Easy Money (12 page)

He stepped out of the bathroom. Shivered. Got dressed. Put on the cashmere coat—a boy with class. Put his new MP3 player, a tiny Sony, in his pocket and put the earbuds in. They didn’t stay very well, tended to fall out. He tried to wedge them in at an angle. Put on a Coldplay song and walked down toward Sturegatan. It was a bright day. It was already twenty past three.

The Hotel Anglais was half-empty. Two waitresses sat at a table, folding napkins in prep for the night. Behind the bar, a guy in jeans and a T-shirt was sorting bottles of booze. Sly and the Family Stone was playing from the hidden speakers. Only two guests sat at a table. Abdulkarim didn’t appear to have arrived yet.

One of the napkin-folding chicks walked up to him. Led him to a table by the windows, far from the other guests. He ordered a coffee. Looked out through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Out toward Sturegatan. Humlegården was right across the street. He thought about the first time he’d treated Sophie and Anna to a hit in the park. The gateway to the network. That was a little over five weeks ago now. He’d gotten to know more new people during that time than during his entire life. Cocaine-controlled chum cartels.

There weren’t a lot of people on the streets at three-thirty in the afternoon on a weekday. A couple of stressed-looking bankers in dark blue suits hurried past. Two moms, each pushing a baby carriage with one hand and holding a cell phone in the other, strolled up toward the park. One of them was pregnant again. JW thought about Susanne Pettersson. He’d be bitter, too, if he was in her situation. A lady walked by with a pug on a leash. JW leaned back in his chair and pulled out his cell phone. Fired off a text to Nippe, asking what the plan was for the night:
Drinks at Plaza, maybe?

“
Salam aleikum.
How’s school going?” Abdulkarim’s shrill voice, almost unaccented. JW looked up from his texting.

Abdul stood by his table. At least as much wax in his hair as in JW’s, but shaped differently. Some sort of pageboy look. Abdulkarim was always dressed in a suit, with the cuffs of his shirt peeking out of the jacket. As if he were some honest, hardworking banker or lawyer. What gave him away were the pants. They were three times baggier than the current fashion and had old-man pleats in the front. In 1996, the rest of the pants world had moved on and left Abdulkarim behind. The only thing he got right was a stylish silk handkerchief tucked into his breast pocket. Abdulkarim had a gait with attitude, a constant five o’clock shadow, and dark, glittering eyes. The heart of it: The Arab was the definition of a
blatte
playboy.

JW replied, “School’s good.”

“Isn’t college a little gay? Buddy, when you gonna realize there are faster roads to success? I really thought you’d have understood that by now.”

JW laughed. Abdulkarim took a seat. Waved his whole arm in order to get the attention of one of the waitresses. True Abdul the Arab. His gestures were too big. Un-Swedish, unreverent.

Abdulkarim ordered sesame-marinated, finely sliced filet of steer and noodles. Trendy. In the same breath, he managed to say that he wanted the waitress’s number, that she ought to change the music, and that he wondered whether the steer’d been well hung. He laughed for five minutes at his own joke.

JW ordered a seafood soup with aioli.

“Very good to see you like this. Was getting tired of just buzzing on the phone all the time.”

“You’re right. We need to get together, to celebrate. These are glorious times, Abdulkarim. If you can get me more, I need more. You know that.”

“Times are fattening you up. You switch that out, like I told you?” Abdulkarim pointed to JW’s cell phone.

“Nope, not yet. Sorry. I’ll buy a new one this week. Sony Ericsson’s latest. Have you seen it? It’s got a super-high-def camera. Really damn sweet.”

Abdulkarim imitated him. “ ‘Really damn sweet.’ I know your story. Stop talkin’ like you lived in Östermalm since the cradle. Plus, I want you to buy a new cell phone today. Damn it, you gotta watch yourself. We do good business, you and me. Too good to fuck up because of bad phones, if you know what I mean.”

The Arab could seem silly sometimes, but JW knew the guy was a real pro. Cautious, never used words like
police, cops, risk, cocaine, coke,
or
drugs
in public. Knew that restaurant employees and customers could eavesdrop better than a gramps with his hearing aid turned up to max. Knew the police easily tapped cells, tracked contracts. Abdulkarim’s rules were safe. Always call from a pay-as-you-go SIM card, exchange the card every week, preferably switch phones every other week.

