Never Fuck Up: A Novel (54 page)

“Are you sure? How many cars of this model have you sold this year?”

The guy closed his eyes. Tried to look like he was giving it some thought. But why did he have to give it some thought? He ought to be able to check some list or something.

“Four, I think,” he said after a while.

Thomas asked again, “Are you completely sure you don’t remember? It’s pretty important.”

“May one ask what this is in regards to?”

“One may certainly ask. But one won’t get an answer.”

“Okay.”

“I’ll ask you one last time, just so you feel that I’ve given you some time to think it over. Do you remember the person who bought this car?”

The guy shook his head.

Thomas thought, The brat’s a bad liar.

*  *  *

Hello boys,

My name is Juliana. I’m a sexy, fun, and sociable young woman.

I’m 21 years old, 5′3″ and 114 lbs. I look even younger.

I’m visiting Stockholm for a few weeks and look for generous men here for pleasure. My tight body want to make you happy.

Half hour with me: 1,000 SEK plus taxi.

One hour with me: 1,500 SEK plus taxi.

I do normal sex in any position you like. I give pleasure with my body, mouth, and tight pussy. You may cum as many times as you can ;)

Everything with condom for your and my safety. I do not do anal.

If you want to cum on my breast it cost +500 SEK.

You contact me easiest by phone. I don’t reply to hidden numbers or texts. I have male friend who look after me.

Mahmud: whore handler, hooker guard, hussy driver. For two weeks, he’d spent more than half his time at the campground. He sat in one of the trailers for most of the days. With a window facing out toward the rest of the grounds. A total of twenty-two dirty-white trailers. Nine belonged to Dejan and his people. A bunch of half-baked white trash lived in four of the others, like in a fucking Eminem song. The rest of the trailers: empty, waiting for the summer.

Damn, it was dull. He listened to his iPod: Akon, Snoop, and music from the home country: Majida El Roumi, Elissa, Nancy Ajram. Flipped through porn and auto magazines. Texted Rob, Tom, Javier, and his sis. Whined, moped. Tried to make the time pass. Almost hoped that one of the chicks would come running over the field. Flying the coop. So there’d be a little hunt. A little action.

But, nope. They stayed put. Now and then, a car rolled into the area. Dejan usually called to give forewarning. Sometimes the man went right into the trailer. Sometimes the girl came out. Climbed into the car. Mahmud could see her expression, even from a distance—the slave trade was written on her face. They came back a few hours later. Or else they called and let the phone ring only once—a sign that everything was fine. Same, same, but different somehow.

Mahmud had to drive them. Natascha, Juliana, and the others. Skinny girls. Pale, worn-down, worn-out. They went to addresses all over the city—mostly the crappy boroughs, but sometimes to the fancy areas downtown. A few times, he drove four girls at once. Dropped them off at the same address. When they came back they were made up better, their hair done. Mahmud drew his own conclusions: someone’d tried to give them a little class and style.

Mahmud never hung with the whores. He didn’t know why, really. Just felt it strongly: I couldn’t handle what they’d tell me. But maybe it didn’t matter, really. Their Swedish was even worse than Dad’s.

Dejan came out to the trailer park sometimes. Dealt with practicalities: booked hotel rooms and transport for the girls. Administered the Internet ads. All the girls were online. Called the customers: informed them of prices and services. The dude stank. Mahmud’d smelled most things in the slammer. You got a little too close to your neighbors sometimes, a lot of guys didn’t wash properly. The worst ones skipped the showers but still rolled deodorant on top of the sweat every day. Dejan: like one of them. Nasty-sweet perfume stench ruined by sweat and dirt.

At sixish, sevenish every day, Mahmud was rotated out. He drove into the city. Took care of his real business. Why did the Yugos do this to him? He knew the answer. They wanted to show him that there were no shortcuts in their organization. You start at the bottom and if you’re good, you can work your way up. But he didn’t even want to run their race.

Fuck the whole fucking shit.

