Easy Money

by Jens Lapidus

  The door at the base of the tower opened. A man he recognized waved at him to come inside.

  The inside of the tower’s base was spruced up, nice. Renovated. A small reception desk. Signs on the walls: WELCOME TO FISKARTORPET’S CONFERENCE HALL. WE CAN ACCOMMODATE UP TO FIFTY GUESTS. PERFECT FOR YOUR KICK-OFF, COMPANY PARTY, OR CONFERENCE.

  Quick glance back-Stefanovic and the driver’d gotten out of the car.

  No time to try any tricks. The man who’d met him asked for his gun.

  He handed it over. The walnut grip felt slippery.

  There was only one room at the top of the tower. Large windows facing in three directions. It wasn’t completely dark outside yet. Mrado could see out over the Lill-Jansskogen forest. Off toward Östermalm. He saw City Hall in the distance. Church spires. Farthest off on the horizon: the Globe Arena. Stockholm spread out before him.

  Mrado’s thought at that moment: Why didn’t someone build a luxury restaurant in this place?

  In the middle of the room was a square table. White tablecloth. Large candelabras. Set for a meal.

  On the other side of the table: Radovan in a dark suit.

  He said in Serbian, “Mrado, welcome. What do you think of the place? Elegant, huh? I found it myself. Was out jogging in the woods down here one day. Exploring the paths in either direction and got curious. Kept running uphill. Found this.”

  Mrado selected strategies. Stony style. Self-confident style.

  Straight-to-the-point style was what he chose. “It’s nice, Radovan. To what do I owe the honor of being invited to dinner?”

  “We’ll get to that later. Let me finish my story. This is actually an old ski-jumping hill. They closed it in the late eighties, and it’s been empty and rotting ever since. I bought the place this summer and I’m in the process of refurbishing it. It’s gonna be a conference hall. Party venue. Could be a damn nice hullabaloo joint. What do you think?”

  Radovan walked around the table. Pulled out the chair for Mrado. The simple fact that Mrado’d been left standing for over a minute was yet another bad sign.

  Radovan went on and on about the tower.

  “Do you realize how many forgotten places like this there are in Stockholm? I flew in seven Polacks last week who’re gonna redo the ground floor. It’s gonna be a restaurant, with the finest VIP room up here, at the top. People can do what they want here. Radovan invites the girls, brings the food, the booze, the whole nine yards.”

  A woman came in, pushing a drink cart. Served dry martinis. The olive gleamed, speared by a toothpick. When the door opened, the hair rose on Mrado’s neck. He knew instinctively that they were out there: Stefanovic, the driver, the man who’d met him downstairs. Ready for violence if needed.

  Radovan didn’t take any risks.

  Mrado thought, Not smart to do something rash now, but then again, it probably never was.

  The woman came back in with the appetizers: toast Skagen, a Swedish seafood specialty. Poured out white wine. They began eating.

  After a few mouthfuls, Rado laid down his utensils. Chewed. Swallowed. “Mrado. It’s important that you understand our situation. You already know what I’m about to say, but just listen to Radovan. We’re moving into a new phase. New times. New people. New ways of working. As you know. Today, there are a lot more players on the Swedish field than there were when we began twenty years ago. Back then, it was just us and a couple of old bank robbers, Svartenbrandt and Clark Olofsson. But Sweden is different now. The MC gangs are here to stay. The youth and prison gangs are well organized; the EU dissolves the borders. Biggest change is that nowadays we’re also competing with the Albanians, the Russian Mafia, a ton of nasty types from Estonia, just to name a few. It’s not just Western Europe that’s gotten smaller. The East is here. Globalization, yada yada.”

  Mrado sat calmly. Knew that Rado liked the sound of his own voice.

