Life Deluxe (18 page)

Lottie opened the door. It smelled the way it had always smelled when you walked into that foyer. A mix of Mother’s perfume—Madame Rochas—old furniture, and cleaning solution. It wasn’t an unpleasant smell, but it also didn’t smell of sterile cleanliness. For Hägerström, that smell would always be
home
.

Pravat ran straight into her arms. Lottie was dressed in well-pressed camel-colored pants and a pale blue shirt with a silk scarf tied around her neck, from Hermès or Louis Vuitton but probably the former. “After Hermès,” Lottie liked to say, “comes nothing, then comes nothing, then comes nothing. Then maybe comes YSL.”

She shouted to Pravat, “Hello, my little golden nugget!” It was almost surreal to hear Lottie shout like that. Something she would normally consider highly vulgar.

Pravat took his coat off. Lottie helped him change into a pair of indoor shoes that she had bought for him.

They walked into the inner hall. Josef Frank’s classic chrysanthemum-patterned wallpaper on the walls. Hägerström could hear how she was bringing out his old bandy clubs.

He began walking around the apartment. The parlor, the dining room, the library, the gentlemen’s salon, Father’s old office, the guest room, the nanny’s room that was now a den, his brother’s old bedroom, which Father had remade into a showcase for his hunting trophies, and his sister’s old room, which was now a laundry room.

He could see himself on a scooter flying through the four largest rooms that were all in a row. The parlor, the dining room, the gentlemen’s salon, and the library. Probably a hundred feet of genuine Persian carpet: a perfect racetrack for an eight-year-old. When the nanny was there, he could ride as much as he wanted. But Mother always came in when he was reaching his top speed and stopped him. Not angrily but determinedly. As always. She never lost control, but she knew what she wanted.

Cronhielm af Hakunge paintings hung everywhere. The count, the count’s siblings, Mother’s father. Wood paneling along the walls. Crystal chandeliers over the tables.

Hägerström kept going, past Mother and Father’s bedroom. His own bedroom was almost untouched. His old Danish wood-frame bed was where it had always been, but it had been given a new coverlet. Same with the nightstand, the narrow desk, and the wooden chair. His three paintings hung in the exact same spots as they had always hung. He looked at the one by Andy Warhol. A colored, treated photograph of Michael Jackson. It had also been used as a cover for
Time
magazine in 1984. Hägerström had been given it by his father that same year. He had turned twelve, and the King of Pop was his greatest idol.

Two paintings by the Swedish turn-of-the-century painter J. A. G. Acke were hanging on the other wall. One was of a burly man who looked like he was stretching his muscles; the left leg was stretched back. There was a wolf in the background. The man was bare-chested and had covered his lower body with a loincloth. The other was even stranger: an ocean with blue waves splashing up against the observer. On a cliff sticking up in the middle of the water stood three naked men. Pale, young, thin, but still athletic. They were not covering themselves.

Hägerström had chosen both of the paintings from Father’s art collection when he turned eighteen. He stood still. Observing the men on the cliff. Their white, sinewy bodies. Their short hair that was blowing in the wind. The foam on the crest of the waves. The men’s cocks that were hanging, unabashedly, down toward the cliff.

Maybe they were just posing, showing off their naked bodies and taking pleasure in being observed. Hägerström awoke from his reverie. Heard Pravat’s voice behind him, “Daddy, aren’t you gonna eat with us?”

He looked down at Pravat. The boy was also staring at the paintings.

Hägerström took his hand and left the room.

Mother had set the table in the kitchen, not in the dining room,
which he took as a healthy sign. Things should be relaxed and familial when Martin and Pravat came to visit.

“Pravat, we don’t say ‘gonna.’ We say ‘going to,’ ” she said.

Pravat laughed. “I love your grub, Grandma.”

Lottie said, “We don’t say ‘grub,’ darling. We say ‘food.’ ”

Hägerström was still running the same race at the pen. Worked the Born to Be Hated president. Acted chummy. Accommodating. Open. Brownnosed like crazy. Repeated the mad positive talk that was going around about him at the Hall pen.

And at the same time: Hägerström kept hinting about the negative talk that was going around about him here. That other inmates had opinions about him, mentioned him, looked down on him.

