Never Fuck Up: A Novel (38 page)

But tonight something was going to happen. A new experience in life. From nine o’clock till late at night: his first assignment for the Yugo boss, Mr. Kranjic. Security-guard duty. Bouncer responsibility. Moodcalming utility. If anyone got cocky/violent/inappropriate—it was his job to take care of the situation. Hard manual labor was his specialty.

He thought: the only downside was that the place he was guarding was a strip club. Not that he had anything against strip clubs. You ended up at places like that sometimes. Hannu Lindberg’s bachelor party; after a work thing four years ago; together with some buds from the shooting club when they’d been to a competition in Estonia. He liked the whole concept. Sitting with a drink in hand watching the chicks swing their hips, pout, twirl around the pole. Unclasp their bras, slowly release their garter belts, let their panties fall to the floor. Lap dances for the heavy tippers. It was hot, relaxed, a damn good time. Never looked as good as what you got online, but reality is always full of flaws. A visit to a strip joint now and then could spice up the everyday. A little silver lining, in his pants.

So when he arrived at the club, mixed feelings: disgust and horniness. What’s more, he felt like he was being unfaithful. Even though things weren’t working with Åsa in the sack, he’d promised himself: I don’t do that kind of thing. It just wasn’t him—the online porn would have to suffice. He told himself the strip club wasn’t cheating.

Another thing was his confusion over being on the other side. He’d been a cop for twelve years.

At the same time: the girls were there, so close. Not just frozen images on a screen or dancing goddesses on a stage that, at best, you got to pinch in the butt. But for real. So thin, provocatively dressed, giggly. So simple to get. So easy to take. They ran in and out of the dressing room with their cell phones since there wasn’t any service in there. Some were only dressed in their show outfits. Tight thighs, lifted tits, inviting dimples. He was staring like a skeevy old drooler.

It was bizarre. At the same time, awesome. Imagine if Ljunggren or Lindberg could see this. Jealous as horny jackrabbits. Imagine if his bosses got wind of his extra gig. Imagine if Åsa found out what he was doing. Stop—he didn’t even want to think that thought.

Thomas was stationed at the cash register out by the entrance. Two other dudes at the joint: a Yugo guy, Ratko, who stayed inside the venue, around the stage. The other guy, Andrzej, a Polack or something, who remained out by the entrance with Thomas.

Andrzej rocked a hard-boiled, testy style. Pushed limits, provoked. When Ratko introduced him to Thomas, he asked, “What are
you
doing here? Aren’t you a cop?”

Ratko told him to cool it. Thomas didn’t say anything. Just stared straight ahead.

A chick who looked Asian manned the register: Belinda. She tried to make conversation. Thomas, a man of few words. Kept to himself. Didn’t bother with her or the Polack. He was just here to do his job tonight. Easy does it.

During the first few hours, the place was dead. Three or four men an hour slid up to the cash register. Some were soft-spoken. Tried not to attract attention. Thomas thought, You’re already here, so it’s not like anyone’s going to think you got lost or something. Others were rowdier. Joked with the chick at the register, asked if she’d do a show later, wondered if she couldn’t give him a discount ’cause he was a regular, asked her what she wanted for an hour, just a suck.

Belinda turned to Thomas.

“Has Ratko gone over what the deal is here?”

Thomas shook his head.

“So, most girls just do their show, with fixings. You know, some moves and a lap dance. Maybe they’ll allow a slap on the ass and a tongue on their boobs, but no more. But some do other stuff, too. A little hanky-panky, if you know what I mean.”

Thomas understood. He’d been a cop longer than this chick’d had tits.

At eleven o’clock, the volume of the music inside the venue was raised. Ratko was switched out. A guy named Bogdan showed up.

Thomas couldn’t see inside. A pair of red swinging doors separated the entrance area from the showroom. Did he want to see inside? Yes. No. Yes.

Andrzej and Belinda babbled on with each other. Joked, laughed. Discussed the latest episode of some TV show, real-estate prices in the city, which of the girls in the club had real tits. Andrzej claimed he could always tell.

More guys streamed in. Twenty, thirty of them.

