by Jens Lapidus
They let her live together with other girls in a heavily guarded apartment. Sometimes the guys came there. Sometimes they were driven to other places. They thought she had a talent for more than the Swedish language, so they let her do the so-called luxury jobs: go along to restaurants and just look pretty. Maybe be picked up by some guy who’d buy her drinks. Maybe go to parties in huge houses in a miniskirt and act like a waitress. Old guys who’d grope/feel her up, pull her into adjoining rooms. Johns who never paid directly to her.
And every night when she came home, she’d roll a joint. Take some Sobril. Sometimes she topped the roach with aimies-in junkie lingo: dusting.
The Serbian pimps provided the drugs. Made sure they stayed calm.
After six months, she went into withdrawal if she didn’t get her daily dose of weed or amphetamine.
Jorge asked few follow-up questions. Let her tell the story at her own pace. Felt like a head doctor. Like with Paola, who’d always listened to him. But it wasn’t just that; he felt something for Nadja, too.
It hit him what it was: empathy. And something more: a kind of tenderness.
It wasn’t till now that they’d gotten to the interesting stuff. The giant looked back at them every now and then. Made sure they were still there. That the distance hadn’t gotten too big. Jorge guessed that they never let the whores out of their grip.
Jorge looked at Nadja. “Could you tell me some more details about the luxury jobs?”
“For, like, two year. Many time, they first drive us to makeup place. Get fix up. Choose what we wear. Sometime expensive: silk, satin skirt. High heels in nicest leather. A makeup girl learn me to walk in shoes like that. No wobble. They learn us what we talk about, what we do with old guys.”
“Where?”
“Everywhere. In big houses, nice suburb, I think. Restaurant by Stureplan. Other part of town. Four, five time I go with old man for weekend. Swedish girls there, too.”
Jorge sharpened his interview technique. Wanted to ask the right questions. Not push her too far. She had to keep talking. He wanted her to tell him, for her sake.
“How do you get the privilege of going to one of those parties?”
“What you mean?”
“I mean, if I wanted to go to one of those house parties. How would I do that?”
“I not do luxury job anymore. I not young and pretty enough. I almost over. Too much fucking amphetamine. You want to go to party, you need much money. Girls there not cheap.” A fake smile.
“But if I still want to. Who do I talk to?”
“There are many. You ask about Nenad. Talk to him.”
“I can’t do that. Are there others? Who would organize those nicer parties?”
“Swedes. Upper-class.”
“You got any names?”
“Try Jonas or Karl. They use to boss makeup girls.”
“You know what their last names were?”
“No. Swedish last names hard. They never tell us. But nickname.”
“They had nicknames?”
“Yes. Jonas, ‘Jonte.’ ‘Karl,’ called sort of like ‘Giant Karl.’”
“Who else was involved?”
“Talk to Mr. R. if you dare.”
“He was there? Does your boyfriend know you’ve been with him?”
She stopped. “How you know?”
Jorge: Sherlock fuckin’ Holmes. “I just know.”
They kept walking. Back toward the mall.
“Micke not my boyfriend. He Nenad’s eye on me. Mr. R.’s eye. He not know who I be with. Why he got to know?”
“Why does he let you talk to me like this?”
“Micke not like others. He hate Mr. R. Micke promise help me out of the shit.”
“Why?”
“I told you: He hate R. Only work for money. Been beat up before.”
“What’re you talkin’ about?”
“Micke good man. Got foot crushed by a Serb swine who work for Mr. R. At gym. Mrado drop weightiest weight on foot. Then Serb just hit him down, no reason. For him, no big deal. That why Micke can work for Nenad instead. You understand. Micke is big. Still. You understand the men you ask about?”
Jorge understood.
The hate.
The drive.
The hunt.
38
Abdulkarim and Fahdi arrived in London two days after JW.
Picking up the gun was the first thing they did after landing. Cabbed it to Euston Square, where a black guy waited by the newspaper stand at the station. They handed over an envelope with the agreed-upon sum. The guy counted quickly and nodded. Then gave them a slip of paper.
Abdulkarim refused to be ripped off, made sure the guy didn’t vaporize, held on to him. If there was no weapon, the guy’d have to take the hit.
The storage boxes had combination locks. The guy showed them to the correct box right away. The combination on the slip of paper worked. In the box was a sports bag. Fahdi took hold of the bag and reached his hand in. Copped a feel. Smiled broadly.