  “We’re playing in an international market now. And the solution is in that very term. Tito chose a middle ground. So we knew a little about market economics. But here in the West, and in the free countries in the East, we make sure people get what they want-the ultimate consumer-driven market. ’Cause crime really isn’t much more than that: the essence of market economics. Crimes are deregulated, free, supply-and-demand controlled. Without state intervention. Without planned economics, Commie rules, or chief guardianship. On the contrary, the strongest survive, just like in the market. That’s the future. And to get there, we have to adjust the way we work. Choose areas of work depending on what, at the moment, maximizes profit in relation to risk. Consider the opportunity costs. Constantly invest, inject assets into new fields. Market our capital of violence. Recruit, merge, cut. We can’t be slow, gotta be nimble. It’s much more efficient to use consultants and work in small cells-like small business owners, if you like that analogy. We can learn from these Muslim terrorist networks. They hardly know each other. Still, they work toward the same goal. If one band gets plucked, it doesn’t mess up the big picture. We’ve got to work that way. ‘Cluster thinking,’ that’s what it’s called in fancy talk. Get rid of the old hierarchical organization. Some Swedish business dude put it this way: ‘Tear down the pyramids.’ Sounds good to me.”

  Mrado just stared in reply. He’d stopped eating.

  The woman came in. Cleared the plates. Refilled the wine.

  “We know our fields. But we’re organizing all wrong. That’s the hitch. A few years ago, there was a lotta talk about the new economy. I don’t know if it worked for regular folks. But for us, Mrado, the new market is the new rule. We’ve got to integrate a new way of thinking. Reach out beyond our narrow ethnic group. Recruit from the boroughs. Make alliances with Russian and Estonian organizations. Decentralize. Invest more in outsourcing. Control the cash flow, but maybe not always the core businesses. You with me?”

  Mrado nodded slowly. Best to wait out Radovan’s half-hysterical monologue.

  “Good. Drugs’ve got wings. The blow’s damn successful. The whores are even better. You can’t even imagine what Swedish men’ve been longing for during all these years of political correctness. They’re ready to pay anything. And this faggy law against purchasing sex, it’s only strengthened us. The indoor brothels are as big as in Vegas; the luxury hookers are at every potbelly party in the suburbs. It’s glorious. You were a part of building up our call-service biz. Remember?”

  “Radovan, what you’re saying is interesting. But I already know this stuff, and where exactly are you saying I come into it?”

  “Thanks for bringing it up yourself. You’ve served the organization well. Served me well. Served Jokso well, too. But times change. You’ve got no place in what I’m describing. Unfortunately. Sorry. What you’ve done, the market-division agreement, it’s wonderful. Thanks to your contacts. Your image. But that’s all over now. I can’t trust you. Why? Deep inside, you know the answer. It’s been brewing in you for years. The answer is: because you don’t trust me. You don’t see me as our leader. As the one whose word should be followed without compromise. You demand too much. In the new market, individuals must act on their own. But never, ever act against their Radovan’s interests.”

  Radovan’s tone hardened.

  “Mrado, look out the windows. Out over Stockholm. This is my fucking city. No one can take it away from me. That’s the point of everything I’ve been talking about just now. This is my market. That’s what you haven’t understood. You think it’s thanks to you that the money’s rolling in, that you and I still work side by side. Forget that. I’m the new Jokso. I’m your new general. You have only me to thank for your livelihood. Your little life. Your pathetic position. And still, you’ve got the balls to demand a bigger cut of the coat-check profits. Demand. That’s when it stops working. But worst of all is that you’ve tried to two-time me. Your only motivation for the market division has been your own self-interest. It’s okay to work for your own self-interest, but never against me.”

  Mrado tried to interrupt
Radovan. “Radovan, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I haven’t two-timed you.”

  Radovan cut him off, almost screamed. “Don’t bullshit me! I know what I know. You’re out of the game. Don’t you get it? No one challenges Radovan. You’re out of the coat-check business. Sent off. Benched. You know me after all these years. I’ve had my eye on you. Know how you think. Rather, know that you don’t think. Don’t see me as your boss, your officer, your fucking president, as you should. But that’s all done now. Game over. Fatso.”

  Mrado expected a bullet to the back of the head.

  Nothing happened.

  Radovan waved in the woman with the food cart.

  She served the main course.

  That’s when Mrado knew he would live.

  In a new situation. Demoted.

  Shamed.

  Radovan said, in a normal tone of voice, “Isn’t this steak fantastically tender? I fly it in straight from Belgium.”

