Easy Money (26 page)

One night at Fahdi’s he realized there were aspects to the C biz he’d been spared from dealing with.

JW, Jorge, and Fahdi were on the couches. Had made calls to dealers and arranged drop-off spots.

The TV was on in the background. Slow-motion action scenes from
Mission Impossible II
streamed out.

Enjoyable, bloody kicks and punches. For Fahdi—inspiration.

He started telling them about a guy he’d shot two years earlier.

JW laughed at first.

Jorge wanted to hear more.

He asked Fahdi, “Aren’t you scared you’ll be put away?”

Fahdi laughed and said proudly, “Me, never scared. Scared is for fags.”

“So whattya do if the Five-Oh show up?”

“You seen Léon?”

“¿Qué?”

“Don’t get it?”

“What, you got heat at home?”

“
Habibi,
obviously. You wanna see my arsenal?”

JW was honestly curious. They followed Fahdi to his bedroom. The closet door creaked. Fahdi fumbled in the dark. Threw something on the bed. At first, JW didn’t see what it was. Then he understood. In front of him on the bed was a sawed-off shotgun, a Winchester. Double barrel. Five yellow boxes of shells of the same make as the shotgun. Two Glock pistols. One machete with duct tape around the grip. Fahdi’s face glowed with joy, like that of a happy child. “And I show you my best thing.” He leaned into the closet again. Brought out an AK-5. “Swedish military issue. Hot, yeah?”

JW played cool. Really, he was shocked—Fahdi’s home was a veritable Eagle’s Nest. A loaded war bunker in the gray projects … with the safety off.

Jorge grinned.

When JW got home later that night, he didn’t call Sophie. He had trouble falling asleep.

Mrado debuted as peace mediator. Worked well. Thought, Maybe I could’ve had a career in the UN. Then he cut himself off. Sodomize the shit out of the UN. They betrayed Serbia.

He’d been having meetings with head honchos for three weeks now. Magnus Lindén, a hard-boiled, half-cobbed right-wing extremist. Leader of the Wolfpack Brotherhood. Ahmad Gafani, leader of the Fittja Boys, with the classic ACAB (all cops are bastards) tattoo on his neck. Naser, leader of the Albanians. Hardly spoke Swedish but gypped the Swedes out of millions every year. Men with too much power. And yet, men without potent plans. The Yugos were still better, he realized. The rest of ’em needed to shape up. Get organized.

The Hells Angels and the Bandidos’d resumed the war. Two people were already dead, one from each club. The Fittja Boys were fighting over cuts of three CIT heists they’d done with guys from the Original Gangsters. At the Kumla penitentiary, members of the OG and the Bandidos were at war with each other. A Hells Angel at the Hall penitentiary’d recently cut one of Naser’s men dead with a ballpoint pen. Four quick ones to the throat. Chop chop. In other words, a third world war’d just broken out in the Stockholm jungle and the adjoining satellite boroughs. The cocksucking cops’ Project Nova was icing on the cake. Mrado was convinced they were manipulating the war. Taking advantage of the growing hate and violence. People were ready to snitch to fell the enemy. People were ready to takes risks in a war; they lowered their guard, compromised with security measures. The cops could nestle their way into the gangster teat. Suck out info. The result so far: over thirty convictions.

Mrado was on his way to an industrial area in Tullinge, near the Bandidos’ headquarters. It was important to Mrado that a meeting like this not take place
in
the Bandidos’ bunker. Had to be on neutral ground.

He’d slept like a dog the night before. Woke at three-thirty. Sweaty. Nasty. Sheets all tangled. Images of Lovisa flashing through his head: playing in the building’s courtyard, in her room, watching a movie on the couch, building a snowman and using her crayons for a nose. Insomnia wore him down. Whiskey didn’t help. Turning on the stereo and listening to Serbian ballads didn’t help, either. He could function okay with three or four hours of sleep a night for a few days in a row. But not for weeks in a row. He had to do something about his life.

Three days earlier, he’d talked to a Bandidos member. Asked him to give a message to Jonas Haakonsen, the head of the Bandidos’ Stockholm chapter, saying that Mrado wanted to have a conversation about certain areas of their operation. Gave him one of his cell phone numbers. Two hours later: a text. A location. A time. And:
Come solo.
Nothing more. It fit with what Mrado’d heard about Haakonsen’s style. Dramatic. Didn’t take risks. Mrado thought, Come on, this isn’t some fucking Cold War spy thriller.

Mrado’d met Haakonsen at the Gangsta Golf meet the previous year. Gangsta Golf, a fantastic initiative by an old OG member. Anyone who’d spent more than two years in an iron pen and had a decent swing was welcome. Last year, they’d played at the beautiful Ulriksdal golf course. Forty-two players. Bull necks and tattoos ad absurdum. Mrado felt tiny in comparison. If Mrado’d had the assignment at the time, it would’ve been the perfect opportunity to talk about the market division. Except for the fact that every single tree, bunker, and green was probably bugged.

