Life Deluxe

Easy Money

Never Fuck Up

It was the second time in my life that I visited Stockholm for a job
.

The first time I was here for a wedding, as a bodyguard for one of the guests. That was seventeen years ago, and I was young then. I remember how I looked forward to the day after, when I could party in Stockholm and bed some blondes. The wedding itself was a large affair compared to the ones in my home country. They said it was considered big even for Sweden—there were maybe three hundred guests. And sure, it was grand. The newlyweds emerged from the church dressed in winter furs. They had a small child too, a pretty girl, who was also wearing a fur. The bridal couple were driven from the church in a sled pulled by four white horses. Their little girl stood with her nanny on the church steps and waved. The air was clean, the snow glittered, and the sky was clear. I remember what I thought at the time: that Sweden must be the cleanest country in the world. Then I saw the guests’ faces. Some showed joy and others admiration. But they all expressed one thing: respect
.

The man who was married then was the person I was here to take care of now: Radovan Kranjic. Fateful irony, to have seen the beginning of the new life that I was now going to end
.

I usually don’t let myself feel. No, I kill myself before every mission. I am hired, paid, independent—there is nothing personal about what I do. But to come to Stockholm this time around gave me a sense of completion, somehow
.

The circle would be closed. A kind of balance would be restored
.

And then something happened
.

I’d been staking out in the Volvo all day. When I returned to my room, I decided to clean my handguns. I’d purchased them in Denmark, where I have connections—after the Americans’ so-called war on terrorism, I don’t pack heat when traveling into the EU anymore
.

I had an Accuracy International L96AI—a finer-grade sniper rifle—and a Makarov gun. I took them apart and laid them on a cover on the bed, clean and gleaming. I was holding the final weapon, a revolver, in my hand
.

That was when the door opened
.

I realized that I’d forgotten to lock it, like I normally always do
.

It was a housekeeper. I wondered what kind of crap hotel I was staying at, anyway, where the staff didn’t knock before entering
.

She stared at my weapons for a few seconds. Then she apologized and began to back out into the hallway
.

But it was too late—she’d already seen too much. I rose, raised the revolver, and asked her to step into the room
.

She looked terrified. Understandably—that was my intention, after all. I told her to pull the cleaning cart with her into the room as well, and then I closed the door behind her. I kept my weapon aimed at her the entire time. Then I had her clean my room
.

It took her max ten minutes—it was obvious that she was a pro. She vacuumed the small floor area, wiped off all surfaces, and washed the sink and toilet. It was important to me that it was done thoroughly
.

Meanwhile I packed my bag
.

When she was finished, I asked her to look out into the hallway and see if anyone was out there. It was empty. I pushed her in front of me out into the hallway and told her to unlock the door to another room. She chose one that was two doors down
.

We entered it. The room was messy. The person staying there apparently took pleasure in torturing hotel housekeepers
.

I closed the door
.

She looked at me
.

I held up a pillow
.

Then I raised the revolver and shot her through the pillow. In the eye
.

The strip club on Roslagsgatan’d been rented out. Jorge eyed the place: red spotlights in the ceiling, velvet armchairs on the floor, and neon Heineken ads on the walls. Round tables with candle wax stains, beer stains—he didn’t want to guess what other kinds of stains. A bar along one side of the room, a DJ in one corner, a small stage along the other side. The strip pole was still chick-free. But behind the bar: four babes flaunting more skin than clothes were pouring out bubbly. Soon they’d be boa-constricting themselves around the pole. Baring it all for the bros.

The feel of the place wasn’t exactly mad deluxe. But who gave a fuck—the crowd made the mood. Jorge recognized alotta faces. Had arrived at the joint with his cousin Sergio and his buddy Javier. He saw Mahmud farther in among the armchairs
—hermano
was sipping a glass of Moët. Bonding with his own buddies: Tom Lehtimäki, Rob, Denko, Birra.

Jorge nodded at Mahmud, winked. Signaled:
I see you, bro
. They needed to talk about tomorrow. J-boy could hardly wait. Something big might be in the works. A step back into G-life. Away from M-life. M as in muffins.

Jorge’d slept like shit last night. The whole thing: like Agent Smith against Neo. Darkness squaring off against the light. The Sven life wore him down.
The dark side
. At the same time, the thing they were gonna go see about—superfly. The good side would be given the chance—if they just made it to that meeting tomorrow, everything would work out.