“You know, I got two other guys selling. They do good. Not as good as you, no, but okay. We can talk numbers on the phone. Prices are going down. My boss’s suppliers, they’re not perfect. Think there’re at least two middlemen between them and the wholesaler.”

“Why don’t you go straight to the wholesaler?”

“First of all, it’s not really my call. I work for the boss and don’t run my own fuckin’ business. I thought you knew that. Second of all, I think the wholesaler’s in England. Hard to read. Hassle to negotiate with. But we’re not here to talk about purchasing prices today. Not at all. What I want to tell you is, we need salespeople. In the boroughs, the projects. Someone who knows that market. Someone who can sell to other retailers. Someone who knows the business and the tricks, if you know what I mean. The prices are going down. The product is getting popular in Stockholm’s satellites. At the beginning of last year, the proportions were something like twenty borough, eighty inner city. At the end of last year, it was fifty-fifty. You with me, my man? The boroughs are waking up in winter, and loving the snow. It’s not just inner-city people, your upper-class buddies, and the partyers doing this stuff anymore. Everyone is. Svens, niggers, teenagers. It’s populist stuff. Folksy. Like IKEA, H&M. We’re talking bigger volume. We’re talking lower purchase prices. Growing margins. You follow, college boy?”

JW loved the Arab’s parley. He spoke better Swedish than expected, like a real businessman—serious business. The only thing that put him off was the fact that Abdul seemed scared of his boss for some reason. JW wondered why.

“It sounds interesting. For sure. But you know, the boroughs aren’t my turf. I can’t sell there. I don’t know anybody there. That’s just not me.”

“I know that’s what you want people to think about you. That’s fine with me. You got your market and you do good. But listen up.” Abdulkarim leaned across the table. JW got his drift, pushed his plate to the side. Crossed his arms and leaned his chest in closer.

Abdul looked him in the eye and lowered his voice. “There’s a guy, a Chilean or somethin’, who just broke outta the joint. I remember him from a couple years back, a clocker without much of a clue. But now talk has it the guy knows the northern boroughs like you know the bathrooms at Kharma. Learned even more on the inside. The joint’s a better school than all the projects combined. I know some of his buds from Österåker. They say he’s smart as hell. The Chilean pulled off quite a show five or six weeks ago. Fucking Cirque du Soleil. Climbed over the wall and disappeared in the woods. A twenty-three-foot wall, you dig? The guards just stood there twisted up like question marks. He’s a good guy. But right now he’s a guy under a fuckload of pressure. I know he hasn’t left the country yet. He’s got what we need. Most important, he’ll work for cheap in exchange for me taking him on.”

“What am I supposed to say? I don’t know about all that. Don’t know why you’d want to get involved with some guy who’s obviously gonna attract the cops like flies to shit.”

“Right now, at this stage, I’m not gonna get involved with him. You are. I want you to find him. Flatter him. Pay him. Take care of him. Then he’ll help us tighten our grip on the boroughs. But don’t scare him; remember, he’s on the run. But that’s the whole point. You dig, my man? Since he’s on the run, he’ll get dependent on us providing for him, giving him a safe place to stay, keeping him undercover.”

JW didn’t like what he was hearing. At the same time, it was like he’d tasted blood, whet his appetite for the Arab’s business. He’d been hesitant in the beginning, but now the sun just seemed to keep on shining. Maybe the Chilean runaway idea wasn’t so bad after all.

“Why not? Let’s try it. How and where do I find this Chilean?”

Abdulkarim laughed out loud. Praised JW. Praised Allah. JW thought, is Abdul getting religious, or what?

The Arab leaned in even closer and gave JW the info. The little he knew. The runaway’s name: Jorge Salinas Barrio. The guy was from Sollentuna and his family consisted of a mom, a plastic papa, and a sister. Abdulkarim’s best piece of advice: “Go to Sollentuna and talk up some of the right people. It should give you something,
inshallah;
just make it obvious you’re not a narc.”

He ended by tucking a bag in JW’s jacket pocket. JW felt with his hand—bills. He looked at Abdul, who held up all ten fingers. “There are this many bills in there and a piece of paper with six names on it. That’s the best help I can offer.”

JW fished out the slip of paper. All the names except for one sounded Spanish. The money was, as the Arab put it, “for getting all the homeys in Sollis to dish about el runaway-o.”

JW finished his soup. Abdulkarim settled the bill.

