Life Deluxe (66 page)

Jorge’d answered yes to the question.

“Do you have the money?”

“Yes.”

How could he’ve said that he had the cash?
Cómo?

Him: an idiot?

Him: a cunt? Got his own sister and his
sobrino
kidnapped.

Jorge’d been crushed many times in his life. When he’d been forced to crawl back into the cage. When the wheel loader’d been missing before the CIT. When he and the boys’d realized that they’d combed home less than two and a half million.

But this: Paola and Jorgito—holier than God. More important than anything else in the world.

Again: How could he’ve said that he had the cash?

The fucking cash was floating around somewhere in Europe right now. A café in Thailand: worth zero in comparison. A credit card connected to the dough: worth zero million in comparison.

He slept like shit. Checked out of the homeless shelter at four in the morning. Wandered around the city. Oozed angst. Oozed self-loathing.

He sat down on a park bench in Tantolunden. He rode the loop on a night bus. He heard the birds chirping as though there were something out there in the world to be happy about.

J-boy—the loser.

Ghetto cockroach, betrayer.

Shawshank—what did that matter now?

He saw people going to work. Moms pushing baby carriages. Dads rubbing their eyes. The city was waking up.

Jorge just wanted to sleep.

Later on, he called JW—worth a try.

“Can I get the shit back? Something’s happened.”

JW sounded fed up. “Why?”

Jorge told him quickly what’d happened his sister and Junior.

“I’m very sorry for you. What fucking pigs, man. But it’ll take too long to get the gear home. A few weeks, at least.”

Jorge ended the call.

The same question over and over again: How could he’ve said that he had the fucking cash?

Still: his wandering during the night on the town’d awakened a weak, crappy little idea. A teeny-weeny little plan.

Maybe.

There was an image on his phone. An MMS he’d sent JW four days ago. Crap lighting, the plastic bag around it, shit focus. It was a picture of the money. Clear enough—it was
maaaany
stacks of bills.

He would need help. But from whom? Mahmud, Jimmy, and Tom were still in Thailand. Eddie was still locked up. Elliot was living in Germany now—apparently he had three kids there, with three different babymamas. Rolando wasn’t even an option. And JW? The dude was too weak for this kinda thing.

He could think of only one person: the Sven who reeked of pork. The man with the most Sven name in Svenland. Martin the ex-screw-ex-cop Hägerström.

It wasn’t good. But it’d have to do.

Later. Cold as Santa’s ass. Jorge remembered the last time he’d been on the lam, when he’d crashed in people’s summer shacks. This was worse—he was colder inside this time around.

He pressed the button for the buzzer.

A canned voice: “The Practice.”

“Hi. I wanna see Jörn Burtig the lawyer, please.”

“He’s not in at the moment. Can I take a message?”

“It’s about his client, Babak Behrang. Can I come up and wait?”

“There probably isn’t any point. He’s in court and won’t be back until five o’clock.”

Jorge kept roaming around the city. He had nowhere to go now. He pulled his hat down even farther. Pulled his scarf up higher. Let people thing he was
loco
. Let them think whatever they wanted. Just as long as they didn’t call the five-oh.

With Hägerström’s help and the photo of the cash, Babak might accept. Maybe it would all work out.

He walked down to the water.

Looked out over the city. What kind of a place was this, anyway?

He’d run a café in the inner city for almost a year. Smoked weed with some niggas on Tomtebogatan tons of times. Partied at Stureplan. Boosted shit from the sports apparel stores around Sergelstorg as a kid.
Chinga
’d pretty
chicas
in tiny condos on the south side. He knew the inner city. He belonged here.

Still: it didn’t want him. He could feel it everywhere. People stared. Gripped their purses tighter. Pulled their cell phones out, prepared themselves. The inner city: too white for him. The inner city: as though there were an Israeli wall between it and him.

He tried to imagine what it would be like to mix Chillentuna with downtown. What it would look like if he brought half of Sollentuna here. To the fancy streets, the old buildings, and the trendy restaurants. Just half. How would it feel if he filled the place up with Latinos, Somalis, Kurds? If he exchanged every other clinically clean 7-Eleven with one of the homey tobacco stores on Malmvägen? Removed half the purebred Labradors and put in a few pit bulls? Exchanged the church spires for basement mosques? Removed the elite high schools and brought in the chaos classes, where the fifth graders hadn’t even learned to read yet but where the atmosphere swayed with creativity? Replaced some of the polite, boring, faggy feeling with pure emotions and authentic experiences?

He never even should’ve tried.
La dolce vita
—not for him. He should’ve just kept being a coffee man. Now he had to finish what he’d started.

Life deluxe
—to turn everything back to square one. Paola and Jorgito back to their normal lives.

Later: the air was even colder.

He pressed the button. The same canned-sounding voice.

He was buzzed in. Two flights up, an ordinary stairwell.

The door to the law firm clicked.

He stepped inside.

Sick office—honest: Jorge hadn’t been inside a law firm in ten years, probably. The last times he’d seen his lawyer, he’d been locked up in jail. Sat in a sweaty, windowless room in order to run through things before the trial.

Red chairs, white walls, a lot of glass. A long desk in the reception area, two receptionists. The firm’s phat logo on the wall behind the welcome desk.

“How can I help you?”

Jorge removed the scarf from over his mouth. “I wanna see Jörn Burtig. He’s supposed to be here now.”

“He’s here, but I don’t know if he’s able to see you. What is this in regard to, and who may I say is calling for him?”

“Say it’s about his client Babak Behrang and that it’s very, very important.”

