Life Deluxe (20 page)

Jorge was on his way to visit Paola. And Jorge Jr. reined himself in, tried to keep to the speed limit. After that car chase business—even less room for risk taking.

His head was spinning with details. The plan was now fully set in motion. After weeks of planning, it was almost time.

Shiiiiit—so dope
.

The pieces were in place: Javier’d stolen Taurus pistols from a hardware store. Copies of Parabellum, a Brazilian cop piece. Black, heavy enough. Realistic as shit. Crazy when he thought about it: the Swedish government wanted control over weapons—so why could any motherfucker get a perfect copy in a matter of minutes?

The Finn’s idea: they were gonna dump the fake guns at the crime scene—so they couldn’t get slammed with aggravated robbery if things got fucked.

Robert and Sergio’d boosted cars in Norway and parked them out at Jimmy’s vacation cottage—the Finn’s idea. They’d cleaned them, no fingerprints. Covered them with tarps.

The Finn delivered mad connections with Syrian weapons dealers en masse. At least one Kalashnikov plus an ill brand gun’d been promised. Jorge hadn’t decided who was gonna have the AK yet—but it should probably be him. Heaviest heat for the heaviest
hombre
.

Jorge drove around the city every day. Checked the police stations, the area around Tomteboda, flight routes. Kept an eye on the boys. Bounced ideas off the Finn. Talked to Tom about getting a sublet somewhere.

Things were falling into place. But two things were still eating away at him: How would they force the fence? And above all: How would they get into the vault?

You could cut the fence with bolt cutters in several places. But that wouldn’t be enough. They had to get in and out of the area by car. And
the only place where there was a paved road was through the front gate. So that’s where they had to do it—the gate was what they had to break through—and it was thick as fuck. The Finn informed him: it was an industry-grade gate, security-class issue. A bolt cutter would never be enough, but the Finn said it’d work with sharp angle grinders. The problem: there wouldn’t be time to jump out of a vehicle to cut the gate. They had to find another way. The question was: how?

Same deal with the vault. They’d have to blow their way in. Alternately, the insider might be able to get someone who could unlock it from the inside, but fat chance that would happen. So: they needed dynamite.

The Finn was loud and clear: “In order for this to work, you need real blueprints for the place. Or else you can’t have someone calculate how much dynamite you need and stuff. You with me?”

Jorge followed: no blueprints, no vault.

Jorge really wanted to come up with his own solutions. But it was the Brain who was the brain in all this. What’s more: the Finn
should
have to work a little too. The way it was now: Jorge was working his ass off, while the Finn just gave orders and philosophized. Made claims. Commanded. Controlled. But in the end, it would be different. Reversed roles. Jorge and Mahmud’d planned their little side gig by now.

Another problem was on the rise: Viktor. Like all his backtalk at the meeting wasn’t enough—the guy dragged his feet, was slow doing what Jorge asked him to do. He was supposed to’ve gotten work gloves, overalls, and other shit. Instead, he whined every time Jorge got hold of him. Said the whole thing was getting out of hand. That it was too dangerous, too crazy. The potential prison sentences were too long.

Often he didn’t even call back.

After a few days: the dude pretty much vanished off the grid. Jorge called two, three times. But the Sven fucker didn’t bother calling him back. Jorge talked to Tom. Asked him to deal with his buddy—make Viktor understand. Jorge’s patience was like a bomb with a fuse two millimeters long set to blow up in this clown’s face.

The days passed.
Nada
.

Jorge climbed out of the car. Robbery thoughts interrupted. Looked up at Paola’s apartment. Fifth floor. Hägerstensvägen. Örnsberg. Paola: had moved as far away from Sollentuna—their home turf—as she
could. She was making a point—wanted to show that she made her own decisions. But Jorge wondered if she’d forgotten about Mom. Okay, she probably saw her more often than he did. But at least Jorge lived closer.

He rang the doorbell.

Heard sounds from inside. Saw something dark in front of the peephole in the door.

Two seconds later: she opened.

“Come in,” she said.

He took his shoes off. Walked into the apartment. There were Legos and Playmobil parts on the floor.

Jorgito came running. “Hi, hi, hi. Come look!”

Jorge picked the boy up and threw him into the air, kissed him on both cheeks.

