Easy Money (15 page)

He asked, “May I have a taste?”

Sophie mmmm’ed in response. He licked carefully around her labia. After a while, he let his tongue slip in and slowly swirl around. First around and around, then up and down. He could hardly believe it. He was making her feel good. He was making Sophie whimper.

Sophie pulled him up and pressed him down on his back against the bed. Took off his shirt. Pulled off his pants. Took his cock in her mouth. Sucked him in rapid mouthfuls. He looked down cautiously and saved the image in his mental hard drive—him and Sophie.

JW got up. He was scared he might come. She kept his cock in her hand. Reached over toward the nightstand. Looked for something. He wanted in and didn’t get what she was up to. She leaned back. Then she opened a condom wrapper.

JW, filled with angst—he hated condoms.

He asked, “Do we have to use that?”

“Don’t kid, JW. Of course we do.”

He regretted having said anything. Had to try. She rolled it onto his cock and pulled him down toward her. Right before she guided him in, he went soft. He tried to laugh it off. She looked questioningly at him. JW sighed. Lay down on his back.

Sophie asked, “You and condoms are not a good combo, or what?”

“Damn, Sophie. I’m so happy.” Almost told her this was the happiest day in his life but then shut it; he’d already said too much. Unnecessary to open up more, even though she was the most wonderful thing in the world.

“Don’t know what the deal is. I just don’t work too great with rubber is all.”

The condom hung loosely. She pulled it off. Started kissing his cock. He got hard again. She pulled back his foreskin and licked the tip. Kissed his balls. He got rock-hard. She pulled out another condom from the same drawer. JW tried to relax. Took the condom in his own hands. Put it on. Remained lying on his back. Guided her on top of him. She grabbed hold of his cock to put it right.

The smell of latex.

He went flaccid.

She said, “That’s okay. It can happen to any guy.”

JW thought back to something he’d read in the paper two years ago: a list of the most common lies.

Mrado was sitting at a table under the vaulted ceilings on the cellar level of Café Piastowska, on Tegnérgatan. He’d ordered schnitzel Belwederski with sauerkraut and Okocim, Polish beer. He liked the venue. Brick walls and dark wood paneling. A flag with the Polish eagle hung at one of the short ends of the room. Beer ads were glued to the ceiling. Genuine feel to the waitress: middle-aged gray-haired woman with integrity.

He took out pen and paper.

Around him: a racket. It was the weekend. Someone was celebrating their thirtieth birthday—the tables were pushed together to form one long one. The birthday celebrators ordered beer and called down the troubadour from the upstairs level.

A longhaired toothpick with an acoustic guitar attached to a black sash around his neck came down the stairs. Sang a folksy classic with a soft voice. The thirtieth-birthday revelers hooted with joy.

Mrado shut them out. He was tired, had slept worse last night than in the trench in Bosnia.

Was trying to think. Compartmentalize. Analyze. Find leads. In front of him on the table: a ruled notebook. Wrote questions in a column on the left-hand side of the page. What’d Jorge done? Where’d he gone? Who would know where he was? Wrote down probable answers in another column on the right-hand side. The Latino’d asked for a passport; the call’d come from a Swedish pay phone. Conclusion: Jorge hadn’t left the country.

Jorge must’ve planned large parts on his own. In other words, he was on the run, without too many helpers. He wasn’t hiding at his sister’s, probably not at his mother’s. If he was in the Sollentuna area, the Latino was staying indoors at all times. He couldn’t have that much money stashed away, either. According to what Mrado remembered, the
blatte
’d been cleaned out worse than Lehman after closing when he’d been locked up at Österåker one and a half years ago. And now he was hitting up Rado for money, too.

In summation: Jorge was hiding somewhere cheap, in Sweden, probably in the Stockholm area. Alone.

