Never Fuck Up: A Novel (5 page)

When there’s action, it’s fun. When it’s fun, the night flies by. But they’d combed home zilch. Ljunggren sighed. “Why did we even bother making a whole operation out of this thing? It’s just one less drunk who probably would’ve started a fight ’cause the liquor store opened three minutes late some Saturday morning when we’re really not in the mood to deal with bullshit like that.” Thomas thought, Sometimes Ljunggren can really talk.

They interrogated some neighbors at random. Photographed the area around the basement. Sent two guys to the subway station. Wrote down the names and phone numbers of people in the building next door, promised to be back the following day. The technicians checked for fingerprints and swabbed for DNA traces in the basement. A couple of cruisers blocked off the street and stopped a sampling of cars down on Hägerstensvägen. Hardly anyone out and about at this hour anyway.

They were quiet on the way back to the station in Skärholmen. Tired. Even though nothing’d happened, it’d been an intense experience. Would feel good to shower.

Thomas couldn’t stop thinking about the body in the basement. The busted face and the fingertips. Not that he felt sick or thought it was hard to deal or anything—too much nastiness’d crossed his path already; it didn’t affect him. It was something else. The shady aspect of this whole business—the fact that the junkie seemed to have been offed in a way that was just a tad too sophisticated.

But what was strange, really? Someone’d freaked on him for some reason. Maybe a fight over a few milligrams, an unpaid debt, or just a bad trip. It couldn’t have been hard to beat the shit out of the guy. He must’ve been lit like a bonfire. But the missing teeth? Maybe it wasn’t so strange. Addicts’ bodies tended to give up early—too much of life’s good stuff corrodes the fangs. Dentures on forty-year-olds were legion.

Still, the face that’d been beaten beyond recognition, the cut fingertips, the fact that someone’d plucked out the dentures. Getting a positive ID on this guy was going to be a bitch. Someone’d given this some real thought.

It spelled out a job by semipros. Maybe even by total pros.

This wasn’t the work of some fellow addict. No way.

Weird.

Erika Ewaldsson got on Mahmud’s nerves. Annoying, nagging. Wouldn’t, like, give up. But, really, he didn’t give a fuck about her; she was valueless. Nothing would happen if he broke the probation office’s rules just a little bit, anyway. The problem was what they might come up with. What it boiled down to: they thought they could control him, could decide when he went into the city and when he chilled out in the concrete. There was a risk that it looked like he was letting those clowns walk all over him. Make the rules. Control a
blatte
with thick honor—they could go shit themselves.

Still: the red subway line, on his way into the city from the projects. From Alby to the probation office at Hornstull. From his bros—Babak, Robert, Javier, the others—to Erika: parole officer, pussy-marauder, playboy-saboteur. She wouldn’t cut him any slack. Refused to understand that he was gonna go straight, or at least really meant it when he told her so. She was riding him worse than the counselor back in school when he was thirteen—the Sven loser who’d decided that Mahmud was troublemaker number one.

Bitch.

The train pounded through the tunnels. Mahmud was nearly alone in the car. He tried to study the pattern on the fabric of the seats across from him. What were those shapes supposed to be, anyway? Okay, he recognized the little ball—the Globen arena. And the tower with the three knobs on top—the city’s hall, City Hall, or whatever it was called. But the other stuff. Who drew ugly like that? And who was the train company trying to kid? The subway wasn’t some warm and cuddly place and it never would be.

Still: great feeling—chilling in the train car. Being free. Could get off and on wherever he wanted. Flirt freely with the two chicks sitting a few rows down. Life on the inside was like life on the outside except in fast-forward. Time went so much faster, each part seeming more
compact—it felt like his latest stint had never even happened. The only thing that disturbed him: the nightmares he’d been having the last two nights. Spinning Russian roulette. Piss stains eating their way down his leg. Gürhan’s golden grill gleaming. He had to try to forget. Born to Be Hated.

