Easy Money (18 page)

Mrado waited. No houses nearby. No people. No problems.

His cell was on. Ratko on speed dial. Poised to call him.

Jorge came walking. Bags in hand. Looked tired. He was twenty yards away, down on the road. Mrado called Ratko. Whispered. Told him to run.

Mrado charged out of the woods like an evil Boy Scout, size XL.

Jorge knew right away. Panic in his eyes. Dropped the bags. Turned around. Saw Ratko running from the other direction. In a game of pickle. Tried to run—too late. Mrado grabbed him by the jacket.

Return of the Yugos. Fall of the
blatte.

Mrado punched Jorge in the gut with full force. Jorge doubled over. Fell. Ratko came up behind, grabbed hold of him, and, with Mrado’s help, dragged the Latino up into the trees. Away from the road. Mrado snatched the bags. Jorge puked. Sour stink. Vomit on Mrado’s shoes. What a pig. Mrado, with the baton in hand, hit Jorge across the back. Jorge fell to the ground. Stood on all fours. Mrado kept beating him. Jorge screamed. Mrado was careful: didn’t break anything. No fractures. No bloodshed. No life-threatening injuries. Nothing that necessarily required medical attention. Just struck with the rubber baton. Across his thighs, arms. Hit across his back, neck, stomach. Whacked. Thrashed. Crushed.

Jorge tried to get on his knees. Folded. Protected his head. Curled into a ball.

Mrado let the baton dance. It bounced up and down over the Latino’s body.

Finally, Jorge was a puddle. Destroyed. Almost passed out.

Mrado knelt down.

“Can you hear me? Faggot.”

No reaction.

Mrado lifted his head by the hair. “Blink if you can hear me.”

The Latino blinked.

“You know what this is about. You tried to fuck with the wrong people. Radovan doesn’t dig your style. You only have yourself to blame. Who the fuck do you think you are? Blackmailing Rado. Remember this: We’ll find you, always. Wherever you are, on the run, in the joint. With your mom. We never forget. We always punish. If you tell anyone so much as a peep about us, I won’t be as nice next time.”

Mrado released his grip on Jorge’s hair. His head fell back down.

“Oh, and one more thing.” Mrado pulled out his cell phone. Scrolled to his photos. Held up the screen in front of Jorge’s face.

“You know this chick? I’ve talked to her about you. Go ahead, ask her. I know her well. Know where she lives. Where she goes to school. What classes she’s in. Don’t fuck shit up for her. That’d be a shame for such a pretty girl.”

J-boy, gone/with it. Flashed in and out.

The pain was insane.

Closed his eyes. Waited. Heard the Yugos leave. Crackling in the woods. Their sounds faded out. He waited. Listened.

Alone.

Beaten to bits. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t feel his legs; they were numb. His arms were totally gone, too. His back, he could feel. Passed out.

Snapped back. Heard a car drive by on the road. Heard the beat of his own heart. Tried to move his arm. Hurt too much.

Vomited.

Just lay still.

Clear flow of thoughts: Jorgelito in the fairy-tale woods. Crushed. Dumped. Disgraced. Thought he’d been the king. Really, the most naïve bitch. They’d been after Paola. God, please don’t let them’ve hurt her. Not humiliated her. He’d call her when he was done here. When he could get up. Paola, the world’s best sister.

He descended into darkness.

She’d accepted baby Jorge’s attitude. When he was fourteen years old, he’d come home with a letter from school.

Mama’d cried. Rodriguez’d whooped him. Jorge’d thought, If my real dad’d been here, he would’ve taken me back to Chile. But Paola wasn’t angry, not apathetic. Hadn’t made excuses. Just been nice. The only one who really talked to Jorgelito. Even though he was a hardknock, it still felt good to talk. She explained, “You’re Mama’s and my prince. Never forget that. No matter what you do. You’re our prince.”

Someone in the forest was calling Jorge’s name. He couldn’t lay any quieter or stiller than he already was. Were the Yugos back?

No one showed up.

The puke stank.

He was finished. Caput. The Yugos were smarter than he’d thought. He should’ve been even more cautious. Must’ve been the hangover. How long’d Mrado and the other guy been following him? They weren’t on the bus. They hadn’t been on his subway car. Hadn’t seen them at the bus stop at KTH. Hadn’t seen any one single car following the bus. Had they trailed him all the way from Sollis? How’d they known he was at Vadim’s? Suspicions: The Russian fucker must’ve leaked. Or someone at the bar the night before. Had people recognized him? Cunts.

He tried to move a smaller body part—an index finger. Couldn’t feel it at first. Three seconds later, his entire arm was pounding with pain. Too much pain. He screamed aloud. Didn’t give a fuck if the Yugos were still around.

Someone yelled his name again.