Left in the middle of the page: a column for unanswered questions. Who’d last been in touch with Jorge? Where’d he gone directly after the breakout? Mrado underlined two central words:
location now.
He hadn’t really gotten anywhere in his search. Figuring out where the
blatte
was hiding was as easy as completing a jigsaw puzzle of a sky with all blue pieces.

He could wait for Jorge’s call and scare him then. Threaten to hurt the Latino’s sister, his mom. But those weren’t Radovan’s orders. Instead: Find him, hurt him, and make him understand who’s in charge. Also: Jorge’d broken with his family. In that case, threats wouldn’t help.

Mrado took a final swig of beer. Asked for the check. Paid. Tipped. On his way up the stairs from the lower level, he felt a vibration in his pocket. Service again. A text. He picked up his cell. Didn’t recognize the number. Read the text:
Call me on this number at 8:00 p.m./Rolf.
His cop connect. The pussy used his son’s or daughter’s cell when he got in touch with Mrado. The text: good news. Maybe Rolf knew something.

It was eight o’clock. Mrado was sitting in his car outside the shoot club, Pancrease, on Odengatan. Called Rolf. Was careful not to be explicit with his own name, Rolf’s name, or other details. Kept it brief, as usual.

“What’s up? It’s me.”

“Everything cool?”

“Yep. And you?”

“Sure, sure, but I’ve had a tough day. Sat hunched in the driver’s seat of a car all day. My back’s giving out.”

“You should work out more. Go running sometimes and do fifty back-ups every night and I’ll bet you’ll feel better. Whattya got for me?”

“I’ve checked up on what we talked about. The northern precinct brought a guy in for questioning a month ago. Sergio Salinas Morena, a troublemaker from Sollentuna. He’s cousins with your guy. Didn’t lead to anything, but apparently he was suspected of aiding.”

“Nice. I bow in thanks. Will check it out. That all?”

“That’s all. Later.”

Mrado started up the car. Drove to the intersection of Sveavägen/Odengatan. Turned up toward Norrtull. There wouldn’t be any working out at the club tonight. He called Ratko—needed his contacts in Sollentuna. Ratko was with his girl in Solna. Didn’t seem too hot on joining the hunt. Despite that: agreed to be picked up at Råsundavägen. What could Ratko do? The bottom line: When Mrado asks, you deliver.

They drove on the E4 highway toward Sollentuna. Ratko didn’t know anyone named Sergio Salinas Morena. Called Bobban. He recognized the name. Thought the guy still lived in the Sollentuna area. Didn’t know more than that.

The road was poorly lit. Ratko made calls to old friends from Märsta and Sollentuna, asked about Sergio. Mrado was strangely unfocused. Didn’t have the energy to listen to Ratko’s phone buzz. He was tired. Thought about Lovisa. His preparatory hearing in family court was coming up. Annika didn’t even want him to see his daughter every other week. So fuckin’ low.

They tore down the highway. Mrado’d busted the speed limit more times than he could count. He remembered one time in particular: when Lovisa was born. Immediate cesarean. He’d been at Solvalla with some buds. Gotten a call from Annika that the contractions’d started but that the water hadn’t broken. She called the hospital. They said, “Take it easy until the contractions come more frequently.” Mrado stayed at Solvalla. Why go home if it wasn’t time? When he was leaving, he called home. No answer. Worry. Had she gone without calling him? There was a note on the kitchen table.
Went to Huddinge. Had to hurry.
Mrado ran back out to the car. Gunned it. Drove 110 to Huddinge Hospital. Took the turns on two wheels. Worried more than he’d ever done in his entire life. Ran the entire way to the hospital’s main entrance. When he arrived, drenched in sweat, Lovisa’d already been plucked out. Her heart rate’d started to plummet—there’d been no time to spare. Before Annika went under, she heard the surgeon tell the rest of the team they had only five minutes of game time. From emergency to catastrophe. Mrado’d been late to his own daughter’s birth. He would never forgive himself for that. But the following two hours had been some of the best in his life—in an adjoining room with Lovisa, 6.9 pounds, lying on his chest. She folded her head in under his chin. Grazed his neck with her tiny mouth. Seemed to become calm. Annika was still not awake after the cut. Just Mrado and Lovisa—the way it should be, always. Maybe the way it could be if he threw in the towel. Stopped with this shit.