The train pulled up to the station. He got off. Hungry for something. Walked toward the vending machine. When he was ten yards away he saw that it’d been smashed. What amateurs. If they were gonna rob something, why not go big? What good were a couple bucks from a vending machine? Must be junkies. Tragic losers. Why didn’t Erika work on treating them instead? After all, Mahmud didn’t bother anyone unless they bothered him. Priorities were all flipped.

He started walking toward the escalators. The station’s white brick walls reminded him of the Asptuna pen. A month and a half since he’d gated out of there—six months behind bars. And now he had to go to fucking Hornstull once a week and humiliate himself. Sit and lie to the bitch straight to her face—felt like he was back in middle school again. Didn’t work. Some dudes locked themselves into tiny studio apartments that social services lined up for them when they got out. Couldn’t handle cribs that were too big, wanted things to be as similar to the pen as possible. Others moved in with their moms. Couldn’t really handle life on the outside without someone getting their grub and cleaning up after them. But not Mahmud—he was gonna be a soldier. Get a place of his own, travel, move. Slay mad bitches, make fat stacks. STYLE. But then the image of Gürhan’s mug killed all his dreaming like a punch to the face.

He crossed Långholmsgatan. In the background, the traffic thundered. The sky was gray. The street was gray. The buildings were grayest of all.

The parole office shared an entrance with a podiatrist and a pension fund office. He thought, Were only P joints allowed in this pussy place? A janitor was waxing the linoleum floor. Could have been his dad, his
abu,
Beshar. But his
abu
wouldn’t have to live that way anymore. Mahmud was gonna provide. Promise.

At the welcome desk, they didn’t even slide back the glass partition for him. He had to lean forward to reach the mike.

“Hey, hi. I’m supposed to see Erika Ewaldsson. Ten minutes ago.”

“Okay, if you’ll have a seat she’ll be with you shortly.”

He sat down in the waiting room. Why did they always make him wait? They acted like the screws in the slammer. Power-hungry humiliation experts: fags.

He eyed the worthless magazines and papers.
Dagens Nyheter, Café,
and
Gracious Home
. Grinned to himself: What clowns would show up at the parole office and read
Gracious Home
?

Then he heard Erika’s voice.

“Hi, Mahmud. Glad you made it. Almost on time, in fact.”

Mahmud glanced up. Erika looked the way she usually did. Yellow pants and a brownish poncho thing up top. She wasn’t exactly thin—her ass was as wide as Saudi Arabia. She had green eyes and wore a thin gold cross around her neck. Damn, there was that metal taste in his mouth again.

Mahmud followed Erika to her office. Inside, the blinds created a striped light. Posters on the walls. A desk piled with papers, binders, and plastic folders. How many homies did she hassle, anyway?

Two armchairs. A small round table between them. The fabric on the chairs was pilling. He leaned back.

“So, Mahmud, how are you?”

“I’m fine. It’s all good.”

“Great. How’s your dad? Beshar, that’s his name, right?”

Mahmud still lived at home. It sucked, but racist landlords were real skeptical toward a prison
blatte.

“He’s good too. It’s not exactly perfect, living there. But it’ll be fine.” Mahmud wanted to tone down the problem. “I’m applying for jobs. Had two interviews this week.”

“Wow, that’s great! Any offers?”

“No, they said they’d get back to me. That’s what they always say.”

Mahmud thought about the latest interview. He’d purposely gone wearing only a tank top. The tattoos piled up. The text:
Only trust yourself
on one arm and
Alby Forever
on the other. The ink spoke its own aggressive language: If there’s trouble—you’ll get in deep. Watch yourself.

When would she understand? He wasn’t gonna let a job rob him of his freedom. He wasn’t made for a nine-to-five life; he’d known that since he came to Sweden as a kid.

She studied him. For too long.

“What happened to your cheek?”

Wrong question. Gürhan’s slap wouldn’t ordinarily’ve busted his cheek—but the dude’d worn a massive signet ring. Had torn up half his face. The cut was covered with surgical tape. What was he gonna say?

“Nothing. Sparred a little with a buddy. You know.”

