by Jens Lapidus
The 5-0?
Maybe.
No.
Men with ski masks over their heads. Both wearing blazers. Reservoir Dogs, or what?
Guns in their hands.
Abdulkarim screamed. Jorge pulled his gun. JW got behind a pallet. Fahdi was suddenly holding his gun in hand. Fired shots. Too late. The bigger of the men-and he was really enormous-held a small revolver in his hand. Smoke from the barrel. Fahdi collapsed. Jorge didn’t see any blood. The other man, the one with a handkerchief in the breast pocket of his blazer, yelled, “Get down on the floor, fast as fuck, or I’ll pop another one.” JW obeyed. Jorge remained standing. Abdulkarim hollered. Cursed. Called for Allah. His constant squire was on the floor. Blood was beginning to show. Trickling from Fahdi’s head. The man with the handkerchief in his pocket said in drawling voice, “Shut up and get down.” Pointed his gun at Abdulkarim. The man who’d shot Fahdi said, “You, too, Latino fag, get down.” Jorge lay down. Dropped his weapon. Could hardly see JW behind the packing case. Abdulkarim was on the floor, his hands on his head.
Jorge thought he almost recognized the voice of the man with the handkerchief.
He definitely recognized the voice of the man who’d shot Fahdi.
58
JW sat with his back against a packing case. The floor was cold. His position was uncomfortable. His hands were taped back a little too tightly.
But not that tightly-part of his agreement with Nenad was that they’d tape him so that he’d have a chance to break free. Who wanted to end up on their ass in a cold-storage facility all night?
Even so, the situation’d gotten out of hand.
Shooting Fahdi was not part of the fucking plan. JW had no clue who Nenad’s helpers were, but that big asshole’d definitely made a mistake. A horrific overstep.
Panic was creeping up on him.
Abdulkarim was on the floor, with his hands behind his back, duct tape wound tightly around his wrists. But he refused to shut up. The Arab screamed, spat, and drooled in turn.
Jorge was sitting just like JW, against a pallet, with his hands taped behind his back. He stared at JW.
Chills ran up and down JW’s spine. The room was chilly. The Yugos were ice-cold.
Fuck.
Nenad and his helper unpacked the last of the cabbage. Opened it just like Jorge, JW, and Fahdi’d done. Crammed the baggies into the suitcases. Skipped the weighing and tasting. Ignored the Arab’s screaming. Didn’t even look in JW’s direction.
Jorge kept staring. But not at the men in the ski masks, who were in the process of stealing over two hundred pounds of C. He was staring at JW.
“You told them, didn’t you?”
JW thought, How could Jorge know?
“You, you fucking idiot, got ’em here, and you don’t even know who they really are.”
“What are you talking about? I have no idea who they are.”
JW turned his head. Looked over at Nenad. He had a cabbage in his hand. Carefully slit it open with a box cutter. Took care not to cut the bag. A couple of spilled grams-maybe ten thousand kronor. Nenad didn’t seem to give a shit about JW and Jorge’s conversation. Maybe he didn’t hear it-Abdulkarim’s curses were distracting.
Jorge said in a low voice, “Fahdi for sure ain’t the canary. Why’d he let someone in who’d shoot him in the face? Abdulkarim? No, he’d never drag anyone into this who’d shoot his best friend. So, who can it be? Petter or you-’cause it ain’t me. And you said something a half hour ago that I’m thinkin’ about now. You told me to be chill. I’ve never heard you talk like that before. Why’d you say that anyway? How’d you wanna affect me? You’re fucked, JW, man.”
“Shut up.”
JW looked straight ahead. Turned his eyes away from Jorge. The Chilean was smarter than he’d thought. But what did it matter now? In a couple of minutes, Nenad and his man would be gone. JW would break free and maybe help Jorge with the tape, then disappear. Jorge, Abdulkarim, and Fahdi, if he was alive, would have to make it on their own-sorry, boys, that’s life.
There was one case of cabbage left. The Yugos worked quickly. JW closed his eyes and waited for them to skip out.
Jorge hissed again, “Listen to me, JW.”