Ratko shoved him, “Hey, are you listening?”

Someone’d bitten the bait. Sergio Salinas Morena: worked as a courier driver, lived on Allévägen in Rotebro.

Mrado slammed his foot on the gas. They drove past Sollentuna. Continued on E4 north. Took a left by Staketvägen. His pulse was rising. The tension was soaring. Mrado was in the mood.

Salinas Morena lived on the fourth floor. They looked up at the windows. Six out of nine were lit on the fourth floor. Three apartments on that level. At least one window in each apartment was lit. Hopefully, people home in each of them. The house looked run-down. The sky was darkening, but the crap graffiti was still visible. The paint on the outer walls was peeling.

Ratko positioned himself down in the foyer. Mrado went up. Covered the peephole with his finger as he rang the doorbell.

A girl’s voice yelled something in Spanish inside the apartment.

Nothing happened. Mrado rang the bell again.

A guy opened. Mrado assessed him. Around twenty-five years old. Dressed in a black T-shirt with large white Gothic lettering:
Vatos Locos.
Faded jeans. Dark hair. Cocky look. Did he think he was a Los Angeleno, or what?

Sergio looked skeptically at Mrado. Didn’t say anything. Raised an eyebrow. Meaning: Who the fuck are you?

Mrado looked beyond Sergio, into the apartment. A hallway with three doors. TV sounds emanating from somewhere. No sign of the woman he’d heard through the door. Generally shabby and ugly. Bare linoleum on the floor. A couple of posters on the walls. Lined up and spread out in the hall: enough sneakers to fill a fucking sporting goods store.

“Are you Sergio? Can I come in?”

“Ey, WHO are you?”

Mrado thought, Kids, no respect these days.

“We can talk about that inside. Can I come in?” No chance in hell he’d repeat the question one more time.

Sergio remained standing. Staring.

Neither one looked away. The guy had to get that Mrado wasn’t a cop. But did he pick up that Mrado was one of the most feared men in the Stockholm underworld? Unclear.

Finally, Sergio threw open his arms, gesticulated. “Whaddya want with me?”

“Are you Sergio?”

The guy took a step back. Let Mrado in. The apartment smelled of burned onion.

“Sure. And who’re you?”

Mrado thought, What a stubborn motherfucker. Doesn’t quit gabbing.

“Let’s put it this way: You don’t need to know who I am. I don’t need to know more about you than that you’re Sergio. I only want the answer to one question; then I’ll go. Where is Jorge?”

The guy’s left hand moved involuntarily. His neck muscles tensed.

The guy knew something.

“What Jorge?”

“Don’t play dumber than you are. You know where he is. You’ll tell me, whether you want to or not.”

“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talkin’ about.”

“Exactly which words didn’t you understand?”

“
Pendejo,
you think you can come here, to my house, and talk a lotta
basura
?”

Mrado, silent. Just stared. The guy was crazy. Might be king of his anthill, but a nobody in the real world. Clocked
nada.

Sergio started yelling in Spanish. A girl came out of the TV room, wearing sweatpants and a black tank top. Sergio was freaking out. Mrado was standing calmly. Sergio raised his arms. Got into boxer pose with white-knuckled fists. One arm was out, the other guarding his face. The girl moved toward Sergio. Said something in Spanish. Seemed to be trying to calm him down. Looked at Mrado, her face twisted into a question mark.

Sergio yelled, “Come on, you fat Croat!”

