neat way to give the demolition firm clean, taxable profits.
Mrado threw out the pornos at Karlaplan’s Video. Bought a ton of children’s films-full-stocked Disney paradise. Lined one wall with shelves of penny candy. Rebuilt the registers, made sure you could buy lottery tickets, magazines, membership. Repainted the place, started selling paperbacks in one corner. The final product: the mildest, most child-friendly video store in all of Östermalm.
Good impression.
The store in Södertälje: Mrado sold the dry-cleaning machines to some old contacts, Syrians. Södertälje was their Jerusalem. Mrado knew-he’d hung out with Syrians growing up. Was even invited to weddings sometimes. The Syrians: one of the tightest networks in Stockholm. Dominated the dry-cleaning and B-list barber biz. Entrepreneurs. Mrado nurtured his connections. Dry cleaners and hairdressers-just as good for money laundering as video rentals. Could come in handy.
Within two months, the video stores were working perfectly. The basic idea was simple. Mrado had 400,000 kronor in cash. Two hundred thousand went to buying the companies. The remaining hundred grand per company, divided into smaller sums, was added to each company’s account. The money covered the storefronts, the renovations, and the purchase of DVDs. Guys from the gym manned the stores from 4:00 to 10:00 p.m. every night. Everything under the table. RIP-right in pocket. On paper, Radovan was employed and was a stockholder. Mrado was employed part-time. He added money to each company’s account every other day. When it was running smoothly, each store actually made fifty thousand a month. With Mrado’s creative bookkeeping: three hundred thousand a month. Left after Radovan was paid a salary of twenty-five grand a month, Mrado twenty, and other general costs and taxes were taken out: around 150,000 kronor per store. Clean. Summa summarum: the salaries plus the stores’ remaining assets-white as snow.
Money from the coat checks was run through the video business on paper-after tax payments, what came out at the other end were honest bills. Best of all, if the business went to hell, it was Lindberg who went there with it. Mrado and Radovan were not on the board and were not registered on paper anywhere.
Despite the laundromats, he had problems. They weren’t enough. In the past months, his insomnia’d only gotten worse. The Radovan situation-more aggravated than ever. Was it because of Mrado’s demand for a larger cut of the coat-check business? The Yugo boss seemed patronizing. Gave responsibilities to Goran and the others but not to Mrado. R. was planning something without M. Indications leaked ou
t via Ratko and Bobban. The question: Had R. just put Mrado on building up the video stores in order to keep him busy? Question number two: What could Mrado do without this crap in his life? Would he even exist without it?
He longed for the good old days.
Ratko didn’t show. Mrado got up. Paid. Walked toward the casino alone.
Casino Cosmopol: state gambling nest par excellence. The philosophy of hypocrisy perfected. To gamble is a Lutheran sin. To gamble is a waste/stupid/socially deviant. To gamble leads to addiction; at the same time, it sows a clover field for the finance minister. The people need entertainment, bread and circuses. Come on-gambling’s just a little thrill, right? The automatic game machines were the worst-cashed in five billion kronor for Big Brother every year. Put people in financial ruin. Sunk families like mini Titanics. Crushed dreams. Along with obesity, the new welfare disease was gambling addiction. Up 75 percent since the automatic game machines and casinos’d opened.
The casino bouncers greeted Mrado. He glided past the entry-fee registers. For regular folks, they checked IDs and compared with head shots in their database. The first time you went to the casino, you had your picture taken. Mrado didn’t need to do that stuff-he had a membership. Anyway, Mrado was Mrado.
The place was a cross between a well-refurbished turn-of-the-century amusement park and a cheap yacht. Five floors. The street level was the slickest. High ceilings, fifty feet. Nicely painted wood paneling. Original moldings and designs. Four enormous crystal chandeliers. Mirrored walls made the room feel even bigger than it was. Red carpeting. Eight big roulette tables in pairs of two. Between every pair, on an elevated platform, was a tux- or suit-clad casino employee in a black leather swivel chair. Job: to keep their eyes on the game, make sure no one pulled any moves. Minimum bet on the roulette table: five hundred on color, evens, or columns. You could blow a grand in five minutes, easy.
