Never Fuck Up: A Novel (58 page)

They’d gotten him kicked out of his job. Had threatened him and Åsa. Messed with his report. Murdered his father’s hero. Sweden’s morale was on the line. If even middle-aged Swedish police officers were rotten to the core—there was no hope. Fuck no, he wouldn’t let them succeed. This was his way back.

Thomas picked up the phone again.

When he punched in the numbers he felt an almost childish excitement. Nervousness paired with suspense.

He didn’t like Hägerström. At the same time, he knew he should’ve made this call a long time ago.

When the signal went through, he heard a short click on the other end of the line.

“Hi, you’ve reached Martin Hägerström. Please leave a message after the beep.”

Fucking voice mail. Major letdown.

Thomas kept the message short: “This is Andrén, call me.”

Mahmud was on his way home from the gym. In one hand, the wheel. In the other, a plastic container with the Lionhart mix: creatine and other dietary supplements. Sipping strawberry-flavored gunk with a straw, like a milkshake. The side effects of the last juice he’d been cranking were still making themselves known. He had to wait before he started up again. It was lame. But true.

Right now, he was on his way to meet the Latino who’d called him. Jorge.

The car stereo was blaring. Ragheb Alama was crooning like a god.

He thought about Niklas, the commando guy, who’d come over to Mahmud’s house the other day. Asked for a favor. A very, very big favor. The guy wanted Mahmud to fuck up a friend of his. Mahmud didn’t give a shit about the details.

Niklas really did seem crazy somehow. His eyes were always darting around. Above all, the guy was probably lethal—at least if you judged by what he’d done to Jamila’s ex. Why couldn’t he spook that Benjamin guy himself?

“Habibi,”
Niklas said in Arabic. “You really have to help me. I’m in a tight spot and I might get locked up. So this Benjamin has to understand that if he rats me out, there are others on the outside who’ll punish him. Do you understand?”

Mahmud thought, Really, I shouldn’t bother with this. But honor was honor. Niklas’d helped his sister. And nothing in the world was more important than a sister. He owed Niklas.

Mahmud nodded. “I’ll do it, buddy. Where does this pussy live?”

Niklas seemed ecstatic.

The rest was simple. Yesterday, before he went on whore guard duty, he drove out to the guy’s address. Niklas’d tipped him off that Benjamin was home. It didn’t take long for Mahmud to figure out where in the building the guy lived. Did a quick line in the entranceway. Took the elevator up. Hummed to himself, “Coke gives you wings.”

Rang the doorbell. Felt angry as hell. Life was sour on him so now he’d get sour on this Benjamin chump.

A bearded guy of average height opened the door. Looked surprised. Mahmud delivered a straight right cross. His brass knuckles were in place. The guy tumbled backward into the apartment. Bleeding from the nose. Tried to raise his guard, swung at Mahmud. But it wasn’t an even fight—Mahmud had brass knuckles, after all. He landed another punch. The guy fell over. Was lying down. Trying to shield his head while he yelled, “Who the fuck are you? Stop. My nose, man.”

Mahmud pulled out a roll of electrical tape. Taped the guy’s hands and feet. Stared into panicked eyes. Felt powerful. It was like he was Gürhan now. Ey, whatcha say now? Not so cocky, huh? Snitching bitch.

Benjamin was lying completely still. Whimpering. Mahmud sat down on a stool.

“Hey, Brillo-face.”

Benjamin didn’t say a word.

“If you rat my friend Niklas out, I’ll come get you for real. You feel me?”

Benjamin closed his eyes.

Mahmud didn’t wait for an answer. Opened the door, walked out. Thought, Shit, maybe I should become a bruiser after all. He had to work a full week to make thirty grand on blow. This had taken fifteen minutes, including the drive.

Malmvägen. A black guy came toward him. Flow in his step. His walk was reminiscent of Robert’s. But more exaggerated. One of his legs jerked with every other step. Was he walking to the beat of some song in invisible earbuds? Dressed in a hoodie pulled up over his head and tucked behind his ears, which stood straight out like on Mickey Mouse. A down vest over the sweatshirt. Baggy camo pants. Around his neck: Africa’s silhouette in Rasta colors: green, yellow, and red. The grass, the sun, the blood.

