Easy Money

by Jens Lapidus

  It was five-thirty. Mrado: watching the clock. The mood was already bad after the blunder two weeks ago when Lovisa’d waited for him for forty-five minutes outside school. Mrado’d been off cracking the junkie’s skull. Finally, the teachers’d called Annika, who came and picked her up. Not good.

  After the gym, they drove to Gröndal. The freeway was clogged with rush-hour traffic. Listened to Serbian music in the car. Lovisa tried to sing along.

  Turned off above Stora Essingen. Drove down to Gröndal. Drove seventy in the forty-five zone. Mrado couldn’t help himself. Hit the breaks. Did twenty on Gröndalsvägen. Mrado reined himself in. Kept to the speed limit.

  Drove carefully all the way up to her apartment building.

  Dropped her off at the curb. Waited in the car.

  Saw her enter the key code to unlock the door to the apartment building, open the door with both hands-it was heavy-disappear inside.

  Away.

  He was elated, high on human warmth.

  A day of fatherhood.

  The day after his visitation day: back to reality. Over the past couple of months, Mrado’d met with the most important people/leaders of Stockholm and middle Sweden’s underworld. Robbers/rapists/murderers/drug lords-it didn’t matter what they’d done as long as they had influence.

  Unanticipated success. Mrado, surprised. They listened, meditated, deliberated. Most of them came back with answers. They were in line with his thinking: Dealing with the pigs demanded a market division and an end to the war.

  The result: The deal creating Stockholm’s criminal cartels was taking shape. Could be a triumph for Mrado.

  The downside: Nova Project reaped its victims, including some of the Yugos. Two of Goran’s men’d been collared. On suspicion of aggravated tax fraud.

  A summary of the market division: The Bandidos’d agreed to drop their coat-check racketeering and cocaine dealings in the inner city. Instead, they’d increase the protection racket, especially in the southern boroughs. The HA would increase their booze smuggling in all of middle Sweden. Reduce their protection racket. Expand whatever financial crime schemes they wanted. The Naser gang: difficult to sway. They were gonna keep running H as usual. The Original Gangsters: did CIT heists all over Sweden. Not really a competitive field. On the other hand, they’d promised to reduce their blow biz in the boroughs. They had the run of the northern boroughs. Fucked For Life kept the weed business in southern Stockholm, would reduce their scope in the north.

  Mrado’d organized it all. Valued the different markets. Shares. Areas. Weighed. Analyzed. Talked to over forty different people. Lobbied. Buttered up when necessary. Been hard as bone when the situation demanded it.

  Most people trusted him, treated him like a Yugo with honor. Saw the advantages to his proposal. Saw the risks with Nova.

  Summa summarum: He was close to a market division. Best of all, the coat checks in the inner city, his own pet project, were becoming protected ground.

  According to Mrado: He was a genius.

  Left to convince: Magnus Lindén, the Wolfpack Brotherhood.

  They were meeting up at the Golden Cave pub in Fittja. Neutral ground.

  Mrado loved his Benz more than usual. It was the effect of the crayons Lovisa’d left behind. Mrado’d pinned the box on the dashboard like an icon. Crayola. Thought, Soon it’ll be Wednesday again.

  No traffic. Smooth driving. He thought about the Wolfpack Brotherhood.

  Created by a couple of inmates at Kumla seven years ago. The founder was the self-appointed president, Danny “the Hood” Fitzpatrick. According to him, he got the idea of creating the Brotherhood after a couple of years on the inside, when he “realized that there were a lot of us who had to live with a reality where the cops threw tear gas in our apartments now and then and came after us with machine guns.” The goal’d been to copy the Hells Angels’ hierarchy: hang-around, prospect, member, sergeant at arms, and president. But after a couple of years, the shit really hit the fan. The Brotherhood’s president found himself in a power struggle with Radovan’s brother. War broke out between the Brotherhood and the Yugos. Went on for two years; three people lost their lives. But that was many years ago now. The Brotherhood had gotten a new president: Magnus Lindén. The Yugos calmed down. But the scars remained.

  Mrado parked the car. Before he locked it, he said his customary prayer to the Car God.

  Didn’t feel anything before his meeting with Lindén besides a weak hope for a successful market division. No nerves. No fear.