  40

  Not counting the Radovan Revenge Project, Jorge was on top. Living large. Making fat stacks. Liked Abdulkarim, Fahdi, Petter, and the others lower on the dealing totem pole. He’d liked Mehmed, too, and now the guy was in trouble-still unclear if the cops were gonna muster a wrapping. He even liked the Östermalm brat, JW. But the dude was weird. Seemed to be double-dipping. Hanging in different worlds. Rocked a snooty style. At the same time, obviously horny for Jorge’s know, honestly curious. Most of all, the guy desired dirty dough.

  At the same time, Jorge had the hots for JW’s other life-Stureplan. Jorge’d partied at the bars around there tons of times. Champagne-chinga’d chicas. Palmed some bills and the bouncer’d let him glide past the line. Brought some prime rib home from the meat market.

  But still, something was missing. He saw the Swedish guys. No matter how much money he spent, he’d never be at their level. Jorge could feel it. Every blatte in the city could feel it. No matter how hard they tried, waxed their hair, bought the right clothes, kept their honor intact, and drove slick rides, they didn’t belong with Them.

  Humiliation was always around the corner. You could see it in the salesclerks’ reactions, in old ladies’ sidewalk detours and cops’ stares. It appeared in the bouncers’ gazes, the bitches’ grimaces, the bartenders’ gestures. The message clearer than the city of Stockholm’s segregation politics: In the end, you’re always just a blatte.

  JW, Abdulkarim, and Fahdi were in London. Doing something big. Jorge’s job at home was to hold down the fort. Make sure to move the gorgeous gear Silvia’d brought in. No problem. It’d melt faster than Popsicles in the sun.

  Jorge’d gotten an apartment in Helenelund. The proximity to his old hood felt good. Sublet from one of Adbulkarim’s contacts. Tricked it out with crib capital: forty-two-inch flat-screen, DVD, stereo, Xbox, laptop.

  Loved life as Jorge Nuevo. Zambo Jorge rolled with flow.

  Loved his new friends. Habits. The beautiful bills.

  What ate away at him-the hate.

  Three days ago, he’d met the hooker, Nadja. There were still some unanswered questions. Who was the giant, Micke, really, and how could he help Jorge? Who were the guys she’d mentioned? Jonas and Karl, alias Giant Karl. How could he weasel his way into Radovan’s whore trench?

  He was stressed-out. Hadn’t gotten anywhere. Had stopped sitting in cars outside Rado’s house, since it was pointless. Maybe he should rethink things. Invest in info about Radovan’s dealer biz instead. Still, no. That was too much of a threat to Jorge himself and to the people he cared about.

  The whore trail was better. Anyway, the job for Abdulkarim was taking more and more of his time. Mehmed had to be replaced. Fresh meat had to be recruited. Jorge’s ideas: maybe his cousin, Sergio. Maybe Eddie. Maybe his bro Rolando, when he caged out of Österåker. Sergio was the hero who’d helped Jorge out of Österåker. So far, he’d been repaid in a few measly moneys. Should be paid better. Jorge wanted to offer him the chance on an in of the C profits. Same with Eddie. And Rolando-player’d been the most competent coke coach J-boy’d had. Should pay off. He’d called the brothel madam at least twenty times over the past few days. Wanted to book a time with Nadja. See her again. Didn’t need a walk. Just needed ten minutes to ask more questions. And something else-maybe get sucked off again. He thought, No, that felt fucked even before I knew her. There was another reason he wanted to see her.

  Finally, Jorge got hold of the hooker mama. Gave the alias he’d been given the first time he was there. She okayed him, said he could come that same night.

  Took the subway to Hallonbergen.

  It rained. Warmer in the air. Smelled like a halal cart. Last time, Jorge’d come by car, but now the map master’d quested it. Memorized. Could find the way with a blindfold on.

  The red apartment building with the brown external balconies was haloed by a rose-colored sunset glow.

  He entered the combination for the front door. Took the elevator up. Out onto the balcony. Rang the doorbell. Dark in the peephole-someone’s eye on the other side. He gave his alias aloud.

  The door was opened by the man that Fahdi’d been talking to the last time he was there. Same clothes. Blazer over hoodie.

  Jorge gave his alias again. Was let in.

  Asked for Nadja.

  Same music in the wait room. Shitty imagination in this joint.

  The man just nodded and led Jorge to the room. Opened the door. Let him in.

  Same bed. As poorly made as last time he’d been there. Same armchair. Same drawn blinds.

