Easy Money (32 page)

Mrado expected a bullet to the back of the head.

Nothing happened.

Radovan waved in the woman with the food cart.

She served the main course.

That’s when Mrado knew he would live.

In a new situation. Demoted.

Shamed.

Radovan said, in a normal tone of voice, “Isn’t this steak fantastically tender? I fly it in straight from Belgium.”

Not counting the Radovan Revenge Project, Jorge was on top. Living large. Making fat stacks. Liked Abdulkarim, Fahdi, Petter, and the others lower on the dealing totem pole. He’d liked Mehmed, too, and now the guy was in trouble—still unclear if the cops were gonna muster a wrapping. He even liked the Östermalm brat, JW. But the dude was weird. Seemed to be double-dipping. Hanging in different worlds. Rocked a snooty style. At the same time, obviously horny for Jorge’s know, honestly curious. Most of all, the guy desired dirty dough.

At the same time, Jorge had the hots for JW’s other life—Stureplan. Jorge’d partied at the bars around there tons of times. Champagne-
chinga’
d
chicas.
Palmed some bills and the bouncer’d let him glide past the line. Brought some prime rib home from the meat market.

But still, something was missing. He saw the Swedish guys. No matter how much money he spent, he’d never be at their level. Jorge could feel it. Every
blatte
in the city could feel it. No matter how hard they tried, waxed their hair, bought the right clothes, kept their honor intact, and drove slick rides, they didn’t belong with Them.

Humiliation was always around the corner. You could see it in the salesclerks’ reactions, in old ladies’ sidewalk detours and cops’ stares. It appeared in the bouncers’ gazes, the bitches’ grimaces, the bartenders’ gestures. The message clearer than the city of Stockholm’s segregation politics: In the end, you’re always just a
blatte.

JW, Abdulkarim, and Fahdi were in London. Doing something big. Jorge’s job at home was to hold down the fort. Make sure to move the gorgeous gear Silvia’d brought in. No problem. It’d melt faster than Popsicles in the sun.

Jorge’d gotten an apartment in Helenelund. The proximity to his old hood felt good. Sublet from one of Adbulkarim’s contacts. Tricked it out with crib capital: forty-two-inch flat-screen, DVD, stereo, Xbox, laptop.

Loved life as Jorge Nuevo. Zambo Jorge rolled with flow.

Loved his new friends. Habits. The beautiful bills.

What ate away at him—the hate.

Three days ago, he’d met the hooker, Nadja. There were still some unanswered questions. Who was the giant, Micke, really, and how could he help Jorge? Who were the guys she’d mentioned? Jonas and Karl, alias Giant Karl. How could he weasel his way into Radovan’s whore trench?

He was stressed-out. Hadn’t gotten anywhere. Had stopped sitting in cars outside Rado’s house, since it was pointless. Maybe he should rethink things. Invest in info about Radovan’s dealer biz instead. Still, no. That was too much of a threat to Jorge himself and to the people he cared about.

The whore trail was better. Anyway, the job for Abdulkarim was taking more and more of his time. Mehmed had to be replaced. Fresh meat had to be recruited. Jorge’s ideas: maybe his cousin, Sergio. Maybe Eddie. Maybe his bro Rolando, when he caged out of Österåker. Sergio was the hero who’d helped Jorge out of Österåker. So far, he’d been repaid in a few measly moneys. Should be paid better. Jorge wanted to offer him the chance on an in of the C profits. Same with Eddie. And Rolando—player’d been the most competent coke coach J-boy’d had. Should pay off. He’d called the brothel madam at least twenty times over the past few days. Wanted to book a time with Nadja. See her again. Didn’t need a walk. Just needed ten minutes to ask more questions. And something else—maybe get sucked off again. He thought, No, that felt fucked even before I knew her. There was another reason he wanted to see her.

Finally, Jorge got hold of the hooker mama. Gave the alias he’d been given the first time he was there. She okayed him, said he could come that same night.

Took the subway to Hallonbergen.

It rained. Warmer in the air. Smelled like a halal cart. Last time, Jorge’d come by car, but now the map master’d quested it. Memorized. Could find the way with a blindfold on.

The red apartment building with the brown external balconies was haloed by a rose-colored sunset glow.

He entered the combination for the front door. Took the elevator up. Out onto the balcony. Rang the doorbell. Dark in the peephole—someone’s eye on the other side. He gave his alias aloud.