And in other conversations: Hägerström talked to the Werewolf Legion guy and other inmates in the unit that he knew weren’t close with JW—spread the word. JW didn’t like Abdi Husseini. JW had opinions about Omar. JW was shitting on the BTBH president.

What’s more: Hägerström made sure that Esmeralda confiscated the cell phone that JW kept hidden under the Tube’s pillow. He asked another screw to destroy a bunch of printouts that JW stored with Crazy Tim. All to soften him up for the overture.

Hägerström counted on the machinery of the gossip circuit to do the rest. Enough to create the myth of a schism. Omar would have to put the pieces of the puzzle together on his own.

There was no mistaking the overall impression. The Born to Be Hated’s leader wasn’t worth much in the eyes of Johan Westlund.

The strategy seemed to succeed after a few days. Hägerström heard from different factions that the soup he’d cooked up was starting to boil. By talking to other screws, he learned that the rumors had taken root. He heard directly from Omar that the Born to Be Hated president had heard the same things from the Werewolf Legion guy and others. That JW cunt apparently had a bunch of opinions. The dude thought too much. Talked too much.

Hägerström continued to spread misinformation.

He knew that Omar’s conclusion would be as simple as a rule of nature: JW had to get burned.

At seven-thirty one night before lockup, the fuse blew. Hägerström observed the entire situation from a safe distance, without intervening. This wasn’t a game any longer. Omar didn’t take shit.

JW was sitting with his cell door ajar, studying—that’s what he called it, anyway.

Omar pushed the door open without a sound and stepped inside. Then he cracked his knuckles with a loud sound:
pop-pop-pop
.

JW looked up. “Hey, you want something?”

Omar didn’t say anything. Just met JW’s perplexed eyes. There was another guy behind Omar, called Decke, who was standing with his arms crossed.

Silence in the cell.

The Tube and Crazy Tim’s voices could be heard outside: a tough round of Hold ’Em was being played at the communal table on the block.

Omar leaned down. Next to him, against the wall, he set down a metal chair leg.

JW stared straight at him. Never drop your gaze—that was one of the pen’s golden rules.

“You talk too much,” Omar said.

JW glared at him.

“That’s not how things work in here,” Omar said. “That’s not how things work anywhere. But I’m in a good mood today, buddy. Thirty large, and I’ll forget everything. We’ll pretend nothing happened.”

JW continued to stare at the huge guy and his friend standing there in the doorway. “What are you talking about? I hardly know who you are, Omar.”

“You deaf, little boy? Now you owe me fifty large. And if you say one more thing about me, I’ll break you.
Walla
.”

Omar picked the chair leg up in one hand. Decke took a step forward, rolled up his sleeves.

“Who do you think you are?” JW asked. “Get out of here before I really tire of you.”

Omar’s long legs: two steps. Reached JW. Landed a blow across his back. JW fell off his chair. Screamed aloud.

Omar hit him again, across the legs.

JW tried to roll in under the bed while shielding himself with his hands.

The cell door flew open. The Tube and Crazy Tim rushed in. The Tube grabbed hold of Omar’s raised arm. Decke pushed him aside. Crazy Tim bounced right back. He jumped up, took a half-step across JW’s bed: gained height. Aimed a knee at Omar’s head. But the president had already reacted. Took the knee with a ready neck, muscles tensed. Decke pushed Crazy Tim one more time, hard this time. Omar turned around. Struck the Tube with full force. The fattest fist in the iron pen, right into the Yugo’s stomach. The Tube gasped for air. Wheezed. Lost his grip. Fell backward. Crazy Tim struck Decke with a right jab. The guy blocked. Shoved him again. Omar slammed the chair leg with full force over Crazy Tim’s hand. Then one more time. Crazy Tim’s fingers cracked. Blood sprayed on JW’s sheets.

Decke held the Tube back.

Omar bent down. Thrust the chair leg under the bed where JW was cowering. He beat as hard as he could.

The Tube screamed.

Crazy Tim screamed.

JW screamed worst of all.

Omar struck again and again.

When he retracted it, the chair leg was covered in blood.

Decke walked out of the cell.

The president himself turned in the door.

He bent down, yelled in the direction of the bed, “You little cunt. Next time, you’re dead.”

Curtain.

* * *

* * *