Never Fuck Up: A Novel (6 page)

He hesitated before answering. Wasn’t Stefanovic gonna say anything else?

Finally he said, “I recognize your name. Do you work for you-know-who?”

“I guess you could say that. We’d really like to meet you. We think you can help us with something important. You’re well connected. And you’re good at what you did earlier.”

Mahmud interrupted him.

“I’ve got no plans on rebounding. Just so you know.”

“Calm down. We don’t want you to do anything that you could get sent back in for. Not at all. This is something completely different.”

One thing was certain: this wasn’t some normal job. On the other hand: sounded like easy money.

“Okay. Tell me more.”

“Not now. Not on the phone. This is what we’ll do. We’ve put a ticket for Sunday in your mailbox. Get there by six and we’ll explain then. See you.”

The Yugo hung up.

Mahmud walked down the stairs into the subway. Took the escalator to the platform.

He thought, Fuck no, I don’t wanna get sent back in. Low odds: the Yugos were gonna trick him into doing something stupid. But it could never hurt a pro
blatte
like Mahmud to meet with them. See what they wanted. How much they’d fork over.

And more importantly: becoming the Yugos’ made man could be a way out of the shit he’d ended up in with Gürhan. He felt his mood lift. This could be the beginning of something.

Things didn’t end up the way Niklas’d planned. One day after he moved into the new apartment, Mom came over. Asked to spend the night.

The whole point of the move was that they wouldn’t get on each other’s nerves, step too far into each other’s territory, disturb each other’s routines. But he couldn’t say no. She was scared, really scared. Had every right. She had called him on his cell while she was at work.

“Hi Niklas, is that you?”

“Course it’s me, Mom, you’re calling my number.”

“Yes, but I haven’t really learned it yet. It’s so good that you’re home in Sweden now. Something terrible happened.”

Niklas could tell by her voice that it was something out of the ordinary.

“What?”

“The police found a murdered person in our building. It’s so horrible. A dead person has been lying in our basement all night.”

Niklas froze. His thoughts sharpened. At the same time: they turned upside down. This was not good.

“That sounds totally crazy, Mom. What’re they saying?”

“Who? The neighbors?”

“No, the police.”

“They’re not saying anything. I was standing outside half the night, freezing. We all did. Berit Vasquéz was totally broken up.”

“Damn, that’s terrible. But did you speak more with the police?”

“I’m going in for questioning after work today. But I’m afraid to sleep at home alone tonight. Can I stay with you?”

Not at all what he’d planned. This wasn’t good.

“Of course. I’ll sleep on a mattress or a bedroll. Why did you go to work today? You should call in sick for a few days.”

“No, I can’t. And I want to get out of the house, too. It feels good to be at work.”

A question in Niklas’s head. He had to ask her.

“Do they know who the murdered person was?”

“The police didn’t say anything about it. I don’t know, anyway. They haven’t said anything. Can I come after work?”

He said that was fine. Explained how to get there. Sighed inside.

Niklas put on his shorts and T-shirt: the DynCorp logo in black across the chest. He loved his gear. The runner’s socks with no seams to avoid blisters and with a drawstring on the side to hold them up. The shoes: Mizuno Wave Nirvana—nerdy name, but the best shoes the runner’s store carried.

The first thing he’d done since he’d come home—and one of the few times he’d traveled any distance from the apartment—was to buy the shoes and the rest of the running stuff. He ran on the treadmill in the store, discussed weight and width, the affect of overpronation on his step and the arch support. A lot of people thought running was a nice sport because it was simple, cheap, no unnecessary gadgets. Not for Niklas: the gadgets made it more fun. The socks, the shorts with the extra slits to avoid chafing on the leg, the heart monitor, and, of course, the shoes. More than fifteen hundred kronor. Worth every cent. He’d already been running more than ten times since he got back. He used to run down there too sometimes, but a limited amount. If you happened to go a few yards down the wrong street, it could end in tragedy. Two British guys from his troop: found with their throats slit. Shoes stolen. Socks still warm on their feet.