  He entered the pub.

  Spotted Magnus Lindén right away. The dude exuded cruelty.

  The pub was almost empty. A middle-aged woman behind the bar was stacking glasses. Lunch had been over for two hours. The place was dimly lit. In the background: Led Zeppelin, “Stairway to Heaven.” A classic.

  Lindén rose, arms hanging by his sides. Not so much as a hint of a greeting. Was rocking some serious attitude.

  Mrado in his new role as mediator: ignored that Lindén ignored. Extended his hand. Met Lindén’s gaze.

  He remained standing like that for three seconds too long.

  Lindén backed down. Extended his hand. Shook Mrado’s.

  “Welcome. Want something to eat?”

  The ice was broken.

  They ordered beer. Made small talk.

  Mrado knew the game by now. Discussed engines, cars, bikes.

  Lindén imparted his words of wisdom, sounded a lot like HA philosophy to Mrado’s ears: “If you drive Japanese, you’re a faggot.”

  Mrado agreed. Honestly. He’d owned a lot of cars in his life, but never an Asian, and he planned to keep it that way.

  The conversation was easy.

  Lindén’s approach was different from that of a lot of others. The dude was a roaring racist. Kept sliding into talk about nigger decay/commie Jews and the Swedish Resistance Movement, some sort of organization made up of old skinheads. Mrado was uninterested. Where was the money in this bullshit?

  Lindén shook his head. “Why’d I think a person of the Slavic race would understand?”

  Mrado got fed up. “Listen, li’l Hitler. I don’t give a fuck about your race theories. You know what I want. It’s about all of us. Cut the bullshit and answer the questions already. Will you agree to the market division or not?”

  Risky to push Lindén. He’d made a bloody mush of people for less. But Mrado wasn’t “people.”

  Lindén nodded. Had made up his mind.

  It was decided.

  Mrado on a happiness high on his way home.

  Called Ratko with the news.

  Called Nenad.

  “Sealed the deal with the Brotherhood, too. Like I told you, we’re sitting pretty. Our markets are protected.”

  “Damn, you’ve done a fucking fantastic job, Mrado. Pray to God they keep their promises. The blow biz in the boroughs is soaring at record speed. The sky’s the limit. We’re gonna do some serious revving up now.”

  “Real good odds.”

  Mrado’d been thinking about where Nenad stood for a long time. Was he with or against the boss? Mrado’d heard the talk, knew that Nenad’d had conflicts with Radovan, too. There was a possibility that Nenad was as ticked off as he was. A possibility he had to test.

  Mrado went for it. “No matter what Radovan does, we’re safe.”

  “Yes, no matter what Radovan does.”

  Nenad paused. They were silent.

  Then he went on. “Mrado, we’re on the same team, right?”

  Nenad tested Mrado the way Mrado’d planned on testing him.

  Nenad in the game. Mrado and Nenad on the same side against Radovan.

  * * *

  Stockholm City, daily

  March

  PROJECT NOVA-THE POLICE’S NEW WEAPON AGAINST ORGANIZED CRIME IN THE REGION. The gangs have long criminal records, are becoming increasingly organized and violent, and are training their successors to rob and sell drugs.

  Aggravated robberies, severe drug
crimes, aggravated assault, procuring and pandering sex, and severe illegal weapons possession constitute their everyday lives.

  Despite special police efforts, gang crime in Stockholm has become increasingly sophisticated, violent, and organized. Hardly a day passes without newspaper reports about new CIT robberies, procuring and pandering sex, or cases of assault taking place in the Stockholm area.

  Organization

  Many of the persons in question are experienced criminals with substantial criminal records who previously worked largely alone or in smaller groups. The new development points to improved organization and unity.

  Cracking down on gang crime is a central issue for the regional head of police, Kerstin Götberg, and the Stockholm police’s Project Nova began last year after a period of critical escalation of violent crime in the region.

  150 persons have been given a so-called Nova mark. This means that all police officers know that an arrest of such a person has top priority, no matter the crime in question.