A guy who looked like a mouse came to switch off with Mahmud today. Small, yellow lower row of teeth and a little-girl walk. Mahmud didn’t bother asking what his name was. Felt better that way. He’d just done a fat line, 90 percent pure. Just wanted to get out of there. The guy eyed Mahmud’s porn magazine, which was lying open on the table. Close-up of a monster cock stuffing a chick’s ass. Mahmud closed it. Was ashamed. The dude said, in crap Swedish, “Why you read that?”

Mahmud didn’t feel like having a discussion. Just wanted to sit in his car and enjoy the C-rush. He flexed his neck muscles. “You got a problem with that?”

“In trailers, is real stuff.”

Mahmud put his jacket on. Opened the door. “Know what? I like willing bitches. Ever met one of those?”

The guy stared back. Mahmud slammed the door.

It was snowing out. Wasn’t it too early for that? It’d been okay warm the other day. November 21. White against a black background: TV blizzard. Crackling, flickering. Like in his head.

His mood improved a little once he’d climbed into the Benz. When he was leaving the shit behind. He thought about the cop that’d been in touch with him a few weeks ago. He had to be more careful. The pigs could have eyes out right now, for instance. He stopped the car by
the side of the road. No one behind him. A car passed in the opposite lane. Should be cool.

Still: he pulled out his cell phone. Took the batteries out. Picked out the SIM card. Rolled down the window. Flicked it out. Like one of the snowflakes.

On his drive into the city, he thought about Babak. Okay, Mahmud’d tripped up. Never imagined that the Yugos would do Wisam like that. But Babak’d overreacted. Despite that: Mahmud wanted to call him. Talk a little. Straighten it all out. Get back to normal. Be homies. Blood brothers.

He passed Axelsberg on the highway. Thought about his sister. Thought about her crazy ex-neighbor. The Niklas guy. What was his deal? A week after he and his sis’d visited, Mahmud’s phone’d rung. Unknown number. Could be any buyer, dealer, Yugo fucker—but it was Niklas. Weird. Mahmud wigged out. Thought something’d happened to Jamila. But that wasn’t it, the Niklas guy just wanted to talk. Maybe get together. During the conversation, like, all the time, the dude got onto the subject of battered women, johns that should be shot, and what he called “the rot in Sweden.” Mahmud didn’t dig his lingo. He was grateful that Niklas’d tenderized his sister’s ex. But what was all this about johns, society’s decline, and a rat invasion in the boroughs?

The next day: in the trailer again. The weather was better. Ragheb Alama on low volume in his earbuds. Dejan’d called before lunch. Talked about a massive delivery. Ratko’d called, too. Worked up. Amped. “Mahmud. Make sure to keep an extra good eye. You follow? We’ve got a massive delivery going.” Mahmud thought they were beating a dead horse. Were all repeating the same words:
massive delivery.
MASSIVE DELIVERY.

In the afternoon, a van pulled up. A woman with Dejan. Mink coat. Looked so Russian it was almost funny. She didn’t speak a word of Swedish. Dejan tried to interpret, introduced her as the makeup artist. “Tonight, we’re doing a massive fucking delivery. They’re all going to the same address.”

Mahmud couldn’t care less. They could have as big whore parties as they wanted, he didn’t give. As long as he got out of there in time.

A few hours later, a Hummer showed up. Two guys climbed out. Mahmud saw right away through the trailer’s filthy windows—those weren’t some regular Yugos or clients. They were ultra players. He even recognized one of them: Jet Set Carl. The guy who owned a bunch of clubs, ran the slickest parties, cashed in the illest cash. The guy who, according to rumor, had slayed more bitches on Stureplan than Mahmud’d seen in his whole life. A legend. A king among brats. A force of power even among Svens. Mahmud wondered what the guy was doing here.

Mahmud turned off the music. Got closer to the window. Saw how the whores were ordered into one of the trailers where Dejan and the Russian were holding court. He waited. The girls came out, one by one. Finally: all sixteen’d been taken care of. Made up, styled, fixed for fucking. They went to their campers. The Jet Set guy was smoking with his buddy. A camel-colored coat to the knees, dark blue jeans, and a colorful scarf. Thin suede desert boots. His hair: more carefully slicked back than the coat of a cat. The two Sven slicks were eyeing the procedure.