He vomited.

Prayers on his lips:
La madre que te parió.
Thoughts in his head: Who can I trust now? Sergio? Eddie? Ashur? Can I get in touch with Mama? Do I dare call my sister? His flight from the big cage’d been smooth, slick. Speedy. Best one yet. But life after—Jorgelito’d thought too short-term. Thought it’d be easy. Same mistake as all the others—been weak, partied. Needed social interaction.

He tried to open his eyes.

Fir trees all around. The light peeking through the branches painted the ground a spotty pattern. Brown, bumpy, bare. No birdsong.

What would happen now? It was one thing to risk your own life to get at Radovan’s cash. But to risk your sister’s?

He thought about his two tattoos. On his left shoulder was a smiling devil. All in black. On his back, a crucifix with the text:
The Man,
in Gothic lettering. He’d thought he was the man with the master plan, when really, he was just a loser. Fucked over.

Down for the count.

A deluxe guy on a walk in the enchanted forest. JW was looking for Jorge. Two alternatives: Either the Chilean was lying wounded somewhere in the woods or the Yugos’d taken him with them.

He started on the right-hand side. Walked in a zigzag pattern. First about ten yards forward, then crossed down to the left, then ten yards forward again.

Thought about
Spaceballs.
“Comb the desert!” the Darth Vader caricature orders. In the next scene, his helpers are pulling huge combs over the sand. Mel Brooks—so lame and yet so witty.

JW combed the forest.

Didn’t find Jorge among the trees.

An hour and twenty minutes earlier, JW’d reached Malmvägen just in time to see someone who looked like Jorge leave the building. Detective JW took a few steps back, behind the corner of the house—which proved to be the right move. He peered out. Saw an enormous man step out of a car that was way too slick and follow the Chilean. Something wasn’t right. The man never walked up to Jorge. Kept a few yards back. It was obvious after a while: The giant was following the Chilean.

The man fulfilled all the criteria of the classic Yugo gangster look: mid-length leather jacket, scarf, black jeans, leather shoes. A neck that put the Hulk to shame. His arms hung out along his sides at an angle, looked like he was constantly carrying a TV. Short, dirty-blond hair, straight-cut bangs. His jaws revealed a hard-core testosterone diet.

Why the hell had Abdulkarim put him in this situation? JW felt like a failed police investigator. Didn’t dare approach Jorge, even though he was right on his tail. The biggest question was who the huge Yugo was. Did the Serbian Mafia want to put Jorge’s coke know to use, too?

He kept trailing them. Up to the commuter rail station. JW remained standing at the bottom of the escalators and heard the train pull into the station. He ran up and jumped into a car. He could see the Yugo through the glass doors leading to the next car. Thank God.

Total tension. JW completely forgot about the Camilla thing.

The huge Yugo got off at T-Centralen. He couldn’t see Jorge, but JW assumed the Yugo was on it. Followed him down.

Got off at KTH. Created a distance between himself and the Yugo. Saw Jorge hanging around a bus stop. JW walked with deliberate steps toward the same bus stop. It had to look like his one and only goal in life was to get to bus 620. He passed the huge Yugo on his way there. Two yards between them. JW couldn’t decide if it was suspicious that he was going to the same bus stop as Jorge, but he felt the Yugo’s presence as fiercely as though they’d been standing eye-to-eye in a cramped elevator. The man exuded authority.

A couple of people got on after Jorge, but the Yugo wasn’t on the bus. Had he given up? Jorge was squeezed in next to a middle-aged lady with a bag on her lap. The woman’s two kids sat in the seats in front of them, eating ice-cream cones. One of the seats behind him was free; the other was occupied by an old man in a baseball hat. This wasn’t the time to chat up the Chilean; it’d have to wait until he got off. JW took a seat in the way back.

He’d gotten off at the same stop as the Chilean. Followed a couple hundred yards behind him. After a while, a Yugo came running. Understood: They were here. Thirty seconds later, he heard screaming. Panicked. What the fuck was he supposed to do? He ran into the woods. Stood still, listened. Waited. That’s where he was now. Was going to look for Jorge. But he couldn’t see him. After he’d crisscrossed over a few hundred yards, JW switched sides. It was worth spending another hour searching.

He heard a scream. Not as loud as the previous ones, but still—painful.

He tried to walk in the direction of the sound. Looked around. Saw dark trees, pine needle–covered paths. In some places, the branches of the fir trees dragged on the ground, hiding what might be found underneath. JW stepped up, lifted the branches, looked under them. Scratched himself on needles. The forest wasn’t exactly his scene. And anyway, he was about to shit a brick, he was so scared.

Eight yards farther up, he saw plastic bags filled with groceries strewn on the ground. JW followed the trail. Farther in, he spotted a huddled-up human. Was it the Chilean? Was he alive?