Not the world’s best excuse, but maybe she’d fall for it.

Erika seemed to be considering him. Mahmud tried to look out through the blinds. Look unaffected.

“I hope there’s no trouble, Mahmud. If there is, you can tell me. I can help you, you know.”

Mahmud thought, Yeah, sure you can help me. Irony overload.

Erika dropped the subject. Droned on. Told him about a job-application project that the jobmarketpreparationunemploymentinsuranceoffice, or something like that, was running. For guys like him. Mahmud deflected her attention. Had years of training. All the talk with school counselors, meetings with social-service bitches, and interrogations with cops’d paid off. Mahmud: expert of experts at shutting his ears when the situation required it—and at managing to still look interested.

Erika kept talking. Blah, blah, blah. Sooooo slow.

“Mahmud, aren’t you interested in doing something related to physical fitness? You work out a lot. We’ve talked about that before. How’s that going, by the way?”

“Yeah, it’s going good. I like the gym.”

“And you never feel tempted to do
that
—you know what I mean?”

Mahmud knew what she meant. Erika brought it up every single time. He just had to smile and take it.

“No, Erika, I’ve stopped with
that
. We’ve talked about that hundreds of times. Fat-free chicken, tuna, and protein shakes work just as good. I don’t need illegal stuff anymore.”

Unclear if she was actually listening to what he said. She was writing something down.

“May I ask you a question? Who do you spend time with during the day?”

The meeting was dragging on too long. The point of this shit: short talks so that he could air the problems free life created. But he couldn’t let slip about the real problem.

“I hang out with the guys at the gym a lot. They’re chill.”

“How often are you there?”

“I’m serious about it. Two sessions a day. One before lunch, not
too many people there then. And I do another session later at night, around ten.”

Erika nodded. Kept talking. Would this never end?

“And how are your sisters doing?”

His sisters were holy, part of his dignity. No matter what punishment Swedish society came up with, nothing could stop him from protecting them. Was Erika questioning something about his sisters?

“What do you mean?”

“Well, do you see her—your older sister? Isn’t her man doing time?”

“Erika, we gotta be clear about one thing. My sisters’ve got nothing to do with the crap I’ve done. They’re white as snow, innocent as lambs. You follow? My older sister’s starting a new life. Getting married and stuff.”

Silence.

Was Erika gonna get whiny now?

“But Mahmud, I didn’t mean anything. You have to understand that. It’s just important to me that you see her and your family. When you’re released from a penitentiary it often helps to be in touch with stable people in your environment. I’ve been under the impression that your relationship with your sisters is very good, that’s all.”

She made a quick pause, eyed him. Was she checking out the mark from Gürhan’s slap again? He sought her gaze. After a while, she put her hands in her lap.

“All right, I think we’re done for today. Here, take this pamphlet about the Labor Market Board’s project I was telling you about before. Their offices are in Hägersten and I really think they might be able to help you. They’ve got courses in how to succeed at job interviews, stuff like that. It could make you a stronger candidate.”

Out on the street. Still hungry. Irritated. Into the 7-Eleven by the entrance to the subway station. Bought an orange soda and two power bars. They crumbled against the roof of his mouth. He thought about Erika’s annoying questions.

His phone rang. Unlisted number.

“Yeah.”

The voice on the other end: “Is this Mahmud al-Askori?”

Mahmud wondered who it was. Someone who didn’t introduce himself. Shadyish.

“Yeah. And what do you want?”

“My name is Stefanovic. I think we may have met at some point. I work out at Fitness Center sometimes. You’ve collaborated with us before.”

Mahmud connected the dots: Stefanovic—the name pretty much said it all. Not exactly a nobody he had on the line. Someone who worked out at the gym, someone who sounded colder than the ice in Gürhan’s veins, someone who was Serbian. Mahmud didn’t recognize the voice. No face came to mind. But still, it could only mean one thing: One of the heavy hitters wanted to talk to him. Either he was deeper in the shit than he’d thought, or something interesting was in the works.