JW took them sightseeing with a hired tour guide for the rest of the day. Abdulkarim was in rapture, hadn’t been abroad since he’d come to Sweden as a boy in 1985.
They saw the Houses of Parliament, Big Ben, London Dungeon, took a spin in the London Eye. Abdulkarim’s favorite: London Dungeon, the horror museum with distorted wax dolls, guillotines, garrote irons, gallows.
The guide was a middle-aged Swedish man who’d lived in London for seventeen years. Was used to teens on language-course trips and traveling groups from middle Svenland. The guide couldn’t really get a grip on his customers that day, maybe thought they were nice, normal guys. Instead, Abdulkarim and Fahdi poured on the questions. “Where’s the closest strip club?” “Any idea about the price of snow?” “You gonna help us buy cheap ganja?”
Nervous drops gleamed on the guide’s brow. He was probably sweating bullets.
JW grinned.
By the end of the day, the guide appeared visibly shaken. Shifty-eyed, probably scared a bobby’d pop around the next corner and collar him. They thanked him and gave a fat tip.
Before they parted ways, Abdulkarim said, “We’re planning on going to Hothouse Inn tonight. Wanna come?”
The Hothouse Inn: JW’d scored tix. It was one of Soho’s glammest strip joints.
The dopest part: The geezer guide said yes.
Abdulkarim’s grimaced. “Oh my. I was just joking. We definitely weren’t gonna go there. That’s dirty. You do stuff like that?”
The guide: like a Jersey tomato. The red lights on the streets paled in comparison. Turned and hurried off.
They died laughing.
Day two. JW, Abdulkarim, and Fahdi invaded the shopping districts.
London, the Holy Land of luxury department stores: Selfridges, Harrods. But best of all: Harvey Nichols.
They’d booked a limo for the whole day.
JW’d moved to Abdulkarim’s hotel the previous day, when Abdulkarim deemed it safe. Fahdi’d moved somewhat later the same day.
They began with a hotel brunch, model XL: sausages, bacon, spareribs, chicken clubs, fried potatoes, pancakes with syrup, seven kinds of bread, granola, Kellogg’s cereal, scrambled eggs, three kinds of fresh-squeezed juice, marmalade, Marmite, Vegemite, tons of cheeses-Stilton, cheddar, Brie-jam, Nutella, ice cream, fruit salad. No end to it.
They binged. Fahdi loved the scrambled eggs, loaded up two plates. The middle-aged women one table over stared. Abdulkarim ordered new fresh-squeezed juice four times. JW was ashamed, and still not. He straightened his cuff links and looked toward their neighbors at the next table. Winked.
Enjoyed it somehow.
The limo picked them up at one.
Abdulkarim was coasting, boasting about how much they were going to make on the blow Jorge’d scored through that Brazilian. Blabbered on about all they were going to do in London. All the bea-ches were going to get a piece of Abdulkarim. All the knuckleheads were going to get a taste of Fahdi.
Abdulkarim hadn’t talked about anything else the night before, couldn’t let it drop: Jorge’s infamous flight from the Västerbron bridge. JW was impressed. Seven pounds of coke was theirs. Exactly what they needed-quantity.
They stopped outside Selfridges. Abdulkarim opened the door and looked out. Roared in crappy English, “Get us outta here. This place don’t look fancy enough.”
JW glanced at Fahdi and laughed. Had Abdulkarim sucked a nose before breakfast?
The driver remained impassive. Abdulkarim’s behavior was probably nothing compared to the really rich and famous people he’d chauffeured around.
They drove on. The sidewalks were crammed and the streets teeming with cars. Classic double-deckers squeezed past, pulled up to bus stops.
The limo stopped outside Harvey Nichols.
They walked into the department store and quickly found the men’s section. It was gigantic. For JW, the shopping freak, the luxury leech, this was one of life’s happier moments.