Thomas leaned against the wall. Thought about his own investigation. It’d been more than a week since he called John Ballénius’s daughter. Gotten Ljunggren to run a search on the guy in all the government databases. Ordered passport photos. Unfortunately, no phone number seemed to work. But he had an address: 46 Tegnérgatan. Thomas’d gone there both Sunday and Monday nights. Tried on Tuesday and Wednesday morning and night as well. Asked Jonas Nilsson, a former colleague who worked in a squad downtown these days, to swing by and ring Ballénius’s doorbell in the middle of the day on Thursday. No one was home. Either the dude was out of the country, or he was a work junkie, or he was dead.

Thomas tried to call the different numbers that Ballénius’d had over the past few months. All of the plans’d been closed out; there was no forwarding information. He tried the most frequently called number again. The person on the other end of the line hung up on him just like last time. It was a prepaid plan. Thomas didn’t know who the number belonged to. The next most called number was the daughter he’d talked to earlier. The third most called number turned out to be a pizza place on Södermalm. They had no idea who John Ballénius was. The fourth most called number was a man with a real boozer voice who’d done some business with Ballénius, as he put it. When Thomas started asking questions, he hung up.

So Thomas decided to call her again, the daughter, Kicki. Her
answer was loud and clear. “I have no idea where my dad is. We haven’t really been in touch in over seven years, but he’s been trying to call me a lot over the past few months. I hung up as soon as I realized it was him. But we already talked about that.” She sounded sincere. Thomas asked her where she thought her father might be if this’d been seven years ago. Kicki thought the old guy ought to be home at Tegnérgatan. Other than that, she didn’t know.

But the fucker wasn’t home. Thomas was no detective, but really, how hard could it be to track down a crooked fifty-year-old in Stockholm? That’s when it hit him: maybe Ballénius was more famous than he’d realized.

Thomas got in touch with Jonas Nilsson again. Gave him some info on Ballénius that he’d gotten from the comprehensive searches he’d done in the databases. Asked Nilsson to check if he or anyone else in the City District knew anything more. Two hours later, Nilsson called back. When he’d asked around at lunch, a bunch of old-timers’d just laughed. Apparently, John Ballénius was a legend in shady circles. Just as Thomas’d suspected.

Nilsson had more to say. Ballénius was a notorious gambler. Poker, sports betting, horses, everything. Back in the day, the guy’d even hung out at Oxen, the gambling club on Malmskillnadsgatan. Thomas knew the place, infamous underground club in the eighties. Lots of stuff’d been written about Oxen: that it’d been a hangout of Christer Pettersson—the man who the majority of Sweden’s population believed murdered Prime Minister Olof Palme.

The best tip the old-timer cops offered was to look for Ballénius at the track at Solvalla or at the casino.

Thomas started at Solvalla. V75. Signs everywhere advertising
THE EXTRA SPICE OF THE DAY: THE JUBILEE TROPHY
. It was one of the biggest trotting-race events of the year. The informational pamphlets claimed that anyone with a penchant for harness racing should be there. So of course Thomas should be there. Hopefully, Ballénius felt the same way.

The weather was fantastic. People were crowding outside—the worry that the rain would return was as forgotten as the greenhouse effect at a car show. Rowdy atmosphere, excitement in the air. Ads for Agria pet insurance wallpapered the area. Hot dogs, beer, and tote
tickets in everyone’s hands. The speakers blazoned out the day’s races. Soon it would begin.

Thomas didn’t think Ballénius would be hanging out in the outdoor grandstands. So, he planned on starting inside the building. It was big, with glass façades, probably 330 feet long. Four stories, but each story was like its own grandstand.

The different floors had different class. At the bottom of the huge building: Ströget, the sports bar. Complete liquor license. Big-screen TVs showing the track better than if you were outside by the standing tables. Cold beer, sausages, burgers made with 100 percent beef. The clientele: mostly younger. Swedish guys in jeans and T-shirts with their wallets slapped down on the tables. A couple of their chicks, girls with their hair pulled into little balls on the top of their heads. A couple of families. Outside: bouncers.

Thomas trusted his gut instinct. If Ballénius was here, he wouldn’t hang on this floor.

The speakers were blaring out the special event of the day: “As you all know, Björn and Olle Goop’s Conny Nobell was last year’s Elite Race champion. But the Goop family never got to make their victory lap in front of our audience. So here at Solvalla we now want to bring your attention to the Elite Race champions. Welcome onto the track, Björn and Olle Goop!”