After forty minutes, all the chicks were ready. Time stood still. Mahmud stared. Scouted. Spied.

Dejan walked around and knocked on all the trailer doors. The chicks came out. Miniskirts, tight tops, garter belts, high boots, heels, silk scarves nonchalantly wrapped around their necks. More dolled up than usual. Classier than Mahmud’d ever seen them.

They lined up in the cold. Sixteen in a row. Like a fucking horse show. The Jet Set guy and his buddy walked down the line. Checked the girls out one by one. Measured them with their eyes. Sucked them in with their gazes. Deliberated, negotiated, evaluated.

After ten minutes. Her, her, and her, and so on. Jet Set Carl pointed to twelve of the girls. The chosen ones.

Dejan and the Russian herded them into the van and another car. Jet Set Carl had another cigarette. The smoke was clearly visible.

Mahmud thought: a massive delivery. He didn’t even know where they were going.

He couldn’t drop what’d just happened. Two hours left before he was being switched out. He didn’t put the music back on. Didn’t bother Tom about their evening plans. Mahmud: not a guy who had anything against hookers. It was the world’s oldest profession, and all that. In his home country, dads often took their sons for a little test drive in Bahgdad’s seedier neighborhoods for their eighteenth birthday. It was
good practice, good education. Young studs had to let off some steam. But still: he couldn’t handle this. The girls in the trailers were treated like objects. Were advertised on the Internet just like any other items for sale. Honestly, how could people be into chicks who didn’t want to spread ’em on their own? It was sick, somehow.

He looked out at the parking lot. Everything was calm. He wondered if the girls who hadn’t been picked felt safe or desperate.

His cell phone rang. Unknown number. At first, he wasn’t gonna bother picking up. Then he thought: I have to get out of my own depressed head right now. Might as well see who it is.

As he picked up the phone, he was struck by a weird feeling. A feeling that something big was about to happen. The signal sent a message through the depth of his gut: This call will change my life.

“Yo, this is Mahmud.”

“Hey, Mahmud, I roll with your boy Javier.”

Mahmud didn’t recognize the voice. But he knew all about accents. Latino. Sounded pretty much like Javier, actually. After his years in the Million concrete, Mahmud could read accents like a fucking speech expert. The height of his knowledge: he could even hear the difference between some Kurdish languages—Sorani and Kurmanji, you name it. The dude on the line now: the
s
sounds were softer than on other Latinos. Crystal-clear Chilean accent.

Mahmud responded, “Okay, Javier’s my boy. And what do you want?” Really, he didn’t want to talk to some coke-tweaking junior meal ticket right now. He wanted to chill with Robert and the boys tonight.

“I want to meet you. My name is Jorge. I don’t know if you’ve heard of me. I did time at Österåker with your sister’s man. They still together?”

“No.”

“Good. Can I be real with you?”

“Yes.”

“Your sister’s dude was a real
cabrón
.”

Mahmud couldn’t help himself, he laughed. Who was this
chico
?

“Anyway. Javier’s told me about your little hang-up. And it interests me.”

“Whaddya mean ‘hang-up’? What’re you talking about?” The name Jorge reminded Mahmud of something. He knew he’d heard people talk about this guy a couple years ago. Plenty.

“You’ve been running your mouth. I think half the city knows how you feel about Mr. R.”

“What do you want?”

“I want to see you, live. Talk this through. I think we’ve got an enemy in common. And you know what we say in my hood: my enemy’s enemy is my friend.”

Then it hit Mahmud who Jorge was. A couple of years ago: a lotta talk about a newbie who’d revolutionized the coke business in Stockholm. Helped the Yugos take the blow to the boroughs, the projects. Spread the shit among the Svens, the middle-class yuppies, the immigrant kids. Made doing a line as normal as grabbing a beer at the bar. But then things’d derailed somehow. Rumor was that the Yugos mass-executed the guys who’d helped them build the empire, that those same guys’d tried to jack a massive shipment from R., that it’d all been about internal fights within the Yugo mafia. Jorge, the name was familiar. Sure, Mahmud’d heard Javier talk about that guy—he’d been the Yugos’ own little dealer consultant. He wondered what the Latino wanted from him.