Twenty minutes later: Jorge was sitting in a worn-looking leather armchair. Not as minimalistic in here. Piles of documents, books, papers, computers. Paperweights, paintings, framed photos from newspapers.

Jörn Burtig on the other side of the table. Babak Behrang’s defense attorney.

According to the chatter on the inside: one of the city’s best.

They shook hands. Burtig rested one leg on top of the other, leaned back in his chair.

Burtig said, “Okay, Jorge. I’m in a bit of a rush. But I understand that you want to talk about Babak. What’s this about?”

The lawyer wasn’t from Stockholm, you could tell by his accent.

Jorge took his hat off. “I know Babak well. My last name is Salinas Barrio. Do you know who I am?”

The lawyer leaned back farther.

“I know who you are. And since I know that now, I have to ask you to leave. We can’t sit and have a meeting like this. You are one of the coaccused in the same case as my client, Babak. That means the police are looking for you. But that’s not the problem, I can assure you—I have no problem having meetings with wanted persons. No, the problem is that Babak is being held with restrictions on communication. That means he is not permitted to bring in or out any information that has to do
with the case. And I am not allowed to do it for him. So with all due respect, I have to ask you to leave.”

“I know what restrictions are, believe me.”

“Good. Then you know that if I bring information in or out to Babak, I will be guilty of an ethical violation, which means that I risk losing my license to practice. So I would like you to leave before you’ve even said anything.”

“But can’t I say what I want, and then you do what you want?”

“No, I would rather not hear anything. If I do, I’ll wind up in trouble with other rules of professional conduct, loyalty to my client, and things like that. Do you understand? There will be trouble. You have to leave. Now. I’m sorry.”

Jorge didn’t know what to do. The fucking lawyer was shutting him down. What an asshole.

“But just listen anyway,” he said.

The lawyer stood up. “No, thank you.”

Jorge raised his voice. “I know Babak somehow got a bunch of lies out to a guy called the Finn. But tell Babak this: I want him to take back whatever he said. I want him to make the Finn stop hunting me.”

The lawyer held the door open.

“I’m prepared to help Babak if he does that,” Jorge went on. “Tell him to make sure he gets sick so he’s transferred to Huddinge Hospital. Just say that, and I’ll do the rest.”

“No, thank you. It’s time for you to leave now.” The lawyer grabbed Jorge’s arm.

Jorge rose. Reluctantly. “Just tell him to get himself to Huddinge and he’ll get a hundred Gs.”

Jorge held up his cell phone. The picture of the money in front of Burtig’s face.

The lawyer pushed Jorge out the door.

Jorge said, “I’ll give you fifty Gs too.”

Jörn Burtig, Esquire, didn’t even so much as glance at the photo.

They could have arrested Jorge yesterday already, when Hägerström met him. Jorge had explained what happened. Apparently Babak had talked smack about Jorge. Then that had leaked out from jail somehow. The shit had hit the fan, big time. A crazy fucker called the Finn had kidnapped his sister and nephew.

Jorge had tried to talk to Babak’s lawyer but got the cold shoulder. Now he was close to a breakdown. Hägerström could see it in his eyes, they were bloodshot, wide-open, intense. Desperation mixed with panic.

Torsfjäll got all worked up. Now they’d be able to pluck the Finn too. That would mean a major victory for the Stockholm police. And a guaranteed promotion for Hägerström. An enormous victory for society versus the rabble.

But Jorge didn’t want help with the Finn, he told Hägerström. He needed to free Javier.

“Listen, all my homies are in Thailand. I need to get Javier out. Then I hope he can help me with this Finn fucker. And maybe you can help me with that too. But first Javier’s gotta get out.”

Jorge almost spat on Hägerström when he spoke.

“Will you help me? I’ll pay you as soon as I get back to Thailand.”

Hägerström’s heart was doing flips in his chest. Free Javier: he envisioned Javier and himself at home at his apartment. They were laughing, kissing, holding each other.

On the other hand, it was a completely insane idea. Rescue missions were always dangerous. Meant threats, weapons, violence. He had to talk to Torsfjäll.

But he already knew what his answer was going to be.

He promised to think it over and called Torsfjäll immediately.

The inspector had blown off Jorge’s arrest when he understood that the Finn was within reach. But this proposed rescue mission came as
a surprise even to him. He wondered if Hägerström was sure that it would lead them to the Finn.

Hägerström couldn’t be 100 percent, but still. Jorge’s sister and nephew were being held captive by this Finn guy. And Jorge had said he needed Javier’s help. That must lead them to the Finn.

And the fact was, Hägerström didn’t care whether it led them to the Finn. He wanted to see Javier again so badly.

Now he and Jorge were sitting in the waiting room of another law firm, Skogwall & Partners. Bert T. Skogwall, who was Javier’s lawyer, would see them shortly.

Oak paneling covered the walls. Heavy British leather armchairs on authentic Persian carpets. Spotlights in the ceiling illuminated antique paintings.

It reminded Hägerström of his dad’s waiting room.

Three minutes later they were sitting in the corner room of a magnificent apartment, alias the law office. Kommendörsgatan and Grevgatan stretched out below them. An address of which Lottie would have approved.

The room was perfectly decorated. Either Bert T. Skogwall was a color genius, or he was good at hiring the right decorator. The walls were olive green. The bookcases were filled with legal books whose spines all seemed to be different shades of brown. There were frosted-glass doors on some of the shelves: probably more books behind them. On the floor: an old Isfahan. The fact that it was well worn made it appear even more expensive. Two paintings hung behind the desk, both consisting of large circles of color in different shades. They might be Damien Hirsts.