Moving on: five blackjack and punto banco tables. Two sic bo tables for the Asians. Various one-armed bandits everywhere.
Blatant hypocrisy 2.0-someone handed Mrado a pamphlet: Do you have a gambling problem? Don’t be ashamed. Over 300,000 Swedes suffer from the same addiction as you do. But there is help. Call us at THE ADDICTION CENTER. Dig this shit: They handed out pamphlets against gambling at the same time as it was possible, without a problem, to withdraw 100,000 kronor at Casino Cosmopol’s own cash counters.
As usual, the clientele was at least 30 percent Asian. The rest were Sven dudes, older blatte dudes, middle-aged women with shirts cut too low, a group of young guys, and the pros-the regulars who came every night.
Mrado greeted a few familiar faces. Headed up toward the fourth floor, where the real game was being played. Poker.
The second floor: brown carpeting, blackjack tables, a couple of midsize roulettes, lots of slot machines. A bar. Mrado went up to the bar. Greeted the bartender. Asked what was up. Things were cool. Frankie boy was crooning in the background. He kept moving.
The third floor: same as the second story, but without a bar. In the stairwell, he ran into the guys from the welcome desk at the gym.
Mrado greeted them. “What’s up?”
“Do an old friend a favor. Come to the Klaraberg viaduct and push me in the water.”
Mrado laughed. “You blow your whole load again?”
“Yup, goddamn it. This is all geharget, totally fucked, man. Dropped thirty big ones tonight. I can forget about that vacation. It’s hard to yell when the barrel’s in your mouth.”
“Get it together. You’re always saying that. It’s fine. You’ll be back.”
“I’ve got to practice more on the guys at the gym. People more in my class. Right? We should organize a little poker night. Sip whiskey, puff cigars.”
“Not a bad idea, but a lotta guys are gonna pass on the booze. Too many dangerous calories.”
“Yeah, but what the fuck am I supposed to do? I don’t have a pissing chance against these guys.”
“Just the heavy hitters here tonight?”
“You can say that again.”
“You seen Ratko?”
“No, not yet. Didn’t see him at the gym today, either. You guys have a date?”
“He better have a good excuse. We were supposed to meet twenty minutes ago.”
“If I see him, I’ll tell him you’re up there and you’re steaming. I’ve gotta head home, or this might get ugly for real.”
Mrado resumed his upward climb. The guy in the stairwell was obviously on the verge of becoming a gambling junkie. Mrado wondered what was worse, gambling addiction or steroid addiction.
He pushed through the doors to the upper level. Green carpeting. The same color as the felt on the poker tables. Black ceiling with discreetly angled spotlights. No mirrored walls here-cheaters thrived anyway. Mrado made the rounds. Stockholm’s legendary professional players were there: Berra K., the Joker, Piotr B., the Major, and others. Men who’d flipped the day just like Mrado. Worked from 10:00 p.m. until the casino closed at 5:00 a.m. Players who never had less than fifty grand in rubber-banded wads. Maladjusted mathematical masterminds.
Half the room was filled exclusively by one-armed bandits.
The other half housed the poker tables. Thick velvet ropes kept curious bystanders and Peeping Toms at bay. Poker was popular. At the middle of each table’s long end stood the state-employed dealer, dressed in a white shirt, red silk vest, and pressed black slacks. The mood was solemn, tense, deeply concentrated.
Two of the tables were reserved for high-stakes play. Someone looked desperate-maybe the family’s savings were all blown. Someone beamed-maybe they’d just pulled in twenty, thirty grand in one pot. The rest just looked incredibly immersed in the game.
There were free spots by one of the expensive tables. No limit: no restrictions on the stakes, possible to do all in. About twenty deals an hour. The state took 5 percent of the pot. Expensive hobby-excluding losses.