They walked out. It was chilly outside.

JW started thinking. This could be big. This could be a little conglomerate all on its own.

He was going to track down that Chilean.

He walked home. Had trouble studying. Couldn’t concentrate. His mind kept wandering. He stretched out on the bed and tried to read the last issue of
GQ.

His cell phone rang. JW realized he’d forgotten to keep his promise to Abdulkarim about getting a new one.

Jet Set Carl’s voice on the other end of the line.

What the hell? What could he want?

After saying hi, Carl said, “JW, Lövhälla Manor was such a great fucking time. Totally insane.”

“Ridiculous. We’ve gotta do that again sometime.”

“For sure. Really damn sweet that you could help bring the party. I really think everyone appreciated it.”

“Nice to hear. I tend to be able to find a way to bring some fun, so to speak.”

“Did you know I jumped the shit out of a couch? Totally busted it.”

JW gauged his tone—no problem, okay to laugh.

Carl scoffed.

“It was a real piece, too. Designer.”

“You’re kidding? What’d Gunn say?”

More laughter. I mean, Gunn? Please.

They chatted about the awesome dinner, Nippe’s game, that Jet Set Carl’d paid fifteen big ones to fix the couch, that Gunn must’ve wondered why everyone was sneezing up a storm the morning after.

In JW’s mind, the same question kept coming back to him: Why is Jet Set Carl calling me?

He didn’t have to wait long for an answer. “It’s my birthday and I’m having a big party at my house. Think you could bring some fun?”

JW was used to the slang and the roundabout way of saying things. Even so, it took him a sec to catch on. “You mean C? Of course. How much do you need?”

“Hundred and fifty grams.”

JW: brain freeze.

Jesus.

He tried to sound unperturbed, “That’s a lot, but I think I can get it. Just have to check the amount first, make sure it’s cool.”

“I don’t want to be a drag, but I have to know pretty soon. I’ll call you back in an hour. If you don’t know, I’ll ask someone else. What’s your price?”

JW did some rapid mental arithmetic. It was dizzying—if he could get a hold of the amount, that is. Maybe he’d be able to push the purchase price down to five hundred. Could charge Carl at least a thousand. Left for him: at least seventy-five grand.

Jesus Christ Superstar.

“I’ll do my very best, Calle. I’ll call you as soon as I know.”

Jet Set Carl thanked him. He sounded like he was in a good mood.

They hung up.

JW sat on the bed—with the stiffest hard-on in northern Europe.

***

On his way to Radovan. Serbian music on the stereo: Zdravko Colic. Mrado, pissed—that faggot Jorge’d been uppity. Threatened Radovan. Indirectly threatened Mrado. Tried to blackmail. Tried to be smart. Tried to play with fire.

Jorge had info on the cocaine business. Knew of storage spots, import routes, smuggling methods, dealers, buyers, labs, bulking techniques. Most of all, the
blatte
knew who ran the show. Mr. R. himself risked being in the danger zone.
Gospodin Bog
—the
blatte fucker
was the one should be in the danger zone.

That cocksucker. Mrado would find Jorge, tape him up, cut him to pieces. Eat him up. Shit him out. Lap up. Shit out again.

Mrado’d called Radovan right after he got off the phone with the
blatte.
Radovan sounded calmer than Mrado. But Mrado sensed the vibes under the surface: Radovan even more pissed than he was.

Jorge, prepare for revenge of the Yugos.

The good thing about the Latino’s provocation: The incident diverted Radovan’s irritation from Mrado. Last time they’d gotten together, the mood’d hit an all-time low. Radovan’d gone too far.

Twenty minutes later, he arrived in Näsbypark. The leafy suburb. Gaudy paradise of the straitlaced and square. Cunts. He parked his car and lit a cigarette. Held it between thumb and pointer finger—Slavic-style. Took deep drags. Had to calm down before his meeting with Radovan the Great. Phlegmy cough. Thought about Radovan’s paintings. Total value? Couldn’t be measured in money.

He stubbed out his cigarette. Walked up to the house.

Rang the doorbell.

Stefanovic opened the door. Didn’t say a word, just led Mrado to the library. Radovan was seated in the same chair as last time. The leather on the armrests was worn and faded. A bottle of whiskey on the coffee table: sixteen-year-old Lagavulin.