JW looked around. No Yugos in sight. He called out. No answer. Got closer. The guy looked dead. JW knelt down beside him. Said Jorge’s name. Really didn’t want to find a murdered person.

Finally, he got a reaction.

With his eyes still shut, Jorge mumbled, “Get outta here.”

JW didn’t know what to say. Thought, Relief the guy’s alive. But how much help does he need? Not a good idea to get an ambulance involved.

“Hi. How are you feeling? Is there anything I can do?”

“Beat it.”

“Nice to hear you’re alive. I know who you are. I recognize you. I’ve been looking for you for hours.”

Jorge opened one eye. He had a slight immigrant lilt to his speech. “And who the hell are you?”

“My name is Johan. I’ve no idea who did this to you or why. You look like shit. Probably need medical care. You’ve got to listen to me. I’ve got good news.”

“I said, beat it. You’ve got fuckin’ nothing to do with me. I’ve never even seen your face.”

“Get it together. Your name is Jorge Salinas Barrio and you escaped from Österåker on August thirty-first. You’ve been on the run ever since. That can’t be easy. You know the cocaine business better than anyone else. You’re the king of coke in the Stockholm area. Are you listening, or what?”

Jorge lay still. Didn’t say anything. But he also didn’t say no.

“I work for an Arab—Abdulkarim Haij. Do you know who that is?”

Jorge looked up again. JW read it as: Keep talking.

“He keeps me in the C. I, like, deal to the Stureplan crowd and make a killing. You can get up to eleven hundred a gram from them. That’s not bad. But imagine if we could push the purchase price even more. That’s what we’re going to do when we expand. And we know you; you’ve got no life without our help. There are clearly others, besides the police, who’ve got it in for you. You can forget about them now. We’ll help you, get you back on your feet. Fix a passport, pesetas, whatever you need. The police don’t stand a chance. Not those Yugos, either. If you work for us, we’ll make you a rich man.”

JW caught his breath. Didn’t give a shit that Jorge seemed totally out of it. He felt how excited he was, had thought about this for days. Was hard to take it easy now.

“Listen, man, we’ve been tracking the development in Stockholm. The coke is on its way to the boroughs, to the projects. It’s the big trend, the new everyman drug. It’s going to be like weed. And the price is sinking every day. When you were put away it was, what, twelve hundred a gram? Now there are a lot of people out there selling eighty-five percent Charlie for eight hundred. That means the volume’s going to be through the roof and we, since we’ve got good contacts, can buy at lower prices. The aggregate income increases radically. This is where you come in. You’re going to help us bring in more. Above all, you’re going to deal to the boroughs. You and me, together, are going to own this town. You with me? Own it.”

Jorge, with a whimper: “
Maricón.
Beat it.”

Four months later.

Oral proceedings in the Stockholm District Court

Case number T 3245-06

Honorable District Court Judge Patrick Renbäck

District Court Clerk Oskar Hävermark

Annika Sjöberg, 690217-1543
Gröndalsvägen 172
117 69 STOCKHOLM
Present in person

Göran Insulander, Esq.
Box 11244
112 21 STOCKHOLM
Present

Mrado Slovovic, 670203-9115
Katarina Bangata 35
116 39 STOCKHOLM
Present in person

Martin Thomasson, Esq.
Box 5467
112 31 STOCKHOLM
Present

Custody, living arrangements, visitation rights, etc.

The judge
reviews what has previously been decided in the case.

Göran Insulander
states that Annika Sjöberg, albeit on an interim/interlocutory basis, petitions for sole custody of the daughter, Lovisa.

Martin Thomasson
states that Mrado Slovovic’s stance is as follows: He contests Annika Sjöberg’s claim. He petitions, albeit on an interim/interlocutory basis, to have visitation rights with Lovisa
every
week from
Tuesday
at six p.m. to
Friday
at six p.m.

Göran Insulander
states that Annika Sjöberg contests Mrado Slovovic’s claim. She agrees that Mrado Slovovic should have visitation rights with Lovisa
every other
week from
Tuesday
at six p.m. to
Wednesday
at six p.m.