The door was opened by the man that Fahdi’d been talking to the last time he was there. Same clothes. Blazer over hoodie.

Jorge gave his alias again. Was let in.

Asked for Nadja.

Same music in the wait room. Shitty imagination in this joint.

The man just nodded and led Jorge to the room. Opened the door. Let him in.

Same bed. As poorly made as last time he’d been there. Same armchair. Same drawn blinds.

On the bed: a different whore.

Jorge stopped short in the door, turned around. The dude wasn’t standing behind him anymore.

He looked at the girl on the bed. She was pretty, too. Bigger tits than Nadja’s. Miniskirt. Tight, low-cut top. Fishnets.

“I was supposed to see someone else. Nadja?”

The girl answered in quasi-intelligible English.

“I not understand.”

Jorge said in English, “I want to see Nadja.”

Maybe it was instinct. Jorge wasn’t just anyone—he was the chain-buster on the run, after all—was always tensed to the max. Usually, his nerves were pricked for cop fuckers. But also for Radovan.

He turned in the door. Ran out through the wait room. Heard the man in the blazer
y
hoodie yell his alias. Didn’t turn around. Jorge already through the door. Ran across the exterior balcony. Down the stairs. Out. Away.

Jorge’d never seen a face contort as gruesomely as when the new chick in Nadja’s room understood who he was asking about. Obvious: The name Nadja equaled terror.

Something wasn’t right.

Something was revoltingly wrong.

The next day. Jorge was on the toilet, doing number two. Incoming call on his cell—restricted. Not unusual on Jorge’s cell. Those who called him often hid their numbers. He decided to pick up despite his embarrassing position.

“Hi, my name is Sophie. I’m JW’s girlfriend.”

Jorge, surprise squared. Had heard about Sophie from JW. But why was she calling him? And how’d Sophie gotten his number after all of Abdulkarim’s strict rules about not giving numbers to strangers?

“Yeah, hi. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

She laughed. “So, what’ve you heard?”

“How much he dreams about making a family.”

A short silence on the other end of the line. She hadn’t gotten the joke.

“Hey, JW’s in London, so this might sound strange, but I was wondering if you’d want to get together. Grab a coffee or something?”

“Without JW?”

“Yes. I want to get to know you, his other friends. But he’s such a clam. You know how he is—doesn’t talk about certain stuff.”

Jorge knew what she was talking about. JW played two games.

“Come on, let’s get together sometime before JW gets back? It’s nothing weird, promise.”

Jorge’s instinct said no. But the curiosity, really, why not? He was interested in knowing more about JW, too. Maybe one day get the chance to go with him to his other world.

“He’ll be back in four days, I think. Want to meet up tonight?”

They set a time. Sophie sounded pleased.

He remained seated, finished his thing.

Ruminated. Had to be careful. Something off about Nadja’s disappearance. Something off about the hoodie man’s behavior. They knew he wanted to see Nadja. Why didn’t they tell him she was gone? The biggest question: Where was she? And now: suddenly JW’s
polola
calls. Was there a connection?

Conclusion: Don’t take any risks with the Sophie chick. Could be a bluff.

That night, he took the commuter rail to T-Centralen. Jorge still didn’t have a car. Top priority when Project Rado was completed: Buy a fine ride.

Was gonna meet the girl who claimed she was Sophie. He walked from T-Centralen. The streets were clear of snow.

Jorge remembered his guarded parole from Österåker, when he’d walked the exact same street. Warm day in August. Three COs in tow. If they’d only known what he was gonna use the Asics shoes for. Tools.

Took a right on Birger Jarlsgatan. Neon signs blinked above the Sturegallerian shopping center. Endless repeats of the Nokia logo.

Ten yards outside Café Albert, he took hold of a young dude. Sideways baseball hat.
Blatte
kid on the wrong turf. Offered him a hundred kronor for a favor.

The guy went into the café.

Came back out a minute later.

Another minute.

Sophie came out.

Jorge stared. Sophie: matchless
mina.
Sex appeal personified. Black knit scarf nonchalantly wrapped. Tight black leather motorcycle jacket, without reinforced elbows or shoulders. Tight jeans.

He knew JW belonged to Stureplan. But this—
abbou,
what a cat.

Sophie looked questioningly at him.

She was clearly alone. Jorge was satisfied. Felt safer.
Sonrisa
’d up.

They said hi. She suggested Sturehof. No problem getting in. Reason was obvious: Sophie always got in.

Walked past the restaurant and entered the bar area.