“Have a seat, Mrado. Thanks for calling right away. We could’ve done this over the phone, but I wanted to look you in the eyes to see that you’re not too rabid. You’ve got to take it easy. We’ve got to take it easy. Solve this one step at a time. It’s not a huge deal. Others have tried. Only difference now is that he actually might know something. Tell me what he said. From the beginning, please. Full transcript.”

Mrado told him everything. Tried to keep it short without leaving out the most important part—the
blatte
’s attitude.

“Jorge Salinas Barrio’s on the run. You know more than me about that story; you were the one who informed me. According to what I’ve heard, the guy’s some sort of hero at Österåker. Even the heavy hitters at federal joints like Kumla and Hall admire his style and finesse. Disappeared into thin air like some fucking magic trick. Broke out, Houdini-style. I should’ve dealt with him right away. That fuckin’ fag.”

“Houdini—I like the comparison. But don’t tell me you should’ve taken him down right away. We don’t know what could’ve happened then. Just keep talking.”

Mrado told him about his conversation with Jorge. That Jorge’d sounded stressed-out, that the
blatte
’d probably called from a pay phone, that he wanted a passport and a hundred G’s, that he’d said a lot of shit would be leaked if anything happened to him.

Radovan sat silently. Refilled his glass of Lagavulin. Took a sip.

“He knows a lot about us. But not
that
much. He can’t make me dance like some kinda monkey with the shit he knows. This is his big chance to get me to help him. Of course I could get him a new passport. Cash. A new life in some warm country. The only problem is, he’s gotten me all wrong. No one forces me to do anything. Anyway, what’s to say he’ll stop there? You know how the fucking Croats were back in the homeland. They wouldn’t settle for ninety-nine percent of the coastline, they wanted it all. It’s the same with this guy. One day I get him a new identity, and the next day he’ll be back asking for money. Or asking for plane fare. Or asking for any fucking thing—stake in Radovan’s empire.”

Mrado laughed. Rado: the gangster king who talked about himself in the third person. Mrado relaxed. Better mood than last time he’d been here. Felt the whiskey warm his body. Soften his shoulders. Caress his insides.

“His trump card is what he knows, or maybe knows. I’m not really sure that he actually has enough info to hurt us, but he’s a threat. Our trump card is that we can send him right back to jail, without passing Go. The disadvantage of our advantage is that there’s a risk he’ll lose hope if we send him back in. If he doesn’t have anything to live for anymore besides building biceps at a supermax, that canary’ll sing quicker than you can say blow. I can guarantee you that.”

“Excuse me, Radovan. But why not just pop the fucker?”

“That’s not how we do. Too dangerous. You heard him. It’ll leak. We don’t know who else he’s told. Jorge Salinas Barrio’s no idiot. If we rub him out, I promise he’ll have made sure the info we don’t want seeing the light’ll be up and out with the fucking dawn. He’s probably already leaked to someone who’ll tell all if we so much as pluck a hair on his nappy head. But, you know, he could do anything. Lock papers in some safety deposit box. If he bites it, no one’ll be there to keep paying the fee, the box’ll be opened, someone’ll see all the papers he put in there, including detailed accounts of our business. Or else he’s written some e-mail that’s programmed to be sent to the cops after a certain date unless he stops it. You know where this is going—point is, we can’t off him. He’s too smart for that. But there are ways. Classic methods, you know, Mrado. You find him, or get in touch with him in some other way. Do your thing. Explain to him that he can forget about his ugly blackmail attempts ever making Radovan quiver. And then, once you’re sure he knows who sent the greeting, crush him. You ever stabbed someone in the stomach?”

“Yes, bayonet, Srebrenica, 1995.”

“Then you know it bleeds like a bitch, will fold anyone. So many soft parts to hit and so much to injure. That’s the way to approach Jorge—break him right away, fast and easy. Like stabbing with a knife.”

“I’m following. Do I have carte blanche?”

“Yes and no. You can’t finish him. No knife. That was just to paint the picture. Let me put it this way: You have to use soft brass knuckles.”

Radovan laughed at his own joke.

“I understand. Do you know anything else about where I might find him?”

“Not really. But he’s from the Sollentuna area. Ask Ratko or Ratko’s brother. They’re from there. One more thing. You can’t fuck the
blatte
fag up so much he has to go to the hospital. Then he’ll be sent back to prison, and we’ll be back in the risky territory I just mentioned. In the slammer without hope, he’ll screw everyone. Turn into a rodent in no time.”