What was there to know about the Bandidos? The brightest star in mid-Sweden’s gang sky. Recruited from the immigrant boys’ hardest cores, via the prospect club, X-Team. Two bases in the Stockholm area: Tullinge and Bålsta. Their latest feat was kidnapping an HA member. The guy was found three days later. Skin like a leopard, round burn marks from stubbed-out cigarettes on every inch. Kneecaps in shards. Nails yanked out. Ultimate cause of death: forced consumption of gasoline. No wonder the MC gangs were at war.

The Bandidos did the same kind of business as the Hells Angels, except heavier on the drugs. That is, they engaged in booze smuggling, protection racketeering, some financial crime, like invoice fraud and tax fraud. Heroin and weed sales were sprinkles on top.

Mrado kept his eyes peeled for traffic signs to Tullinge. Being behind the wheel of the Benz was always a true pleasure. V-8 engine. Curved leather seats. Seriously broad tires.

He downshifted; the car growled from pure power. Driving delight at max.

Radio drone in the background, broke off for the news. Something about the Americans’ war in the Middle East. Mrado’s mixed feelings. He hated the U.S., while he loved that they were rubbing out towelheads. The fight. Light facing off against the darkness. Europe facing off against the Orient. The Serbs’ everlasting duty. And who thanked them for it? That they’d resisted for centuries. Kept the gate to the rest of Europe shut. Sacrificed themselves. Mrado’d fought, too. Now people whined about fanatic fundamentalists and girls being forced to wear veils. Europe, you only have yourself to blame. The Serbs’d done what they could. Been reamed royally by the rest of the world, and the U.S.’d been the first to climb on top. The Serbian people didn’t owe anyone anything.

He lowered the volume. Highways were so damn dull. He was planning on taking Lovisa to Kolmården, the big animal park outside the city, next week. Visit the dolphins. Maybe take the back roads. Enjoy.

The sky was gray. Was February the crappiest month? Mrado hadn’t seen the sun in four weeks. The other cars on the road were snow-stained, sans style, soiled. Boring.

The problems spun. Worry/angst as mood music instead of the radio.

Radovan was losing faith in him. Maybe it’d been eating at Rado for a long time. What the hell did Mrado know? The more he thought about it, the more obvious it seemed that Rado’d never trusted him.

He kept certain things secret, like how crappy the laundromats/video-rental stores were working. Above all, he hadn’t said anything about how he planned to rig the market division in his favor. Rado was probably ticked off about his demand for a bigger cut of the profits. Irked about the Kvarnen fiasco. Pure luck that he’d actually gotten away without a prison sentence. Meant an extra bonus for the Yugos’ own lawyer, Martin Thomasson.

Mrado needed to insure himself against Rado’s capriciousness. He ought to talk more with Nenad.

On the bright side: Mrado’d dealt with Jorge. Best of all: Mrado was needed to divide up the market in the gangster war.

Wet snowflakes were falling. The windshield wipers were moving back and forth on the lowest setting. He turned up the warm air blowing toward the window. His hands were resting on the wheel. His movements felt stiff—the bulletproof vest was heavy.

He took the exit toward Tullinge. Followed the signs.

Seven minutes later, he’d found the place. A row of low gray storage buildings. Snow on the roofs. Green containers lined up. Ads for a recycling company on the façade of one of the buildings. The area was fenced in. Mrado knew where the Bandidos’ bunker was, and it wasn’t here. Still, this felt like their home turf. On the other hand, if they messed with him, they’d have to count their losses—in lives.

He parked the car. Remained sitting for a minute. Made sure the switchblade was in its place in his boot. Pulled out his revolver. The chamber was loaded. No bullet in the circuit—honest old safety measure. Finally, he sent Ratko a text.
I’m on my way in. Will be in touch in max two hours. /M

Took a deep breath.

The first time he’d gone alone to a meeting. Ratko was usually at his side.

Squeezed his eyes shut for ten seconds.

No wrong moves today.

He stepped out of the car. Big snowflakes settled on his eyebrows. Poor visibility.

Farther away, on the other side of the fence, two people were walking toward him. Mrado remained standing where he was. Hands at his sides. The people came into better view. Big guys. Leather jackets, patches on their breast pockets: the Bandidos logo. One had a dark, full beard, probably a
blatte.
Bandanna on his head. The other was a blondie with a pockmarked face.

The bearded one pulled off a leather glove and extended his hand. “Mrado?”

Mrado shook his hand. “That’s right. And you are?”

“Vice president of the Stockholm chapter. James Khalil. Are you alone?”

“That’s what we agreed on. I keep my end of agreements. Does that surprise you?”

“Not at all. Welcome. You’ll soon meet Haakonsen. Follow me.”

Mrado knew the lingo. The key word was
respect.
Short, hard one-liners. No signs of insecurity. Second-guess when you can second-guess. Respectfully.

They walked toward one of the containers. The Bandidos boys’ boots made deep impressions in the snow. Thirty or so yards farther off, a truck engine rumbled to a start. Drove out of the area. Mrado took note of several other noises coming from the same direction. Understood that normal work was actually being done on the premises.