Said the same things in Spanish that his Mom’d always said to him:
“Caramba, cómo has crecido!”

They walked into Junior’s room. Blue wallpaper with animals on it. A rug on the floor covered with the image of streets and houses. Plastic toys everywhere.

Paola’s shuffling footsteps in the background.

He set Jorgito down again. Looked at Paola. “What’s wrong?”

“What?”

“Paola, don’t even try. You may not know me, but I know you. What’s wrong?”

Paola bent down. Took Jorgito’s hand. “Come on, let’s go to the kitchen.”

Her face was stiff.

He positioned himself in front of her, blocking her path. She brushed past him to the sink. Poured a glass of Kool-Aid for Junior.

Jorge positioned himself in front of her again. Took her face in his hands.

“Paola, what
is
it?”

“I got fired today.”

Paola looked crushed. On the verge of tears. She released her son’s hand. She probably didn’t want him to see if she started crying.

The little guy looked up at Jorge. “Did you bring me an airplane today?”

Jorge tried to smile. The last time he was here, he’d brought a Playmobil airplane. This time, he’d brought another gift.

Fuck—he didn’t have time for family problems right now. The CIT planning was taking all his time. Still: he knew how happy Paola’d been about her job in the accounting department of an IT company. What’s more: he knew how tough she thought it was to be a single mom.

He gave Jorgito the present, a Lego set. Totally crazy, if you thought about it: “Lego Racer 8199—Cash-in-transit robbery.” He read the text on the back of the box:
The armored car has been stopped due to road construction when the green truck, which wants to take the money, rams into it
.

He tried to ask Paola what’d happened. Why she’d been the one let go.

They talked for a while. Sat down. The wooden table had round stains on it from hot tea mugs.

“I’m not the only one who was laid off. They’re making cuts everywhere. There are rules for this kind of thing.”

“But what about in the accounting department?”

“There were only three of us there, and I was the most recent hire. Last in, first out. That’s what it’s called, the rule. If I don’t get another job in ninety days, it’s gonna be tough.”

Jorge felt bad for her. At the same time: guaranteed unemployment for ninety days sounded pretty sweet. She’d been a nine-to-fiver. Part of the system. And soon he would be financially independent—would be able to help her with anything she needed.

He put his arm around her. Saw images in his head. Him and Paola together. Mama’s stereo turned on. CD cases all over the floor. Paola was digging through the CDs. Reading jacket texts. Trying to explain to Jorge why Janet Jackson and Mariah Carey were the best of all. She played songs, sang along to the lyrics:
“Oooooh, I’m gonna take you there, that’s the way love goes.”

But to Jorge: she was his biggest idol. Honest: the only idol he’d ever had.

Jorgito came back into the kitchen. Looked at Paola. “I’ve built the robbery now.”

“You gotta show me, little man,” Jorge said.

Paola looked at him. “What did you say, Jorgito?”

“I built the Lego now. A really nice robbery. The truck hits the car with the money in it.”

Paola turned to Jorge. Sighed. “That is not okay.”

Jorge tried to grin.

“You have to go now,” Paola said. “We can talk more later.”

“Don’t be like that, he likes Legos. And I promise it’s all gonna work out. You don’t gotta worry,
hermana
.”

“No, you can go. And I don’t want your money. I don’t want dirty money here.”

Jorge stopped. “What you mean? Don’t pull that old shit again. I thought we’d gotten past that.”

Paola was on her way out to Jorgito’s room. “You can’t afford to support me on your café. I know that. So if you’re talking about doing something for me, I know you’re talking about dirty money. And we don’t want that here.
No lo entiendes?
”

Normally: Jorge was a king. J-boy the man—the dude with whip-fast comebacks and mad flow. Now: stumped. Blank like a busted phone display. Pathetic like a beat-up brat on a bar floor.

He walked out into the hallway. Glanced quickly into Jorgito’s room. Thoughts were bouncing around his head: If Paola didn’t want his help, then she could quit whining. If she didn’t want his cash, Jorgito wouldn’t have it either. If his dough was dirty, then the Lego set was filthy too. Right? He should go in there and take the Legos from Junior’s room with him.

He took a step into the kid’s room. The boy was sitting with his Lego project. Waiting for him and Paola to come look at what he’d built.