He drooled, dug, danced the consumer dance. Merch Mecca. Brand Bethlehem: Dior, Alexandre of London, Fendi, Giuseppe Zanotti, Canali, Hugo Boss, Cerruti 1881, Ralph Lauren, Comme des Garçons, Costume National, Dolce & Gabbana, Duffer of St. George, Yves Saint Laurent, Dunhill, Calvin Klein, Armani, Givenchy, Energie, Evisu, Gianfranco Ferre, Versace, Gucci, Guerlain, Helmut Lang, Hermès, Iceberg, Issey Miyake, J. Lindeberg, Christian Lacroix, Jean Paul Gaultier, C. P. Company, John Galliano, John Smedley, Kenzo, Lacoste, Marc Jacobs, Dries Van Noten, Martin Margiela, Miu Miu, Nicole Farhi, Oscar de la Renta, Paul Smith, Punk Royal, Ermenegildo Zegna, Roberto Cavalli, Jil Sander, Burberry, Tod’s, Tommy Hilfiger, Trussardi, Valentino, Yohji Yamamoto.
It was all there.
Abdulkarim had a sales rep guide him around the store and drove around with his own little shopping cart. He plucked suits, shirts, shoes, and sweaters off the racks.
JW made the rounds by himself. Chose a club blazer by Alexandre of Savile Row, a pair of Helmut Lang jeans, two shirts-one from Paul Smith and one Prada-and a Gucci belt. Total damage: one thousand pounds.
Fahdi looked lost. He was most comfortable in a simple leather jacket and blue jeans and so he bought a pair of Hilfiger jeans and a leather jacket from Gucci. Price of the leather jacket alone: three thousand pounds. Gucci-all luxury lovers’ favorite feature.
JW thought about how much easier it all would be when he had clean fleece. The ability to use proper credit cards: a dream on the British horizon. The feeling he longed for: to be able to toss an American Express platinum card on the counter.
They got help lugging all the bags out to the limousine. The salesclerks seemed used to this kind of thing. London was the place for the disgustingly rich.
The limo kept driving along Sloane Street, the flagship stores’ mainline: Louis Vuitton, Prada, Gucci, Chanel, Hermès in a row.
JW’s eyes were glued to the logos’ luring lines. After a minute or so, Abdulkarim started yelling.
They got out.
Abdulkarim ran toward the Louis Vuitton store. JW saw his billowing pants and too-short jacket over his blazer and thought, Dressing like that ought to be a criminal offense.
At first the bouncer at the boutique looked skeptically at Abdulkarim-a swarthy maniac? Then he saw the limo. Waved him in.
They spent another hour and a half pillaging the street.
JW’s final count was four thousand pounds, not including what he’d dropped at Harvey Nichols. Trophies to show the boyz back home: a leather briefcase from Gucci, a coat from Miu Miu, a shirt from Burberry. Not bad.
A thought flitted through his head: Is this Life, or is this a sham? JW felt elated, almost ecstatic. Still, he couldn’t help but connect it to how Camilla must’ve felt when she’d been given a ride in the man from Belgrade’s yellow Ferrari. How similar were she and JW?
They had lunch at Wagamama, at the end of Sloane Street, a trendy Asian restaurant chain with minimalistic interiors. Abdulkarim complained that too many dishes contained pork.
“Tomorrow night, we gonna celebrate,” he said, “by eating at some halal place.”
Fahdi looked surprised. “What’re we celebrating?”
Abdulkarim grinned. “Buddy, tomorrow we gonna meet the guys we came here to meet. Tomorrow we gonna know if we gonna be millionaires.”
39
Mrado was sitting on the couch at home postgym. Tired muscles. Wet hair. And full-he’d gorged on two tins of tuna with pasta, plus a protein powder cocktail. To top it off: Ultra Builder 5000, two tablets-Metandeinon, grade-A anabolic-androgenic steroids.
He vegged, watched Fight Club, Europsport. K-1, Elimination Tournament. The former K-1 champion, Jörgen Kruth, was the commentator. Analyzed the punches, kicks, and knees. The message his dragging, nasal voice sent was crystal-clear-the guy’d taken too many hits to the nose.
One of the masters, Remy Bonjasky, was crushing his opponent in the ring. Got the guy up against a corner. Kneed him in the gut. Low-kicked to his shins. His opponent screamed in pain. Bonjasky, two rapid left jabs. The guy didn’t get his guard up in time. Mouth guard went flying. Before the ref had time to call it, Bonjasky finished with a round kick, impact on the left ear. Pure knockout: the opponent unconscious before he hit the floor. Mrado couldn’t have done it better himself.