  “We can’t wait around for trophies. Sure, locking them up for seven, eight years would be good if it was possible, but it might not always work. We are going to maintain constant pressure on them. If you combine all the units in the region, you can, as a rule, find a way to convict them of something,” said Leif Brunell, head of the region’s Drug and Surveillance Unit and operative head of Project Nova.

  Status Among the Criminals

  When the Nova marks were instituted, having one in the police’s registry was almost considered a status symbol among criminals.

  “It becomes some sort of status, but in the long term it gets pretty annoying for them, since they become more visible, and that isn’t something they want,” said Lena Olofsson, criminal investigator working with Project Nova.

  The heavy criminals are organized in unified networks and they specialize in different types of crimes. Conflicts can arise when different gangs compete for the same market. “There is a code of honor that has led to confrontations between different gangs, for example the Hells Angels and the Bandidos MC. Even the so-called Yugoslavian networks have had internal conflicts. Right now, the problems are especially big in southern Stockholm.”

  Young People Seek Out the Gangs

  Recruitment to the criminal gangs is large. It is common that the more experienced criminals plan, while the younger ones, the so-called chips, actually carry out the crimes. Sometimes the older and more experienced members participate as “mentors.”

  37

  They met up in the Sollentuna Mall. Jorge felt at home there. Indoor streets, the usual stores: H &M, the Systembolaget liquor store, B &R Toys, Intersport, Duka, Lindex, Teknikmagasinet. And the ICA supermarket. Jorge remembered how the food he’d bought there’d fallen to the ground when he was jumped by the Yugos. Then he remembered all the times he’d shoplifted there as a kid.

  Jorge’s fear of being recognized returned. It’d happened once three weeks ago, right here in Sollentuna. The danger zone for Jorge, highest density of people who recognized him. That time, he’d been there to meet a guy who dealt for him. In the stairwell of the apartment building on Malmvägen, a woman’d walked past who knew Jorge’s mom. She’d tried to joke, yelled at him in Chilean slang: “Jorgelito. You been tanning in Africa?” He’d ignored her. Kept walking out of the building, with his panicked heart beating faster than a drum ’n’ bass rhythm.

  Told himself, It’s cool. I’m way down on the 5-0’s lists by now. I’ve changed my appearance. I’m a different guy. She was the first one in months who’d actually recognized him.

  They each bought a Coca-Cola at a bodega: Jorge, the prostitute from the brothel in Hallonbergen, and her sidekick, a dude Jorge hadn’t seen before.

  The dude: an enormous Sven-six eight, at least. His chest was three feet across and there was no difference between the width of his neck and his head. Doubtful if the guy could walk without his thighs rubbing, friction between Black Angus beef shanks.

  “This is Micke,” the girl said.

  Jorge wondered if the giant was her boyfriend or her pimp. Didn’t dare ask. He was ashamed that he’d paid her for sex a week ago. The real question: Was he ashamed ’cause it was embarrassing or ’cause it was wrong?

  Jorge raised an eyebrow. Signal to the chick: What’s with the guy?

  The girl understood. Said, “Chill. He just wanna come along. See nothing happen to me.”

  “Is he gonna listen to everything we’re saying, or what? Can’t have that.”

  The dude answered with a shriller voice than expected. “Relax, twiggy. I’ll just walk a few feet behind you.”

  Shady as hell. Why’d she brought this guy? J-boy didn’t take any risks. J-boy knew what could happen when you let meatheads out of your sight. He said, “You can keep close, but you gotta walk in front. So I can see you.”

  The giant stared him down. Cracked his knuckles. Jorge ignored him. Said, “If she wants the cash, you’ll do what I say.”

  The chick okayed it.

  They walked out of the mall. Through the sliding doors. Toward the park. In silence. The giant always twenty or so feet ahead.

  Jorge: happiest dealer in town. Tricked the popo grande. Clearly, cockiest cocaine coup ever. Plucked that NK bag with blow right from under their snouts. Booked it-pigs were wheezy geezers-swung himself down from the bridge, and jumped. Landed in the snow on Långholmen. Foot fixed the fall: flourishing feat. Almost lost it when he realized Långholmen was an island. Then he thought, Sweden is a wonderful country. There’s winter; there’s ice. He made his way to the south side of the island, toward Hornstull. Ran over the ice. It was thin, but it bore him. He ran between the houses lining the water on Bergsunds Strand. Came out on the other side, by Tantolunden. All clear. He hailed a cab at Ringvägen.