Mrado took another step forward. Sergio struck with his left. His fist’d twitched a heartbeat earlier. Enough for Mrado—he blocked the punch. Put Sergio’s arm in a lock. Pressed Sergio’s hand up against the arm, his wrist at an unnatural angle. Forced the entire arm back. Sergio howled. Tried to strike with his free hand. Hit Mrado’s shoulder. Lost his balance. Fell. The girl screamed. Mrado, on top of him. Continued to force his wrist back.

“Sergio, listen. Tell your bitch to shut up.”

The girl kept shrieking. Mrado got up, grabbed hold of her arms. Pushed her down to the floor. She sat down with her back to the wall. Tried to get back up. Sergio, who was still on the floor, tried to kick Mrado’s leg. It hurt. Their mistake: to make Mrado lose it. The girl came at him. He slapped her. She fell down again. Hit her head against the wall. Sounded like someone’d bounced a tennis ball on wood. She lay still. The guy started to get up. Fucking mayhem. Mrado punched him in the stomach. The guy doubled over, mouth wide open. Gasped for breath. The girl cried. Mrado pulled a roll of duct tape from his jacket pocket. Had hoped it wouldn’t come to this. Gripped Sergio’s left hand, pinched between his thumb and index finger. Should hurt like hell. Bent his arm back. Taped his two arms together. Sergio kicked wildly. Mrado tackled him carefully, like it was a training session at Pancrease—but in slow motion. Taped his feet together.

Sergio hollered, “You fuckin’ cunt!”

Mrado ignored him. Worked efficiently. Taped up the girl. Dragged her into another room. Fuck. The situation’d derailed. Messier/more dangerous than planned. He called Ratko, asked him to come upstairs.

Leaned over Sergio, “Well, wasn’t that really fucking unnecessary?”

“Pendejo.”

“You seem to have a limited vocabulary. Don’t you know any other bad words?”

Sergio kept his mouth shut.

“It’s simple. You just have to tell me where Jorge is. We won’t turn him in.”

No answer.

“I think you’ve pretty much figured out what kind of guy I am. I won’t leave until you’ve dished. Don’t be an idiot. Why make this such an unpleasant night? Why not just talk?”

Ratko came in through the front door. Locked it behind him. Looked with disapproval at the hall. Clothes and shoes littered everywhere. Both posters torn down. A stool was turned over. A duct-taped
loco
Latino in a pile on the floor.

Mrado slapped Sergio across the face. Immediate effect: the guy’s cheek turned red as a blood orange. He still kept his mouth shut. Mrado delivered another slap across the face. Told him to talk. The Latino bit it.

They played good Yugo/bad Yugo. Mrado delivered three, four slaps. Yelled at him to talk. Ratko said it wasn’t their intention to hurt Jorge, that they’d take the tape off Sergio, that he’d be compensated if he told them where his cuz was hiding.

No answer.

Mrado took Sergio’s hand in his—looked like a baby’s hand in a father’s palm.

Sergio was rigid. The tape tightened.

Mrado snapped his pinkie finger.

Sergio howled. Lost his cool. The attitude: broken.

He sobbed. Cried.

“I don’t even know where he is,” he whimpered. “I have no idea. I swear.”

Mrado shook his head. Grabbed onto Sergio’s ring finger. Bent it back.

Far.

About to snap.

Sergio cracked. It ran out of him. He told them almost everything. “Okay, Okay. You fucking cocks. I helped him a little. When he’d gotten out. He stayed at my aunt’s. For five days. Then he started wiggin’ out. Thought there were civvies in every car parked on the street. Totally freaked, yo. Made me drive him outta there. I lent him cash. Don’t know where he went. Jorge let me down. He owes me for all the help I gave. I haven’t seen a fuckin’ cent. He’s worth less than a bag o’ dog shit.”

“That’s it, there you go. You know where you drove him, don’t you?”

“Fuck, man. Yeah, I know. He crashed with this guy, Eddie. Then the cops called me in. That’s when he peaced. I swear on my father’s grave, I don’t know where he went. I swear.”