James turned a key in a gigantic padlock hanging on a freight container. Opened it. Turned on a lamp. Mrado saw a table. Three chairs. A couple of bottles on the table. A construction site lamp suspended from a steel setting in the ceiling. Simple. Practical. Smart.

Before Mrado took a step in, he said, “I assume the place has been secured.”

James looked at him. Seemed to consider piling on the sarcasm but then thought better of it. “Of course,” he said. “We work according the same principles as you do. To act but not be seen.”

James pulled out one of the chairs. Kept his leather jacket on. Offered Mrado a seat. The guy with the pockmarked face stayed outside the container. James sat down. Offered him a drink. Poured out whiskey for Mrado. They exchanged pleasantries. Sipped the whiskey. Waited in silence.

Three minutes passed.

Mrado thought, If he’s not here in five, I’m out.

He lifted his gaze from the glass and looked at James. Raised one eyebrow. James understood.

“He’ll be here any minute. It’s not our intention to keep you waiting.”

The answer was enough for Mrado. Important that they really knew whom they were dealing with.

Two minutes later, the hatch to the container was opened. Jonas Haakonsen walked in, hunched over.

Mrado got up. They shook hands.

Haakonsen sat down on the third chair. James poured out whiskey.

Jonas Haakonsen: at least six two, hair in a ponytail, and a thin blond beard. Bloodshot eyes. Leather jacket with the customary patches. On the back:
Bandidos MC, Stockholm, Sweden.
The logo in big block letters, surrounded by embroidered machetes. He had a crazed look in his eye. Reminded Mrado of what he’d seen in the faces of some of Arkan’s men. Glazed eyes, shark eyes. Psychotic warrior eyes. Could go to attack mode at any moment.

Haakonsen was the kind of man you’d take a mile detour to avoid bumping into. The dude could silence an entire chow hall just by opening his mouth.

He took off his leather jacket. Apparently, the chill in the container didn’t faze him. He wore a leather vest under the jacket. Under the vest: a long-sleeved black T-shirt with the text
We are the people your parents warned you about.
His neck: covered in tattoos. On one of his earlobes: the
SS
lightning bolts. On the other earlobe: the letters
BMC
—Bandidos MC.

Mrado didn’t give much for the attitude. But the eyes. He knew what those eyes’d seen. Everyone knew. Jonas Haakonsen as a nineteen-year-old in Denmark. Leader of a gang of guys from south Copenhagen who robbed post offices and pushed lighter drugs. They made a big hit, the post office in Skanderborg’s mall. Three guys. Rushed in right when the armored van was about to pick up the banknotes. Their weapons: a sawed-off shotgun and two axes. One of the guards thought fast. Locked the bills into a security bag. But Haakonsen thought faster, grabbed the security bag—and the guard. The robbers switched cars somewhere on the freeway. Drove out into the Danish countryside. The guard was in the trunk, like in an American gangster flick. He was found three days later, staggering along a road near Skanderborg. Delirious, with a T-shirt wrapped around his head. Coagulated blood everywhere. The EMTs removed the T-shirt. The guard’s eyes were poked out. Haakonsen’d asked him for the combination to open the security bag. The guard hadn’t known it, but Haakonsen’d been persistent. The guard hadn’t had anything to say. Haaksonsen’d popped the man’s eyes out with his thumbs. One at a time. He managed to stay on the lam for three weeks. Then they got him. Haakonsen was slammed with only five years, because he was so young. He caged out after three. Angrier than ever.

Haakonsen downed a gulp of whiskey. Then, with a light Danish accent: “So, the infamous Mrado. Floored any bouncers recently?”

“It happens, it happens,” Mrado said, and laughed. “Even I’ve gotta stay in shape, right?” Mrado, surprised. Didn’t know a guy like Haakonsen knew about the Kvarnen incident.

“And how is the Godfather himself?” Haakonsen went on.

“Just dandy. Radovan is alive and well. Business is booming. And you?”

“Better than ever. The Bandidos are in Stockholm to stay. You’ll have to watch out.”

A joke or a warning?

“Watch out for what? Greasy-fingered kids with biker dreams?”

“No, I’m not talking about the HA.”

Mrado and Haakonsen laughed loudly. James grinned.

The tension lifted. They talked about Mrado’s Benz, about the weather, about the latest news in their world, that a man from the Naser gang’d been offed with a ballpoint pen. According to Haakonsen, the job’d been professionally done: “Hitting the right spot with a pen isn’t so hard, but the trick is, you gotta twist it around so you kill with the first jab.”

Ten minutes in, Mrado interrupted the conversation to cut to the chase. “I think you know why I wanted to see you.” He looked Haakonsen in the eye.

“I can only suspect. A little bird whispered in my ear that you’ve already talked to Magnus Lindén and Naser.”

“So you know what I’m after?”

“My qualified guess is that you want us to end the war with the HA. You want the other gangs to cool it?”