He was standing in front of the mirror strapping the heart monitor around his chest. Checked himself out. Fit. Newly sheared crew cut—you could hardly see how blond he really was. But his blue eyes gave him away. Glimpses of another face in the mirror: black streaks smeared under his eyes, greasy hair, steel gaze. Armed for battle.

He put the heart-rate-monitor watch on last. Set it to zero. It gave him the feeling of intensity, the right tempo. And best of all, it gave instant feedback on his training.

He stepped out. Jogged down the stairs. Opened the door. A nice day.

Running: His method of control over loneliness. His medicine. His relaxation in the midst of the confusion over being home again.

He started slow. Felt a mild ache in his thighs from the last run, in
Örnsberg. He ran out toward the Aspudden school. A big, yellow brick building with a flagpole in the schoolyard. A lower wooden building nearby, maybe an after-school center or an elementary-school classroom. He ran past. The trees were sprouting crisp leaves. Nothing was as beautiful as the foliage. He was happy to be home again.

The hill sloped steeper. Down toward what looked like a valley. On the other side: a hill with a wood. At the bottom of the valley was an allotment-garden area—every tenant mommy’s big dream: to get her hands on a plot like that. Little cottages, water hoses, and flower beds where things’d really started to grow. The greenery in Sweden was so green.

He couldn’t stop himself from analyzing the terrain. Saw it as the FEBA—front edge of battle area. An amphitheater. Perfect for an ambush, an unexpected attack from both sides against an advancing enemy or an enemy convoy at the bottom of the valley. First out: AH-64 Apache helicopters—30-millimeter M230 rotary cannons, a rate of fire of over two thousand rounds a minute. Mow down the trucks and the jeeps. Crush them. Force them to stop. Then bombard them with the helos’ Hellfire missiles. After that, the grenade people in the hills would do their bit with 20-millimeter ammunition. Last but not least: the infantry would make sure the jeeps were torched good, spread blankets of fire against any enemy combatants that were still putting up resistance, make sure no militiamen excaped, BBQ the hajis. Deal with the remains. The wreckage. The prisoners.

That’s how it was done. The situation was perfect. In the middle of the allotment gardens. He almost longed to be back.

He kept running, toward the hill on the other side. Kept visualizing war scenes. Different images. Bloody people. Burned faces. Blown-up body parts. Men in torn, half-military uniforms screaming in Arabic. Their leaders with guns in their hands and emblems on their shoulder straps, roaring:
“Imshi!”
—charge!

Crawling soldiers. Wounded people. Smoldering bodies.

Everywhere.

In panic.

Distorted faces. Gaping wounds. Empty eyes.

Shit.

He ran. Down toward the water.

The branches arched over the trail like a roof. He continued on toward a residential area.

Felt the fatigue wash over him. Checked his watch. He’d been
running for twenty-one minutes. Memorized the time: halfway. Time to turn back. Steady breathing. Could he handle the allotment gardens one more time?

He thought, How am I doing, really? The time at DynCorp marked its men, he knew that. There were plenty of stories about guys who hadn’t been able to handle the safe existence in their home countries.

Max 650 feet left to the building’s entrance. He slowed down. Walked the last bit. Let his blood sugar settle. His breathing slow. He loved his gadgets. Material that breathed—his shirt was hardly even wet from sweat.

The sky was a clear blue. The leaves in the flower beds lining the street were a clear green.

That’s when he saw it. On top of an electrical cabinet.

Dammit.

He didn’t know they had those running around outside in Sweden.

Over there, the place was overrun with them. But that was different—there, he was dressed in Kevlar-reinforced camo pants tucked into high, hard military boots. Equipped with weapons—if they came too close, he showed no mercy. Let their little brain substance speckle the gravel. That almost made it okay.