“Trust me. Not a single bone will be broken in the body of that little pussy. Still, he’ll wish he was back in his mother’s.”

Mrado’s vulgarity made Radovan smile. He whisked the whiskey around in his glass. Took a sip. Leaned back in the armchair. Mrado, pumped. Wanted out, on the street. Away from Radovan. To the gym. Talk to the guys. Find leads. Crack the code. Crush Jorge.

They talked about other stuff: horses and cars. No business. Nothing about Mrado’s demanding a bigger cut of the coat checks last time. After fifteen minutes, Radovan excused himself. “I’ve got some things to attend to. And Mrado, considering the fiasco at Kvarnen, I want Jorge now. Know what? I want him yesterday already.”

Mrado went to the gym. Talked to the guys working the desk. Interrupted their discussion about the latest muscle medicine. Asked questions. Did they know anyone doing time at Österåker? Did they know anyone working as a guard at Österåker? Did they know anything about that slick break that’d gone down five weeks ago?

One of them said, “You seem interested. Are you on your way in and want to know how to get out?” Grinned at his own joke.

Mrado, indulgent. Refrained from biting back. Joked along instead. “Preparation’s a shortcut, right?”

The guy leaned over the desk: “That escape was totally SUPERior. I mean, honestly, the dude that stepped over the wall must’ve been Sergej Bubka himself. Twenty-three feet, Mrado. How the hell do you jump that without a pole? Is he Spider-Man, or what?”

“Do you know anyone doing time there?”

“I don’t know anyone doing time there. I’m a refined person, don’t you know. Don’t know any guards, either. Ask Mahmud, maybe. You know, Arabs are always a little criminal. Half the race is, like, behind bars. Check the showers, I think he just did his morning sesh.”

Mrado went downstairs. Into the locker room. Mahmud wasn’t there. A couple other guys were getting dressed. Mrado said hi. Walked back up. Looked around the room on the right. The Eurotechno blared. No Mahmud. Looked around the room on the left. Saw Mahmud kneeling on a red mat. Stretching his back. Looked like a grotesque ballerina mid-pose.

Mrado knelt down next to him.

“Yo, twiggy. How’s your sesh? What d’you do?”

Mahmud didn’t look up. Kept stretching his back. “I don’t know who you’re calling twiggy, twiggy. The sesh was good. I’ve worked the crap out of my lower back and shoulders today. Is fine. They’re far from each other. How’re things with you?”

“Rollin’. I need help with something. That cool?”

“Course. Mahmud never leaves you hangin’; you know that.”

“Cool. Do you know anyone doing time at Österåker?”

“Yeah. My sister’s husband’s there. She visits a lot. They get a room to themselves, have a little fun.” Mahmud changed positions. Stood up. Arms between his legs. Hunched his back. The sound of joints cracking.

“When’s the next time she’s gonna visit?”

“Don’t know. Want me to ask?”

“Yeah. Would you call when you’re done here? I need to know as soon as possible.”

Mahmud nodded. They were silent. The Arab did a few more stretches. Mrado waited. Chatted with two other guys in the room. They walked down to the locker room. Mahmud called his sister. Spoke in Arabic. His sis was going there on Thursday.

They met up at a place on the south side. Supercheap—greasy kabobs and falafel in pita bread for twenty kronor a pop. Mrado ordered three. Scoped out the place. Pictures of the Al-Aqsa Mosque in Jerusalem and Arabic texts on the walls. Genuine or for show? Who cared when the kabobs were so good, they’d melt in your mouth.

Mrado’s take on Mahmud’s sister: tacky
blatte.
Clothes a little too tight. Skirt a little too short. Makeup a little too much. The Louis Vuitton accessories? A little too fake. Much too much ghetto Swedish. Tone it down,
habibti.

She was amenable.
Nema problema.
He instructed her on what to ask: If Jorge’d had an unusual amount of contact with another inmate the days before the escape. With a CO? How’d he gotten over the wall? Had he belonged to a gang? Did people know who’d helped him on the outside? Who were his friends on the inside?

She wrote the questions down and promised to memorize them before her next visit to the penitentiary. Wanted two thousand cash for her time.

Mrado knew Jorge’s type; they never shut up. Bragged, showed off, said too much.

He felt certain: With a contact at Österåker, the Latino’d soon be found.

The hunt could begin.