The past few days, Mrado’d been in a fantastic mood. He’d kicked his training into high gear. Serotonin surged. He was sleeping better. The gangs were under control-he’d succeeded. Most of them were in agreement enough for the idea to work. They knew the drill: As long as everyone kept to their own playpens, biz would soar. Cops lose. Cash flow.
His cell phone rang.
On the other end of the line: Stefanovic.
“Hey, Mrado, how are you doing?” He sounded formal. Mrado wondered why.
“All’s good with me. And you?”
“Good, good. Where are you right now?”
“At home. Why’re you asking?”
“Stay there. We’ll pick you up.”
“What, what’s going on?”
“It’s your turn, Mrado. To see Radovan. Bilo mu je sudeno.” Then he hung up.
Bilo mu je sudeno-it is your fate, Mrado.
His head spun. The couch felt uncomfortable. He stood up. Lowered the volume on the TV. Made a loop around the couch.
Gangster code: If you get picked up, you’re never coming back. Like in Mafia movies. The Brooklyn Bridge with a rainy backdrop. They drive you across it. You don’t return.
Thoughts like in wind turbine. Should he jump ship? If so, where could he disappear to? His life was here. His apartment, his business, his daughter.
What was Radovan’s problem? Was it that he couldn’t forget that Mrado’d asked for a bigger cut of the coat-check profits? Did he know Mrado’d rigged the market division in a way that curried his coat-check business? Worse: Did the Yugo boss sense his low loyalty? No, that was impossible.
Mrado’d just served Radovan Stockholm’s criminal market on a silver platter. The Yugo boss should be grateful. Maybe everything was okay, after all. Maybe R. wasn’t planning on hurting him.
He sat back down on the couch. Tried to think clearly. No point in leaving. Better to take it like a man. Like a Serb. Mrado still had some kind of advantage; his businesses were the ones that were protected with the market division. He should be safe.
Twelve minutes later, his home phone rang. Stefanovic again. Mrado put his holster on, slipped his knife in place under his pants, against the inside of his shin. Walked down the stairs.
Out on the street was a Range Rover with tinted windows. Mrado’d never seen the car before. Not one of Radovan’s or Stefanovic’s vehicles.
The passenger door was open.
Mrado got into the passenger seat. At the wheel: a young Serb. Mrado’d seen him before, one of Stefanovic’s boys. In the backseat: Stefanovic.
The car started up.
Stefanovic: “Welcome. I hope you’re doing well.”
Mrado didn’
t answer. Waited to gauge the mood. Read the situation.
“Something on your chest. Why so quiet?”
Mrado turned his head. Stefanovic: impeccably dressed in a suit. As usual.
Mrado looked straight ahead again. It was still light out, but the sky was beginning to darken.
“All’s good with me. I already told you that on the phone. You forget quickly. Or do you have something on your chest?” Obvious diss in his mimic of Stefanovic.
Stefanovic fired off a forced laugh. “Maybe it’s best we don’t talk if you’re in a bad mood. Might just be a load of bull if we do. Don’t you agree?”
Mrado didn’t answer.
They drove through the city and out onto Lidingövägen.
The silence spoke loud and clear. The situation smelled like shit.
Mrado examined expedient exits: to pull his Smith & Wesson and shoot the driver’s head off. Might work, but Stefanovic could be armed. He’d have time to bust some major holes in the back of his head before the car even came to a stop. Other way out: to turn around, take a well-aimed shot at Stefanovic’s mug. Even if he did that-just like popping the driver-Stefanovic could beat him to it. Last idea: to shoot both men when they got out of the car. Best idea yet.
He thought about Lovisa.
The car slowed down. Turned up a narrow gravel path and then up a steep hill in the Lill-Jansskogen forest. The Range Rover was a good call, Mrado thought.
Finally, the car stopped. Stefanovic asked him to get out.
Mrado’d never been to this place before. He looked around. Stefanovic and the driver remained in the car. Typical veteran move. Nothing Mrado could do-he couldn’t even see them through the tinted windows. To shoot would be meaningless.
They were on a height. A single building in front of him: a sixty-five-foot tower. Surreal.
Or? His eyes ran up the length of the red-painted cement body of the tower-saw the explanation: It was a ski-jumping hill.
Apparently, he’d ended up somewhere at the edge of the Lill-Jansskogen forest, by a ski-jumping tower that didn’t look like it’d been used in ages. A bad omen.