Life Deluxe (71 page)

Natalie and Stefanovic were talking. Back and forth.

He seemed seriously prepared to split up the Stockholm market. “Natalie, we don’t really have anything against each other. Things just turned sour after your dad was murdered. All I’m saying is that I think the work I’ve put in should pay off.”

She listened.

“You get the coat checks,” he said. “You get the speed. I won’t get mixed up in any of that. I’ll take the cigarettes and the booze.”

They kept talking. Discussed the turnover in each industry. Discussed which men were best suited. From where they got their most stable income. Where the police were most active right now.

“We can both use Bladman’s services. He doesn’t have anything to do with this.”

Natalie thought about JW—Bladman’s crony was involved in much bigger business than Stefanovic appeared to know. He probably wouldn’t be interested in Stefanovic’s small-time stuff anymore.

She said, “And the material that I have, that the Russians want—which one of us will get to use that?”

Stefanovic sighed. “Your dad and I worked like maniacs on all that, believe me. We’ve been working this on both ends—with a carrot and with a stick, as they say. Bribes and blackmail. We’ve used Bladman’s services to ship millions to the right guys. At the same time, we noticed that those same guys went to the right parties, met the right girls. So we set it up so that some of the girls recorded what they did with the guys. We had to have a lot of talks with those girls, let me tell you.”

Natalie had already figured out what he was talking about.

“So we’ve got those old guys on the hook,” Stefanovic went on. “They get money. The Russians make them do what the Russians want them to do. And if they start to fuss, we send them unpleasant e-mails
with images and movies of seventeen-year-old Romanians licking their assholes.”

“And Melissa Cherkasova?”

“No point discussing her now. That won’t solve our problem, will it? If you want to go there, I can bring up how I felt when you sent me Marko’s finger. We’ve got an hour to get somewhere. If we’re going to start talking about Cherkasova, we’ll both get in trouble with the Russians.”

“Okay, we can let it go for now. But I won’t tolerate that kind of thing going forward.”

“You’re at the beginning of your career. You’ll see. Everything isn’t that simple.”

They let the subject drop. Continued discussing other business, markets, areas that were ripe for expansion. Stefanovic wanted to keep the ski jumping tower—run a legal conference business there. He thought he had good connections in the home country when it came to selling stolen Swedish electronics. He thought it was fair for him to keep running the girl business—he was the one who’d built it up, after all.

Natalie thought:
Economically speaking, this might be good
. Maybe they could actually reach an agreement. Maybe she didn’t have to do what she’d come here to do.

It was obvious: it would make life easier. They would be able to work without interfering with each other. Okay, their territories would be smaller, but they would be able to focus. Develop. Increase the margins. It would send an important message to all the amateurs trying to become something in the Stockholm jungle: Kranjic is still the queen of the hill.

Then she thought: fuck me backward—I’m never going to strike a deal with this man. He killed my father.

Stefanovic kept talking. The point: the two of them were alone in the room.

Natalie: twenty-two years old. Thin. Attractive. Above all: a woman. In Stefanovic’s eyes: she was anything but threatening. Her men were dangerous. Her power could be dangerous. But just her, alone—Stefanovic had watched her grow up, he had taught her how to drive. He had been her chauffeur. Her jack-of-all-trades. An older brother.

He didn’t feel any fear. He felt safe with her.

Natalie rose. Took her blazer off. Rolled up the sleeves of her top.

Walked around to his side of the table.

Stefanovic looked at her.

“Listen, I think we can agree,” she said. “For the Russians’ sake, if nothing else. Let me look you in the eye, up close. I want to see that you’re serious about this.”

Stefanovic looked up at her. He smiled.

“Of course I’m serious.”

Natalie pulled out the comb that she’d transferred to her back pocket. Gripped the top of it, the actual comb part.

Stefanovic looked at her. Saw that she had rolled up her sleeves. Maybe saw that she was holding something narrow, dark, plastic-looking.

He said, “What do you want?”

Natalie stabbed him in the throat with the blade of the comb.

She felt it push in, deep. Stefanovic batted his arms.

She dodged his fists.

She stabbed him again.

Six hundred large, that’s all it was—to the Finn, it couldn’t really be that much cash.

The dude didn’t need to get out of the car for the money’s sake. Still: the Finn fucker didn’t want two innocent lives on his conscience. Above all: the Finn fucker didn’t want the brass on his ass for this. A felony. Looking at alotta time.

Jorge’d counted on that: the dude would be ready to face him, just to get this shit over with.

Risky business. Dirty business. No one wanted to stay here longer than necessary.

He heard a car door slam.

Someone emerged from the back car.

Slow steps. A man. Long coat. Dark pants. No hat.

The man came closer. The backlight made Jorge’s eyes sting.

He looked ordinary enough. Thin, light-colored hair. Piggy up-nose. Cloudy eyes.