Walking toward Mahmud, without a doubt.

He crossed his arms. This was definitely not Jorge.

The Rasta guy tilted his head. Crap teeth—looked like they were gonna fall out of his mouth at any moment. Spoke English with a thick accent—sounded like Sean Paul, almost incomprehensible. “Hey you, Arab man. My friend wants to meet you.”

Mahmud dropped his arms. Relaxed. The nigger was apparently
Jorge’s messenger. Introduced himself as Elliot. Mahmud followed him. The jerk in his step. The flow in his walk.

Malmvägen was big, spread out. Satellite dishes hung like ears off the high-rises. This was northern Stockholm’s Million district.

Elliot didn’t look back.

They walked into a building. Up the stairs.

Elliot rang a doorbell. Music could be heard through the door: reggae rhythms.

A broad dude opened the door. At first, Mahmud couldn’t see if he was black or Latino. Thick dreads. Fat ganja grin when he saw Elliot. The door slammed shut in front of Mahmud’s face. He remained standing outside alone.

He thought: What the fuck is he doing?

Mahmud didn’t know what to do. Ring the doorbell? Bang on the door? Split? The last was probably the best alternative. He started walking back down the stairs.

Then the door opened halfway. Elliot peered out again. Called, “Hey, Arab brother, you welcome.”

Mahmud turned. Walked in.

In the hall: music was blaring even louder from the other rooms. Back beat. Sweet weed smell. A hallway. A blue throw rug. White-painted walls. There was a large animal skin pinned up on one wall. The lion of Judah with a crown and one paw raised in greeting. The
blatte
with the dreads sat down in a chair and started rolling a joint.

Elliot nodded.

Led Mahmud down the hallway.

The living room: Marijuana paradise. Couches, pillows, and cushions spread out. Blankets covered other areas of the floor. Ten or so people were sitting and lying down. Above all: they were smoking. There was a hookah between two couches. Two hollowed-out wood hash pipes on the coffee table. Piles of Rizla papers. Bags of weed. Pictures of Bob Marley, Haile Selassie, and the silhouette of Africa. A stereo stood next to one of the other couches. A vinyl record with a green, red, and yellow label was turning.

The people in there: stoned out of their minds.

Elliot showed him to a spot. Mahmud ended up on a cushion next to a pretty girl who seemed to be sleeping. Blond dreadlocks tied back with a hair band. This place was mad wack.

One of the guys on the couch got up. Approached Mahmud. The
guy’s voice was barely audible over the music. He extended his hand. Someone lowered the volume.

“Welcome to Sunny Sunday. I’m Jorge, Jorgelito. And you’re Javier’s friend, right?”

Mahmud nodded.

“May I offer you a smoke?”

Mahmud accepted the bag of weed. Picked up a pipe. But didn’t do anything. Gaze glued on Jorge.

Jorge smiled. “They come here every Sunday. Worship Jah. Relax with some weed. Do what the black man should do. Chill, dig the music, feel the power.”

Mahmud didn’t know if he should laugh or split. He maintained an interested look.

Jorge went on. “You’re not African. Me neither. But we’re still niggers. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Mahmud didn’t get what the Latino was talking about. He put the pipe back on the table. Got up.

Jorge put his hand on Mahmud’s shoulder. “Chill, man. I just wanted you to relax a little. We’ll go into the kitchen.”

They had a seat in the kitchen. Jorge closed the door. Poured two glasses of water.

Mahmud eyed him. The dude was thin but still built, somehow. Short hair and a small, ugly mustache. Dark eyes with something in them besides weed haze.

“Okay, I’m sorry if you don’t like this place. I love it.”

Mahmud grinned. “I’ve got nothing against it. But I always get a little jumpy when there are too many Zinjis around.”

“Not a problem with me, man, but don’t say anything to them out there. And, like I said, we’re all niggers. Do you understand what I mean?”

“Nope.”

“Let me put it this way. Segregation is like apartheid. The Million Program has the same effect on us as slavery. You understand now?”

Mahmud had a vague notion. Jorge was trying to be serious. Comparing immigrant guys like Mahmud with how black people’d lived in South Africa. He didn’t have the energy to have a discussion. Just nodded.