JW ignored him.
“Fuck, man, listen. You workin’ with those hustlers? You know who they are? You know what they done to your sister?”
59
Experienced, efficient, evil. They cleaned the Arab out. And the best part of it: By extension, they were sinking Radovan.
Mrado and Nenad, the dynamic duo, didn’t take shit. Pinched the blow bags till it stung the old toad.
Abdulkarim used to work for Nenad and was now directly under R. He couldn’t have suspected Nenad knew shit about the C deal, since the Yugo boss’d shut him out. Dumbass.
Despite all the planning and JW’s information, Mrado was still slammed with some surprises: One of the Arab’s helpers was the Latino he’d beaten up eight months ago in the woods north of Åkersberga. What was he doing in Västberga Cold Storage? JW’d said that a Latino was working alongside him on this gig, but he’d never mentioned his name.
It was a bizarre collaboration. Mrado thought, Either the Jorge dude’s hired help for this one gig or else he’s been working for Abdulkarim the whole time. In that case, he’s been working indirectly under Nenad the whole time, and, even more indirectly, under Rado.
Ironic but not impossible. The Latino knew a lot about C. Wasn’t strange that Abdulkarim’d wanted to recruit the guy. Not strange that Nenad didn’t keep track of every clocker who worked for the Arab, either. And if Nenad’d known, it wasn’t strange that he hadn’t mentioned it to him: Nenad couldn’t know that he’d taught the Latino a lesson he deserved.
Mrado thought, The Latino only has himself to blame. Humiliated by me a second time. And now by sitting with his hands tied and watching his Arab employer snot all over the floor. What a joke.
They had less than one crate left to unload. Mrado stood by the suitcases, Nenad by the packing crates. Lifting out cabbages. Making incisions with a knife, carefully, precisely. Unnecessary to cut anything that shouldn’t be. Mrado picked up the bags. Filled the last suitcase.
The ski mask was uncomfortable.
Abdulkarim spat on the floor. Refused to stay calm. Yelled curses in Arabic. Mrado guessed, it was something like: I’m gonna fuck your mother/sister/daughter. The pool of blood around the gorilla on the floor grew big. JW and Jorge sat with their arms taped, each with his back against a packing crate. They were staying calm.
Everything’d gone according to plan. JW’d done a good job. The kid could be trusted. Like Nenad said: The guy wanted up. Would do anything for cash. He’d informed Nenad and Mrado exactly where, when, and how the Arab and his crew would receive the blow. Said all they had to do was drive there, cut down that one lookout, and step right in.
Almost too easy.
In three or four minutes, they’d be done. Mrado and Nenad in one car. Bobban in the other. If shit went down, they had an extra escape car parked safely on the other side of the cold-storage facility. Ready to roll instead of the others cars if the situation blew up.
Within six months, when the whole load’d been sold off, they’d be 100 million richer.
Fresh as fuck.
That’s when he was hit with the day’s second surprise. The JW guy got up. His hands were obviously untied. Mrado’d cut the guy’s tape so it’d be possible to break free. Unnecessary, he realized now.
Why had he gotten up?
Abdulkarim’d understand that something was off. That JW’d collaborated with Nenad.
He said something.
Mrado glanced over. Nenad looked up, interrupted what he was doing. Held a head of cabbage in one hand, the knife in the other.
JW was holding a Glock in both hands. Pointed at Nenad at only four yards’ distance.
Jaw clenched. Eyes like slits.
The guy hollered something inaudibly slurred.
&nbs
p; What the fuck was the brat up to?
Mrado listened closer.
“Nenad, you pig. If you move, I’ll shoot you. In the head. Promise. Goes for you, too. If you move, Nenad dies.”
Nenad dropped the cabbage. Tried to look relaxed. It rolled away over the floor. He said to JW, “What’s the deal? Sit down.”
JW remained standing as he was, arms raised.
Mrado made some high-speed calculations: Was JW losing it, or was the kid sharper than they’d thought? Did he plan on raking in the whole load himself? And if so, how good was he with a gun? Would Mrado have time to pull his S & W before this loon fired off a shot at Nenad’s head or chest? Conclusions: Whatever the JW guy was up to, it was a sticky situation-not a good idea to make any sudden moves. The distance was too short; JW seemed too steady with the gun.