Maybe thirty-five years old. Thirty feet away.

He opened his mouth, “Quit fucking around. I’ll get Paola and the kid if you get the money.”

Jorge recognized the voice. It was the Finn.

“Okay,” he said.

Jorge turned around. Walked back to the Citroën.

Opened the back door. Checked his phone when he leaned over to get the duffel with the money and the fake bills. A text from Javier:
I see you. Waiting to see Paola and Junior
.

Good. Jorge hauled the duffel out. Retraced his steps.

The guy with the beanie and the guy with the baseball cap remained glued to their spots.

He heard a quiet voice farther off. Saw the Finn approaching. With Paola and Jorgito walking in front of him.

Junior wasn’t wearing enough clothes, just a T-shirt and jeans. Fucking Finn fag.

Thirty feet between them. Paola was silent.

Jorge set the duffel down. “Here’s the money.”

The Finn signaled with his hand.

The guy in the baseball cap walked over to the bag. Stooped down by Jorge’s feet.

Opened the bag. Jorge knew what he would see: stacks of five-hundred-kronor bills, at least on top.

The baseball cap guy didn’t flip through the stacks. They’d already seen the photo Jorge’d sent with all the bills.

The dude called to the Finn, “It’s green.”

The Finn’s quiet voice: “Good.”

Jorge saw Paola and Jorgito begin to walk toward him.

Twenty-five feet.

Fifteen feet.

The baseball cap dude was still hunched over the bag. Three feet from Jorge.

Paola and Jorgito, six feet from Jorge.

He reached for his nephew.

Scooped him up in his arms. Jorgito was cold.

He began to cry.

The baseball cap guy picked up the bag. Walked back toward the Finn.

Jorge carried Junior toward the car while he pushed Paola in front of him.

The Citroën was clearly visible in the light from the other car.

A dozen or so feet left.

He heard the Finn’s voice: “What the fuck is this?”

He opened the car door. Pushed Paola inside. Tried to make his body as broad as possible over Jorgito.

The Finn yelled, “You little whore! This is fucking Monopoly money!”

Noise. New lights.

The smatter of bullets.

Jorge threw himself at the car.

Sounds echoed. Everywhere.

He felt a pain in his back.

They had been waiting for one and a half hours now. JW said they had to be done up there within two hours.

Hägerström could feel the mood in the air. The sofa groups were vibrating with tension. Toss a match in here, and the hotel would explode like an atom bomb.

He tried to relax. JW kept running around, talking on the phone the entire time.

Hägerström’s thoughts drifted off.

The floor in the kitchen at home on Banérgatan. Pravat, twelve and a half months old. They had just picked him up in northern Thailand.

Hägerström had been lying on his back. Anna was out grocery shopping.

He let Pravat climb over him. Stand up with his help. Hold on to him.

Pravat gurgled, da-da-da’ed, spoke in his own language. He was wearing learn-to-walk diapers and a striped shirt from the high-end children’s store Polarn & Pyret. Hägerström felt Pravat’s little hands and nails on his arms. It was one of the best sensations he knew.

He’d pushed his body carefully to the side. Pravat held on to him but was relatively stable on his feet. Hägerström pushed himself to the side a little more. Suddenly Pravat let go of him. Raised his arms straight out in the air, bent his knees, and straightened his legs. He was standing on his own. Entirely on his own.

Hägerström had cheered. Pravat laughed, almost seeming aware of his own feat. To have stood up on his own for the first time in his life.

Hägerström looked up, scanned the lobby again.

The elevator doors opened.

Natalie Kranjic walked out. She was wearing a dark coat.

She approached JW.

Hägerström heard her say, “We’re done.”

Movement on the sofas. Different men stood up. Looked at Natalie and JW.

Waited for signals. What would happen now?

Natalie didn’t say anything more. She waved to Adam.

The beefy man walked up to her.

They strode toward the exit together.

Hägerström saw swift movements among the people in the lobby.

It was time.

He saw the civvies by the elevator take deep breaths. He thought he heard faint radio commands through hidden earpieces from the ones who were waiting outside. He smelled sweat, didn’t know if it was coming from the cops or the mafiosos.

Natalie and Adam walked out through the automatic doors.

That’s when everything around them exploded.

Natalie was done. Adam walked out through the hotel doors first.

Outside, night had fallen. There were a lot of cars to the left, in the hotel parking lot.

Adam pointed. “My car is over there.”

Her hands began to shake. The effort of walking calmly through the hotel lobby backfired.

She’d inspected herself closely before she took the elevator down. Her hand and forearm were bloody, which was to be expected. She’d washed up in the restroom in the hallway outside the conference room, for probably five minutes. Scrutinized every millimeter of skin until she was completely clean of blood.

Someone would discover Stefanovic within a few minutes. Either the Russians or one of his own men. Let that be as it may. She’d avenged Dad.