  The second-best thing about the whole deal: They might have a hard time pinning anything on Mehmed. Hopefully, they couldn’t prove that he’d been in possession of cocaine. On the other hand, Big Brother usually managed to prove what Big Brother wanted to prove. They’d been caught with their pants down, claro. Usually, they switched out the cocaine for something else, kept the authentic gear as evidence. But this time, they’d let Mehmed drive off with the real stuff. Probable reason: They knew that someone was gonna test the shit and they wanted to get at the true bad boys, the higher-ups. Losers-J-boy wasn’t an easy catch.

  The only piss on his parade: How’d it gone down?

  The most probable answer was that Silvia, the courier, had fucked it up. Maybe she’d answered all wrong in customs. Maybe there’d been dogs. Maybe-terrible thought-someone’d tipped them off.

  He didn’t give a fuck right now. The blow was his/Abdulkarim’s. At least three million kronor gross on the street. Stockholm’s boroughs were theirs for the taking.

  Jorge and the chick were approaching the wooded area. The giant stayed up front. The snow lay thick, beautifully white. The path was well sanded. Jorge, with slippery sneakers on his feet, was grateful for the park service’s diligence.

  She turned to him, made it clear she was ready to talk.

  “Good that you came,” he said.

  “It cost.”

  “Of course. What we agreed on.”

  “Yes. Where I start?”

  “Why don’t you start by telling me your name?”

  “Call me Nadja. What I say?”

  “Start from the beginning. How’d you get here?”

  She didn’t gush, told her tale in few words. Jorge thought, She’s pretty. That special something remains: She was playing hard-boiled, while at the same time there was something she wanted to say. He could tell. She was easily persuaded. Too eager. The first time he’d met her in the apartment brothel, she’d told him that Mr. R. spread a Hugo Boss scent. Jorge’d checked it out with people who knew. It was correct. Radovan loved Hugo Boss. Everything Boss-suits, shirts, coats. Aftershave.

  How could she know Rado smelled like Hugo Boss? Only two answers. Either someone’d told h
er, but that was improbable. Or she’d met him up close.

  Possibility number two made her into Jorge’s most interesting lead yet.

  There was something she wanted to say. He was impressed by her courage.

  She told him how she’d come to Sweden from Bosnia-Herzegovina six years ago. Eighteen years old. Raped four times by Serbian militia during her early teens. Applied for asylum here. Lived in a refugee camp outside Gnesta for two years. Thought she’d known what the word bureaucracy meant from her home country. Now she really knew what it meant. Life sucked. She took Swedish for Immigrants classes two hours every day. She was talented. Learned quickly. Other than that, she spent her days sprawled on a bed. Watched shopping shows and matinee movies in a Swedish she didn’t yet understand. Once tried to go shopping on her own in Stockholm: her two thousand kronor a month-one thousand after she’d sent money home to her family in Sarajevo-wasn’t enough for zilch. Never did that again. Stayed in her room. Slept, watched TV, listened to the radio. Near the edge of apathy. Thought only money could save her. One night, a neighbor on her hall at the camp asked if she wanted to smoke up. The feeling: the only nice experience she’d had since the time before the Bosnian catastrophe. It continued like that: They gathered in the neighbor’s room a couple of times a week. Just sat. Smoked. Relaxed. The downside: The need for cash flow became desperate. She stopped sending money home. Hardly helped. Her debt grew. The solution came through the same neighbor, who did it herself-let some guy come to her room once a week or so, gave him a hand job, sometimes sucked a little. Made a couple hundred kronor. Later that night, they gathered in the neighbor’s room again. Built bigger roaches. Took deeper hits. Forgot all the shit.

  It worked for a few months. Then other men showed up-ex-Yugoslavs, Serbs. She didn’t recognize their faces. But she did recognize their style. Arkan’s boys. Told her and the neighbor what to do, when to do it, what to charge.

  The number of customers increased. The money rolled in.

  She wasn’t granted asylum. The choice: stay illegally or go back to her war-ravaged home and the rape memories. She chose to stay. Sank deeper into the pimps’ system.