Jorge starting telling his story. The Latino’d only been in Sweden for a month. Really, he lived in Thailand. It was easier because he was
wanted in Sweden since the drug incident by the Västberga Cold Storage facility.

It’d all begun when the Yugos’d wrapped him in a trial many years ago. Slaughtered him like a dog. But Jorge busted out of the pen by climbing over a wall, like fucking Spider-Man. Mahmud recognized the story, but honestly—he’d thought it was a tall tale. Jorge explained: he’d known all along that things wouldn’t end well with the Yugos. They should’ve helped him, taken responsibility for him since he’d worked for them, but instead they’d gone south on him. So Jorge’d started fucking with them. Shit hit the fan—they beat him real bad and from that day forward he hated Radovan more than anything else in the world. Jorge wasn’t the kind of guy to let a beating slide.

Mahmud saw himself in the story. Jorge’d had an energy he couldn’t feel right now, but still. They were driven by the same obsessions.

Jorge kept telling his story. How he’d tried to come up with ideas to sink the Yugo empire. Shadowed Radovan, found out a bunch of things about the organization: smuggle routes, dealing technology, drug methodology. He looked at Mahmud. “Do you still use those Shurgard storage units out by the parking lots?”

Mahmud grinned. The Latino knew what he was talking about.

But it all went to hell. Jorge got played. Had to bust the border. Now he was sitting on a good pile of dough and a Yugo hate that was hotter than lava. But, as Jorge said, “If that’d been all, I would’ve dealt with it. Swallowed the sperm with a smile.” But there was something else, too. Something worse. Darker. Harder. He didn’t want to go into details. “It was about dirty human trafficking” was all he said. He focused in on Mahmud. “I think you understand what I mean.”

Mahmud wondered if the Latino knew what he did besides sell blow. The
blatte
seemed to know about everything.

Maybe Jorge knew what he was thinking. He said, “I know what you do, man. It’s not pretty, but I don’t blame you. You’re in their clutches now. I know you’re cool. Javier’s told me. And I trust him. He’s
un hermano
.”

Jorge swallowed a gulp of water.

“You feel what I feel. You hate them. You want to get out. Let me tell you, man.”

Jorge began explaining stuff about Radovan’s other businesses. Blackmail, financial fraud, brothels. Mentioned the organized luxury whore parties. Mahmud felt like the pieces were falling into place.
It agreed with what he’d seen the other day: the way the hookers’d been collected, made up, fixed up, the slick players who’d run the operation.

It took Jorge ten minutes to finish. He stared out into space. Seemed like his thoughts were still stuck in the story.

“It’s messed up,” Mahmud said. “But what can I do about it?”

Jorge’s reply was slow in coming. “You and me, we’re not the only ones who feel like this. I’ve got contacts who want the Yugos to get what’s coming to them even more than we do. If you want, I’ve got a job for you.”

Mahmud didn’t really understand what Jorge was talking about.

“You earn dough by taking a hit at Radovan’s whore business. A contract. With good pay. And everything you find, you can keep.”

Mahmud still didn’t really follow, asked him to explain further.

Jorge explained. Someone was willing to cough up 300,000 if Mahmud took a hit at the Yugos and the luxury-whore johns.

Three hundred thousand. Shit. Even though business was booming now, that was a lotta cash.

Still: he asked to think about it. Needed to digest everything. Jorge understood that he couldn’t give an answer right away. “Get in touch with me within a week. Or we’ll have to find someone else.”

When they’d walked back into the living room, Mahmud asked, “I still don’t get it. Why do you want
me
to do it?”

Jorge’s response wasn’t very helpful: “Because you’re perfect.” Then he laughed. “Forget it for now. You can think about it, remember?”

They sat down on the couch.

“Stay awhile,” Jorge said. “Listen to some Marley. Take a hit and feel the power. Haile Selassie Jah, as they say around here.”

Mahmud relinquished control for a while. Leaned back. Took four hits on the joint that Jorge’d rolled. A man with a knit Rasta-colored hat was half-lying on a cushion next to them. Accepted the joint from him. Took deep hits.