Mrado’s idea was based on the fact that you were provided with receipts for all wins of over twenty grand at the state poker tables-the money was white as fleece. Mrado wasn’t the world’s best player, but it happened that he got lucky. In that case, play high stakes. The odds were bad tonight-a lot of good players at the table. On the other hand, that’d make it a higher-stakes game, more money that could be laundered. With luck, he might be able to clean a hundred grand. His plan: play tight. Only bid if he had a good opening hand. Cautious low-risk tactic.
He sat down.
The game: Texas hold ’em. Supertrendy since Channel 5 started airing American competitions. Lured lots of greenhorns to the poker tables, even though it was the toughest type of poker. Fast, most deals per hour meant greatest chances of winning. Bigger pot than in Omaha or seven-card stud, with more players at the table. No open cards except for the five community cards. The game for fast, fat wins.
From the look of it, there were only staples around the table tonight.
Bernhard Kaitkinen, better known as Berra K. Even more famous as the man with Stockholm’s longest schlong, which he never passed up an opportunity to point out-Berra with the Boa. Always dressed in a light suit, as though he were in a casino in Monte Carlo. Been paired off with most of the city’s society dames: Susanna Roos, editor in chief of Svensk Damtidning, the royal gossip rag, was just one in a long line of Botoxed bellas. Berra K.: a loudmouth, a romance scammer, a gentleman. Most of all: a fantastic poker player. Mrado knew his tricks. The dude always buzzed about other stuff, distracted, created a poker face by letting his mouth run nonstop.
Piotr Biekowski: pale Polack. Won the World Championship in backgammon a few years back. Switched over to poker-more money in it. Dressed in a dark blazer and black pants. Wrinkly white shirt with the two top buttons undone. Rocked a nervous, insecure style. Sighed, oy’ed, eyes flitted. That might fool the casino rookies. Not Mrado. He knew: Never play too high against Piotr-best way to empty your wallet.
Across from Mrado: a young guy with sunglasses that Mrado didn’t rec
ognize. Mrado stared. Did the kid think he was in Las Vegas, or what?
Mrado started with the big blind: one thousand that someone-in this particular round, Mrado-had to chip in to incite play. No one could stay in the game without betting at least the same sum.
Piotr sat with the small blind-five hundred kronor.
The dealer dealt the cards.
Mrado’s hand: five of hearts and six of hearts.
The flop hadn’t happened yet.
Berra K. was the first to act. Said, “These cards remind me of a game I played on a boat in the archipelago last summer. We had to stop because a huge fuckin’ thunderstorm blew in.” Mrado tuned out the nitwit nonsense.
Berra K. folded.
The Sunglass Kid posted a grand.
Piotr bet five hundred, up at the same level as the big blind.
Mrado looked at his cards again. It was a pretty shitty hand, but still-suited connectors were consecutive cards of the same suit, and it didn’t cost him anything to stick out the round. He checked, kept pace.
Flop: the first three cards on the table. Seven of hearts, six of clubs, and ace of spades. Nothing perfect for his hand. Small chance of suit remained. Piotr starting whining-his style.
Mrado had to really think things through. The game was high. Piotr could bluff, try to get the rest of the players to raise the stakes by grumbling and moaning. In that case, Mrado should fold, even though he had a chance at suit or flush. Had promised himself to show tableside restraint.
He folded; the betting went on without him.
The Sunglass Kid called. Put in four grand. Not bad. Maybe he was one of the newbies who’d learned everything from online gaming. But it was different in real life. With hard cards.
Turn: the fourth card on the table. A seven of diamonds.
Piotr first out. Added fifteen big ones.
The Sunglass Kid put in thirty grand. Doubled the bet fast as hell.
All eyes on Piotr. Mrado knew: The Polack could have three of a kind, even a full house. Also possible: The guy could be blowing smoke.
Piotr went for it-put all in, 100,000 kronor. A murmur of disbelief swept over the table.