The next level was called the Bistro—simple tray service with tables on different tiers. View over the track. Still, it cost fifty kronor just to get in. Thomas flashed his badge to the host at the entrance, who asked if something was wrong. Thomas shook his head. Showed the copy of Ballénius’s passport photo. “No, but we’re looking for this man, John Ballénius, do you know him?” The host’s turn to shake his head. The guy was young, couldn’t have been working at Solvalla for long. Recommended that Thomas ask the gaming manager in the restaurant today, Jens Rasten. Thomas walked up to the counter, asked a waitress about Rasten. She disappeared into the kitchen. A man with light brown hair and a beer gut came out.

Faint Danish accent: “Hi, you’re from the police, I hear. I’m Jens Rasten, responsible for the Bistro. How may we help you?”

“I’m sorry to disturb you on such a busy day. I’m looking for a person named John Ballénius. Do you know him?”

Rasten’s eyes turned first to the photocopy of the picture, then angled up to the side. Looked like he was thinking, hard. There was
cheering in the background. Down on the track, the Goops were finishing their victory lap.

“They’re amazing, the Goop family,” Rasten said.

Thomas, irritated. What the hell was the Dane talking about?

“Yes, but I was asking you about John Ballénius.”

“Sorry. I don’t know him. But check with the guy over there, Sami Kiviniemi. He’s been here every race weekend for as long as I can remember. He knows everybody.”

Thomas was tired. What kind of stupid game was this? How many people would he have to talk to today? Either they knew the Ballénius dude or he wasn’t here. End of story. Still, he approached Kiviniemi.

In Thomas’s eyes: the dude looked like a caricature of a Finn. Blond beard, sunglasses with mirrored lenses, a crooked smile with a front tooth missing, a baseball cap on his head with the Mercedes-Benz logo on it, a Solvalla bag in one hand. He was wearing a fleece sweater even though it was August.

Sami was talking race talk with another guy.

Thomas didn’t have the energy to play polite. Knocked the Finn on the shoulder. Flashed his police badge with one hand and the photo of John Ballénius with the other. “Do you know who this guy is?”

Sami: shifty eyed. Maybe it was surprise, maybe worry.

He took the passport copy in hand. “Sure, that’s Johnny.”

Thomas started.

“But you’ll never find him here at the Bistro. If he’s here today, which he should be, he’ll be in the luxury place, up there, the Congress. He’s a real hustler, that Ballénius. Real slippery. What’s he done?”

Thomas: already halfway up the escalator. On his way to the uppermost story. His heart was beating like after a workout session.

He arrived. Looked down over the Congress Bar and Restaurant: à la carte restaurant with tables on the grandstand right above the finish line. White tablecloths, wall-to-wall carpeting, low music playing in the background, flat screens and forms for V65, V75, and other games on the tables. The majority: gentlemen in their fifties and sixties. Expectant atmosphere. The first race of the day would start in two minutes.

The host at the entrance referred him to the headwaiter, who looked through his list of reservations. Yup, John Ballénius’d booked his lucky table today. Number 118.

Thomas made his way through the tables. Glanced around, checking out the place: people with their own laptops who didn’t seem to
give a shit about the view, women in their forties with hoarse laughs, pens, and betting cards, more ads for Agria pet insurance. On a few tables: champagne in ice buckets. Seemed like some people already knew they’d be celebrating.

Table 118: sixteen feet farther off. He saw him, recognized him from the passport photo. It had to be him—Ballénius. He was sitting with three others: two women and a bald man. Ballénius looked tall, pretty thin. According to the printouts he’d pulled from the official register of licensed companies, he should be around fifty-five years old. Worn face, deeply furrowed forehead, the laugh wrinkles cut across his cheeks like cracks. But there was no laughter in that face. Thomas didn’t think he’d ever seen anyone with such a gray, hollow, sorrowful appearance before.

On the table were plates with entrées, wineglasses and a half-empty wine bottle, two bottles of beer, cards, pamphlets and folders, calculators, pens, cell phones. The women looked dolled up, more elegant than he would’ve expected to be with Ballénius. What ruined the picture: one of them had a bag from the discount grocery store Willys by her side instead of a purse.

Thomas stepped up to the table. Flashed his badge.

Saw John Ballénius’s panicked look plainly.

“Hi there, John. May I ask you a few questions?”