Göran Insulander
states that the grounds for and the circumstances around Annika Sjöberg’s case are as follows: Annika Sjöberg and Mrado Slovovic were married around nine years ago. Together, they had a daughter, Lovisa, two years later. It is in the best interest of Lovisa not to have too much contact with Mrado Slovovic, since he has a very negative influence on his daughter, as well as the fact that it is dangerous for the daughter to spend time with him. Furthermore, he is unable to cooperate with Annika Sjöberg when it comes to picking up and dropping off the girl in connection with his visitation rights. Mrado Slovovic has threatened her on a number of occasions. Despite this, Annika Sjöberg believes that Mrado Slovovic should have limited visitation with Lovisa, since it is important for a child to have a connection with both parents. Lovisa never asks for Mrado Slovovic. In 2002, the parties’ relationship began to deteriorate. Mrado Slovovic was never home at night and slept most of the day. He became angry when Lovisa cried or made noise and didn’t take care of her. Annika Sjöberg was the one who fed Lovisa and cared for her hygiene. Mrado Slovovic moved in criminal circles and, in the spring of 2004, Annika Sjöberg decided to file for divorce. Mrado Slovovic was enraged by this and threatened, among other things, to take Lovisa with him to Serbia. On two occasions, he also said that he would break her neck if she didn’t let him live with Lovisa. Between 2004 and 2006, his visitation rights with Lovisa have been characterized by problems. Over long periods of time, four months being the longest, he has not seen Lovisa at all. On several occasions, Mrado Slovovic has failed to show up at the agreed time and instead kept Lovisa for up to three days longer without Annika Sjöberg’s permission. Lovisa is very stressed-out and sleeps poorly after she has been with him. When she is with Mrado Slovovic, she is allowed to watch movies all night and he does not prepare proper food for her. He still moves in criminal circles and has previously been convicted of several violent crimes. Acquaintances of Annika Sjöberg have reported seeing Mrado Slovovic driving at speeds far above the speed limit with Lovisa in his sports car. It has also happened on one occasion that he took her along to a combat sports club, where she had to stand outside the ring and watch Mrado Slovovic be beaten up. Lovisa was very upset after this. It is harmful for Lovisa to spend time with Mrado Slovovic. Partly because he brings her along to activities that are actually dangerous, and partly because he is involved in criminal activity. Furthermore, Mrado Slovivic is unable to work together with Annika Sjöberg.

Martin Thomasson
states the grounds for and the circumstances around Mrado Slovic’s case are as follows: Lovisa needs her father. It is untrue that it is dangerous for her to spend time with him. He does not exceed the speed limit when driving with her in his car. He has given her proper food and she does not only watch TV. They do many active things together, such as go to the Skansen outdoor museum and bake. On one occasion, Lovisa accompanied Mrado Slovoic to his combat sports gym, but it is not true that she saw him being beaten. What did, in fact, happen was that he and Lovisa “shadowboxed” for fun in the ring in a completely harmless manner. The reason that Annika Sjöberg makes false claims is that she is jealous of Mrado Slovovic, since he, shortly after the termination of their marriage, had a relationship with another woman. The problems in connection with Lovisa’s pickup and drop-off are brought about by Annika Sjöberg, who is at times psychologically fragile. On such occasions, she lies apathetically in bed and is unable to take care of Lovisa. This behavior had already begun during the parties’ marriage. When Annika Sjöberg suffers such periods of depression, Mrado Slovovic does not deem it healthy for Lovisa to live with her mother. Lovisa is very happy with the time she spends with Mrado Slovovic and has on several occasions expressed a desire to spend more time with him. On Mrado Slovovic’s last occasion of visitation in January, Lovisa said that “she wanted to live with Daddy like she lives with Mommy.” She is always very sad when it is time to drop her off with Annika Sjöberg. Annika Sjöberg has refused Mrado Slovovic the right to take Lovisa to Serbia to visit the daughter’s grandfather. Mrado Slovovic has never had the intention of taking Lovisa there without Annika Sjöberg’s permission. It is in the best interest of Lovisa that the parties maintain joint custody of her and that she spend the same amount of time with her father as with her mother. Presently, Mrado Slovovic is of the mind that visitation from Tuesay to Friday is sufficient.

The judge presided over a discussion during which the parties aimed to come to an agreement. No mutual agreement was reached.

The meeting is adjourned with an announcement that a decision will be made public at the office of the Court on February 23 of this year, at 1:30 p.m.

After careful consideration, the District Court has reached the following decision:

The District Court does not find sufficient grounds to terminate joint custody in the present situation. Annika Sjöberg’s claim will therefore be dismissed.

As for visitation rights, the District Court concludes that Mrado Slovovic has had irregular contact with Lovisa in recent years. Considering this, the District Court finds that Mrado Slovovic, until further notice, will have visitation rights with Lovisa one day every other week. If the visitation proves positive, the parties can discuss increased forms of visitation independently.

Until the issues have been resolved by a final verdict, or by court order, or by a contract created by the parents that has, in turn, been approved by Social Services, or until another decision has been made, the District Court has decided the following:

1. The parties will continue to maintain joint custody of Lovisa.
   
2. Lovisa’s need to see her father will, until further notice, be filled by Mrado Slovovic’s right to visitation with her
   every other
   week from
   Wednesday
   at 6:00 p.m. to
   Thursday
   at 6:00 p.m.