  On the bed: a different whore.

  Jorge stopped short in the door, turned around. The dude wasn’t standing behind him anymore.

  He looked at the girl on the bed. She was pretty, too. Bigger tits than Nadja’s. Miniskirt. Tight, low-cut top. Fishnets.

  “I was supposed to see someone else. Nadja?”

  The girl answered in quasi-intelligible English.

  “I not understand.”

  Jorge said in English, “I want to see Nadja.”

  Maybe it was instinct. Jorge wasn’t just anyone-he was the chainbuster on the run, after all-was always tensed to the max. Usually, his nerves were pricked for cop fuckers. But also for Radovan.

  He turned in the door. Ran out through the wait room. Heard the man in the blazer y hoodie yell his alias. Didn’t turn around. Jorge already through the door. Ran across the exterior balcony. Down the stairs. Out. Away.

  Jorge’d never seen a face contort as gruesomely as when the new chick in Nadja’s room understood who he was asking about. Obvious: The name Nadja equaled terror.

  Something wasn’t right.

  Something was revoltingly wrong.

  The next day. Jorge was on the toilet, doing number two. Incoming call on his cell-restricted. Not unusual on Jorge’s cell. Those who called him often hid their numbers. He decided to pick up despite his embarrassing position.

  “Hi, my name is Sophie. I’m JW’s girlfriend.”

  Jorge, surprise squared. Had heard about Sophie from JW. But why was she calling him? And how’d Sophie gotten his number after all of Abdulkarim’s strict rules about not giving numbers to strangers?

  “Yeah, hi. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

  She laughed. “So, what’ve you heard?”

  “How much he dreams about making a family.”

  A short silence on the other end of the line. She hadn’t gotten the joke.

  “Hey, JW’s in London, so this might sound strange, but I was wondering if you’d want to get together. Grab a coffee or something?”

  “Without JW?”

  “Yes. I want to get to know you, his other friends. But he’s such a clam. You know how he is-doesn’t talk about certain stuff.”

  Jorge knew what she was talking about. JW played two games.

  “Come on, let’s get together sometime before JW gets back? It’s nothing weird, promise.”

  Jorge’s instinct said no. But the curiosity, really, why not? He was interested in knowing mo
re about JW, too. Maybe one day get the chance to go with him to his other world.

  “He’ll be back in four days, I think. Want to meet up tonight?”

  They set a time. Sophie sounded pleased.

  He remained seated, finished his thing.

  Ruminated. Had to be careful. Something off about Nadja’s disappearance. Something off about the hoodie man’s behavior. They knew he wanted to see Nadja. Why didn’t they tell him she was gone? The biggest question: Where was she? And now: suddenly JW’s polola calls. Was there a connection?

  Conclusion: Don’t take any risks with the Sophie chick. Could be a bluff.

  That night, he took the commuter rail to T-Centralen. Jorge still didn’t have a car. Top priority when Project Rado was completed: Buy a fine ride.

  Was gonna meet the girl who claimed she was Sophie. He walked from T-Centralen. The streets were clear of snow.

  Jorge remembered his guarded parole from Österåker, when he’d walked the exact same street. Warm day in August. Three COs in tow. If they’d only known what he was gonna use the Asics shoes for. Tools.

  Took a right on Birger Jarlsgatan. Neon signs blinked above the Sturegallerian shopping center. Endless repeats of the Nokia logo.

  Ten yards outside Café Albert, he took hold of a young dude. Sideways baseball hat. Blatte kid on the wrong turf. Offered him a hundred kronor for a favor.

  The guy went into the café.

  Came back out a minute later.

  Another minute.

  Sophie came out.

  Jorge stared. Sophie: matchless mina. Sex appeal personified. Black knit scarf nonchalantly wrapped. Tight black leather motorcycle jacket, without reinforced elbows or shoulders. Tight jeans.

  He knew JW belonged to Stureplan. But this-abbou, what a cat.

  Sophie looked questioningly at him.

  She was clearly alone. Jorge was satisfied. Felt safer. Sonrisa’d up.

  They said hi. She suggested Sturehof. No problem getting in. Reason was obvious: Sophie always got in.

  Walked past the restaurant and entered the bar area.