But now.

The rat stared.

Niklas remained still.

No boots—low Mizuno running shoes.

No reinforced pants tucked in—just shorts.

No gun.

It remained still. As big as a cat, he thought.

The panic started creeping up on him.

Someone moved inside the entrance to the building.

The rat reacted. Jumped off the electrical cabinet.

Disappeared along the side of the building.

Niklas opened the door and stepped into the entranceway. Inside, a girl was throwing out trash. Maybe twenty-five years old, long, dark hair, coal-black eyebrows, brown eyes. Pretty. Maybe she was a haji, what the Americans called the civilians down there.

He started walking up the stairs. Sweaty. But it didn’t feel like it was from the run. More from the rat shock.

The girl followed. He fumbled with his keys.

She stood outside her door, on the same landing. Checked him out. Opened the door.

Dressed in sweat pants, a big sweatshirt, and flip-flops.

Then he realized—she was his neighbor. He should say hi, even if he didn’t know how long he’d be living here.

“Hi, maybe I should introduce myself,” he said.

Without really having the time to realize it himself, he heard his own voice say,
“Salaam alaikum. Keif halek?”

Her face broke into a completely different expression—a broad, surprised smile. At the same time, she looked down at the floor. He recognized the behavior. Over there, a woman never looked a man in the eye, except the whores.

“Do you speak Arabic?” she asked.

“Yeah, a little. I can be neighborly, anyway.”

They laughed.

“Nice to meet you. My name is Jamila. I guess I’ll see you around. In the laundry room or something.”

Niklas introduced himself. Said, “See you later.” Then she disappeared into her place.

Niklas kept standing outside his door.

Happy, somehow. Despite the rat he’d seen down there.

In the kitchen, four hours later: him and Mom. Niklas was drinking Coca-Cola. She’d brought a bottle of wine. On the table: a bag with almond cookies that she’d picked up too. She knew Niklas loved those particular cookies. The dry, sweet taste when the cookie got stuck in the roof of your mouth. Nursing-home cookies, Mom called them. He laughed.

The apartment was sparely furnished. There was a worn wooden table in the kitchen. Covered with round stains from warm mugs. Four wooden chairs—extremely uncomfortable. Niklas’d hung a T-shirt over the back of Mom’s chair to make it a little softer.

“So, tell me. What really happened?”

It was like pushing a button. Mom leaned over the table as if she wanted him to hear better. It poured out of her. Disjointed and emotional. Hazy and horrified.

She told him how a neighbor’d woken her up. The neighbor said something’d happened in the basement. Then the police showed up.
Told everyone, “No need to worry.” They asked strange questions. The neighbors were standing outside, on the street. Talking in low, frightened voices. The police cordoned off the area. Sirens on the street. Armed policemen in motion. They took pictures of the stairwell, the basement, outside. Asked her to produce identification. Wrote down her telephone number. Later, she saw a wrapped human body being rolled out from the basement on a stretcher.

She slurped wine between words. Her head hung over the glass. Her poor posture was apparent even when she sat down.

And then, today, they’d brought her in for questioning. They’d asked all kinds of things. If she had any idea who the dead person could be. Why a murdered man was found in her apartment building. If she’d heard anything, seen anything. If any of the neighbors’d been acting strange lately.

“Was it scary?”

“Very. Just imagine. Being interrogated by the police as if you were involved in a murder, or something. They asked over and over again if I knew who it could be. Why would I know that?”

“So they don’t know who it is?”

“I have no idea, but I don’t think so. If they did, they wouldn’t have asked so many times, right? It’s so terrible. How can they not know? The police don’t do any good these days.”

“Did you see the dead guy?”

“Yes. Or, no, actually. I saw something that could have been a face, but it’d been covered up so much. I don’t know. I think it was a man.”

“Mom, there’s something I need to ask of you. It might sound strange, but I really want you to think about this. You know, considering my background it would be best if—”