Mrado stood still.
“Answer one question, Nenad. Very simple.”
Nenad nodded. His eyes could be glimpsed under the ski mask. He didn’t look away from the barrel for an instant.
“What’s the color of your Ferrari?”
Nenad was silent.
Mrado slowly moved his hand inside his jacket to pull his gun.
JW said again, “If you don’t tell me what color your Ferrari is, I’ll shoot.”
Nenad stood still. He seemed to consider.
The gun in JW’s hand, his finger on the trigger. Game time.
Nenad said, “I used to have a Ferrari. What do you care? But it wasn’t really mine. It was leased.”
JW raised his head slightly.
“It was yellow, if you’re wondering.”
JW’s eyes changed. Furious. Wild. Unpredictable.
“Tell me what you did to my sister.”
Nenad giggled. “You’re messed up.”
JW clicked off the safety.
“I’ll count to three; then you’ll talk. Or else you’re dead. One.”
Mrado gripped the gun inside his jacket.
Nenad said, “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”
JW counted: “Two.”
Mrado didn’t have time to act before Nenad started talking.
“Oh, now I know who I thought you looked like the first time I saw you in London. Couldn’t think of who. I guess I just couldn’t imagine you were the brother of a whore.”
Mrado thought, Why is Nenad even talking to the guy? Insanity.
“She was fine, your sis. Made good money. I even hung out with her for a few months. She was the freshest call girl we had. I promise.”
A pause for effect.
Silence in the cold-storage facility. Even the Arab was completely still.
“She was a little too cocky, though. When she started with us, she was still a student and knew her place. Apparently, it was her teacher, an old regular of ours, who tipped her off about our way of making dough. But after a while, she got uppity. Tried to pull some funny biz. We couldn’t tolerate that. As you must understand.”
JW stood still. Arms straight out. Gun in a firm grip.
“How’d you find out, by the way?”
“Fuck that. Pig.”
Mrado tore out his gun. Raised it toward JW.
He didn’t care if Nenad was making some sort of confession to JW. The situation had to end. Time for him to do some yelling.
“JW, put down your gun.”
Pointed his gun at the brat.
JW’s gaze skipped. Probably saw Mrado out of the corner of his eye.
Deadlock. Triangle drama. Mexican standoff.
If JW shot Nenad, he would fall, as well.
Did the guy understand the situation?
“JW, there’s no point. If you hurt Nenad, I’ll blow your head off. I’m a better shot than you are. Maybe I’ll have time to pop you before you even pull the trigger at Nenad.”
JW remained standing.
Mrado felt how the polyester of the ski mask itched.
Nenad clocked, kept quiet.
Mrado said, “Put your gun away and we’ll forget about this.”
Nothing happened.
Abdulkarim started screaming.
That’s when Mrado was hit with the third surprise of the day. The worst one.
The entrance to the loading dock opened again.
Cops stormed in.
Two shots went off.
60
Jorge in the midst of the chaos.
JW’d fired. Mrado’d fired.
Nenad on the floor. The police crawling like ants. Despite that, the shot toward Nenad’d spooked them. Confused. Mrado’s shot at JW’d missed. JW on his feet. Unharmed. The cops’d stormed in at just the right moment to distract the Yugo.
Tear gas in the cold-storage facility.
Mrado shot wildly at the cops.
They took cover. Interrupted. Hollered commands. Made threats.
Jorge behind the packing crate.
JW next to Jorge, a box cutter in his hand. Cut off the tape around Jorge’s hands.
Jorge rose to his feet. They looked at each other.
Eyes stung like hell.
They ran toward the back door.
The cops clocked the situation too late. Focused on Mrado, who still had the gun in his hand.
Jorge unlocked the door.
He and JW ran out into a hallway.
No cops.
A fluorescent light was flickering farther down.
They fumbled around in confusion.
A ladder leaning against a wall.
Up.