His curly hair, his smiling, slitted eyes. An unspoiled human being.

Jorge walked out again. Into the hall.

Opened the door.

Closed it. As hard as he could.

As he was leaving: a fat knot in his stomach. He turned the radio to
The Voice
. Robyn—as usual on every single station.

His cell phone rang. He thought it would be Paola, calling to apologize.

It was Tom Lehtimäki. A brief conversation, without mentioning names or details. According to Jorge’s rules.

“We’ve got a problem.”

“What?”

“A bunch of shit, actually.”

“Can we meet up?”

“I’m home.”

“Okay, I’ll be right over.”

Jorge’d had a feeling this was coming. That Viktor fag was cracking. That Viktor dude tried to hitch a free ride on the rest of their backs.

It was time to have a talk with that guy.

The next day they were sitting at Jimmy’s mom’s summer shack again. The chairs were in place. The tripod with the whiteboard was set up. The sun outside was strong—summer was here. It was gonna be a long summer filled with fields of clover.

But everything had to fall into place. Everything had to fly.

The end was drawing near. A lot’d been taken care of over the past week. Some little Viktor cunt wasn’t gonna fucking free-ride on this. No way in hell.

But there were still a few major things left to do. The fence. The vault. The secret side plan he and Mahmud were cooking up.

He eyed the guys in the shack.

Mahmud: Brother in coffee. Brother in planning. Brother in arms. Those sad, dark eyes with their long lashes: like upside-down crescent moons. The Arab looked tired.

Sergio: his own cousin. Javier: Latino. Both:
hermanos
—but they might love weed more than they loved the plan. Last time he’d spoken with Javier, the guy was so high, his dandruff was snowing on the moon. J-boy himself’d been a blazer once. But for him, that was over now. Still, he let it go—needed those guys. Plus: Javier wasn’t just anyone—he knew half of Alby.

Robert: quiet. Got his shit done. But didn’t take any initiative on his own. Actually: kind of a relief.

Jimmy: was handling himself okay too. The only downside with that Sven: the guy was buds with Viktor.

Tom: a talent with a sense of humor. A technician with intuition. So far he’d handled himself perfectly. At the same time: he demanded
mucho
. Wanted a hand in everything, every detail. Get his say. Liked the sound of his own voice. But Jorge thought: Hombre
can do whatever he wants—as long as he delivers
.

Viktor on the other hand: the freeloader who should’ve apologized long ago.

Jorge started into his spiel. Briefly went over everything they’d already done. He talked about the plan, the equipment, the weapons.
He went through dates, times, hours. Cash-out envelopes from the entire Stockholm region were emptied into the bank’s service boxes, collected, picked up by guards and CITs, and ended up at Tomteboda’s cash conversion depot. The money that was being delivered the following day was also stored there.

What’s more: the remainders were stored in the vault, the stuff that might not’ve been sent out, things left over from last week. Fat stacks of extra cash.

The guys looked pleased even though Jorge said he still didn’t know how they were going to get through the fence or into the vault.

“But we have another problem too,” he continued, “a real bad problem. I’m gonna keep it real. One of us isn’t doing what he should be doing. One of us is totally blowing this gig off. Only thinking of himself. Like a cunt.”

The guys stared at him. Only Tom and Mahmud knew who Jorge was talking about.

Jorge’s head: boiling over.

“One of us wants everyone else to do the work, and he just wants to reap the benefits. Hitch a free ride, like jumping stiles in the subway. Except this time he apparently wants to cash in too.”

Jorge’s eyes: on Viktor. The dude was starting to catch on.

Might as well drop the bomb.

“I’m talking about you, Viktor. You’re not doing a fucking thing. You don’t even pick up your fucking phone. Do you understand the risks the rest of us are taking for you?”

The other guys turned to Viktor.

Exhaled—relieved that Jorge wasn’t talking about them. At the same time: quizzical expressions. Was it true that Viktor was just trying to use them?

Between Jorge’s temples: bongo drums. Spit went flying.

His thoughts were exploding: Who did this little Sven
puta
think he was? Who did that Viktor faggot think he was tricking?

Jorge stood up. Raised his voice.

Kept stoking the fire: attitude problems, nonchalant fairy style. Viktor: shit attitude to the hit. Crap approach to the team.