Jorge ordered a beer for himself and a glass of red for Sophie.

“So, Sophie, good to meet you. Sorry if I was weird outside Café Albert. I get a little wigged-out sometimes.”

She tilted her head at him. Jorge thought, Did she understand why he hadn’t wanted to meet at a place she’d decided?

“You don’t like it there, or what?”

“Nothing wrong with Café Albert, but it’s so loud in there.”

“And you don’t think it’s loud here?”

“Just joking.” Jorge careful. Spoke the words as un-
blatte
as he could. The Swedish sounds at the front of his mouth. No ghetto pronunciation.

They dropped the subject. Sophie started questioning him. What did he do? How long had he known JW? In between answers, he asked control questions. Wanted to be sure that Sophie was who she said she was. She seemed green.

Jorge’s impression: Sophie, genuinely interested in JW’s life. But also something else—she was interviewing him. Digging. Wanted to know things Jorge wasn’t sure JW wanted her to know. Not sure Abdulkarim would’ve liked it, either. No matter how smokin’ this someone looked.

He held back. Told her he and JW hung out, chilled. Watched movies. Played video games. Drank beer. Played soccer. Partied sometimes. But nothing about the C biz.

“Party?” Sophie asked. “Where?”

Jorge without a good answer. Mumbled something about a bar in Helenelund.

Sophie asked, “You guys do a line now and then?”

Jorge took a big gulp of beer, thought about what he should say. Chanced it. “It happens. You?”

She winked with one eye. “It happens. Sometimes I wonder if JW does one too many now and then.”

“Don’t think so. He’s got it on lock. Guy with style. With class. You know, he’s schooling me about your world.” Jorge surprised himself. Opened up to a stranger.

Sophie opened up in return, told him about her thoughts. That JW’d gotten all twitchy lately. Wasn’t studying. Kept a weird schedule. Slept badly. That she wanted to get to know JW in order to be able to help him.

Jorge listened. Understood why she’d wanted to meet up.

Time flew. They talked about other stuff: film, the bars around Stureplan, Sophie’s studies, JW’s way of dressing, Jorge’s family.

Strange combination: the fake-Zambo fugitive, the borough blow baron. Together with the city’s hottest brat broad.

Even stranger—they had a good time.

The clock struck midnight. They’d been talking for over three hours.

Afterward, Jorge thought, Chance plays strange tricks. You meet someone for the first time in your life. One day later, you see the same person again. You hear a word you’ve never heard before. A few hours later, that same word is used for the second time in your life. Or, turns out someone you know is related to someone else you know, and you’d never talked about it before. Or, at the very moment you’re thinking about a person, that very person walks into the subway car. What’re the odds? Still, it happens.

Or maybe it’s not chance. Maybe reality is made up of a complex lattice of coincidence. Clumps of information. Connected, linked to one another by what we call “chance.”

Jorge made it easy for himself. His only creed: Cash is king.

Still, couldn’t help but wonder. What happened at that moment at Sturehof must’ve been an instance of pure chance.

Or not.

A group of guys walked by. Blazers, shirts unbuttoned at the collar, straight-leg jeans. Cuff links, expensive watches. Broad belt buckles in the shape of the luxury brands’ monograms.

Most of all—slicked-back hair.

Stureplan’s swift golden gods.

Sophie got up. Hugged and kissed them on the cheek, one by one. Tittered at their jokes.

In Jorge’s opinion: obvious that she acted excessively happy to see them.

She didn’t introduce Jorge. Maybe that was expecting too much. Still, it stung.

The brats disappeared into the O Bar, Sturehof’s inner party spot.

He asked, “Who were they?”

“No one, really. Just some acquaintances.” Sophie seemed uncomfortable. Jorge thought, She’s ashamed she didn’t introduce me.

“JW’s friends?”

“Some of them know JW.”

“Which ones?”

“The guy in the striped blazer, that’s Nippe. The guy in the black coat, his name’s Fredrik. He’s friends with Jet Set Carl, too. Have you heard of him?”

In Jorge’s head: Jet Set Carl? Sounds familiar.

Thought again.

Jet Set Carl.

Jogged his memory.

Giant Karl.

“Jet Set Carl. Who’s that?”

Sophie told him about the clubs and the parties. “Jet Set Carl, that’s Stureplan’s most powerful party planner. But he’s pretty slimy to girls, to be honest.”

The final comment set off a ringing through Jorge’s head.

Catch the giant.