They climbed toward the ceiling, a hatch.
Took the rungs three at a time.
Heard cops bursting into the hallway.
Jorge looked down. Opened the hatch. They yelled from below, “Freeze, police.” Jorge thought, Fuck you. J-boy’s been around the block and has some golden rules: Never stop. Give it hell. The pigs’ll se pierden.
They got up on the roof. The sheet metal was flat and gray-colored, as if it’d once been white. The sky was clear.
JW seemed out of breath. Still held the Glock in his hand. He probably didn’t have any bullets left. Jorge in better shape, despite the lack of exercise lately.
They ran across the roof.
JW seemed to have a direction. Took the lead.
Jorge yelled, “Where we goin’?”
JW replied, “There’s supposed to be a car, a Volkswagen, parked out front, by the flagpoles.”
Cop cocks poured out of the hatch in the roof, positioned themselves. Took up the chase.
Autotuned voice over a megaphone: “Stop where you are. Put your hands over your heads.”
JW raised his gun, pointed back toward the men. Idiot move.
Jorge heard the cops yelling, “He’s armed.”
He ran faster.
Breathed through his nose.
The smell of his own sweat.
Not stress. Just exertion.
No stress.
Continued over the roof.
The megaphone again.
JW held the Glock in his hand. Turned back to the cops. A sharp sound was heard. Was he the one who’d shot?
Shit-Jorge hadn’t thought he still had bullets left.
Another shot sounded.
JW fell. Grabbed his thigh.
What the fuck were the cops doing?
No time to think.
He rushed on alone.
Harmony in the runner’s stride.
Jorge with flow. Jorge with rhythm.
In a trance: All he knew was how to run.
Remembered his loops around the Österåker rec yard. Remembered his homespun rope tight over the wall.
Ran so fast.
Toward the edge of the roof.
Didn’t even look down.
Just jumped. True to habit.
Farther fall than from the Österåker and the Västerbron bridge.
A cracking sound in one of his feet.
He saw the Volkswagen.
Fuck the pain.
Limped up
to it.
Broke the window. Opened the door.
The driver’s seat, covered in shards of glass.
He tore out the ignition wires from under the wheel.
He could hot-wire a car better than anyone.
The king.
The car started up.
Adiós, losers.
EPILOGUE
Paola should’ve given birth by now.
Jorge lit a cig, leaned back. A rickety lounge chair. A beach umbrella with a Pepsi ad on it.
His foot felt considerably better.
Ko Samet: not one of the most popular islands. Farther up the bay than Ko Tao and Ko Samui. No Swedish charter trips, no German mass tourism, no families with children. Instead: cheap bungalows, solitary beaches, and backpackers with greasy hair. On top of that: single middle-aged men and Thai whores.
Half his stack exchanged into dollars was packed into the shoulder bag next to the lounge chair. The rest in an account at HSBC. The bank with offices all over the world.
Suited him well.
The beach was almost empty of people.
He groped with his hand to make sure the bag was still there.
He thought back.
He’d made it. Jorgius Maximus. Driven the car like a maniac despite his sprained ankle. Obvious comparison: like the escape from Österåker, except no planned escape route. They were less than a minute behind him. He drove into Midsommarkransen. A lot of houses and narrow streets. The cops couldn’t keep him in sight like on the freeway. He ditched the car by Brännkyrka Gymnasium. Boosted a new one in under thirty seconds. They didn’t clock shit. The Miracle Man strikes again. Shook the cops. Outbrained the 5-0.
First thing he did after that: drove to Fahdi’s apartment. Had the keys on him. Limped into the bedroom. To the closet. Took out the shotgun he’d used in Hallonbergen. Stuffed it in a paper shopping bag. Limped out.
Had second thoughts. Back into the bedroom. Grabbed the assault rifle and Fahdi’s other weapons, too. Wrapped them in his sheets.
Fahdi was a friend. If he survived, he wouldn’t have to do more time than necessary.
Went into the kitchen. On the kitchen table were, as usual, scales, Red Line baggies, manila envelopes, mirrors, and razor blades. Three hundred grams of blow in different dime bags.