Never Fuck Up: A Novel (9 page)

Twenty-five minutes later, a ways into the first fight, showtime: Stefanovic slid into the seat next to him. They didn’t shake hands, the dude didn’t even turn around. Instead he said, “Glad you could make it.”

Mahmud kept watching the fight. Didn’t know if he should turn to Stefanovic or if they were supposed to take care of the talk on the DL.

“Course. When you guys ask, you come. Right?”

“Usually, yes.”

They sat silently in the din.

Now and then Stefanovic turned to a guy sitting on his other side. Mahmud knew who it was: Ratko. He rolled with another huge Yugo, Mrado, who Mahmud used to hang with before he got locked up. It was damn shifty, those guys always said hi to Mahmud when they ran into each other at the gym, but here they didn’t move a muscle. Normally, Mahmud didn’t tolerate shit like that. But today he needed the Yugos.

Mahmud checked the place out. The Solna sports center: probably four thousand people rubbing elbows in the bleachers. Bodybuilding dudes—he said hi to some of them—young
blattes
with too much juice in their bodies and gel in their hair, combat-sports freaks who loved the smell of blood. Cheaper versions of himself—he loved that he wasn’t sitting up there with them. Ringside, another style ruled. More suits, more glamour, more expensive Cartier watches. Older, calmer, more respectable. Stirred into the mix: twenty-five-year-old honeys with tight, low-cut tops and highlighted hair. Somber bodyguards and underlings. Mahmud hoped he’d be spared running into anyone from Gürhan’s gang.

The spotlights lit up every fighter that entered the ring. On one short side: the fighters’ national flags, size XL, on the wall. On the other: the K-1 logo and the full name of the competition written across a banner:
MASTER
’
S CUP—RUMBLE OF THE BEASTS
. Speakers blared out the guys’ names, their clubs, and nationalities. 50 Cent on max volume between fights. During breaks, babes with fake tits, hot pants, and tight T-shirts with ads on them held up signs with the number of the
next round. Shook their booties as they sashayed around the ring—the crowd howled louder than at a knockout.

The emcee of the night was standing in the ring, his soaring mood cranked up to max: Jon Fagert—full-contact legend, now a suit-clad combat-sports lobbyist.

“Ladies and gentlemen, tonight is the night we’ve all been waiting for. The night when true sportsmanship, tough training, and, above all, bone-hard spirit decide the fights. Our first real title game tonight is within K-1 Max. As you all probably know, the competitors are not allowed to weigh over one hundred and fifty-four pounds within this subclass of K-1. Let me welcome two fighters into the ring who have solid successes behind them. One is the winner of the Dutch Thai Boxing Society’s national tour three years in a row. He’s got nasty speed, feared backward kicks, and famous right jabs. The other is a legendary vale tudo fighter with more than twenty knockouts to his name. Ernesto Fuentes from Club Muay One in Amsterdam against Mark Mikhaleusco from NHB Fighter’s Gym in Bucharest—please welcome them up!”

In the middle of the applause Stefanovic said something straight out into the air, as if he were talking to himself. “That fairy up there, Jon Fagert. He’s a clown. Did you know that?”

Mahmud followed suit—Stefanovic didn’t want the whole arena to see that they were talking, of course. He watched how Ernesto Fuentes and Mark Mikhaleusco stretched one final time before the fight. Then he answered, speaking straight out into the air, “Why?”

“He doesn’t understand who picks up the tab for this whole spectacle. He thinks it’s some kind of charity. But even a player like that’s gotta understand that if you put dough in, you want bread back. Right?”

Mahmud wasn’t really listening, just nodded along.

Stefanovic continued, “We’ve built up this business. You with me? The gym where you work out, Pancrase, HBS Haninge Fighting School, and the other joints. We recruit good people from there. Make sure that guy up there and the other enthusiasts can have their fun. Did you put any money down, by the way?”

The discussion was weird. They could’ve been buzzing about anything. Stefanovic had his poker face on. The entire time: ice cold.

Mahmud responded: “No, who’s hottest?”

“The Dutch guy, I put forty G’s on the Dutch guy. He’s got dynamite in his fists.”

The audience was taut, like thousands of rubber bands ready to snap. The fight began.

Mahmud wasn’t completely green. He watched fights on Eurosport sometimes. Regular sports didn’t interest him; he didn’t get anything out of it. But watching the fights on TV gave him an adrenaline rush.

The Romanian had blinding technique, speed, timing, and footwork. Sick round kicks and jump kicks à la Bruce Lee. Punch sequences fast, like Keanu Reeves in
The Matrix
. World-class blocking. No doubt about it—Stefanovic was gonna lose his dough.

The Romanian maintained the upper hand through the end of the first round.

The music switched on: gangsta rap on max. The trainers dabbed the fighters’ faces. Rubbed Vaseline on them so the punches would slide off easier. A chick swung her cheeks diagonally across the ring. Held up a sign with the number 2 on it.

The gong sounded. The fighters stepped back into the ring. Sized each other up for a few seconds. Then all hell broke loose. The Romanian continued to impress. Landed a perfect round kick to Fuentes’s head. The guy sank to his knees. The judge counted off.

One, two.

The audience roared.

The Dutch man’s saliva: like a spider’s thread from his mouth down to the floor.

Three, four.

Mahmud’d seen a lot of fights in his life. But this—perfection.

Five, six.

Fuentes stood up. Slowly.

The audience howled.

A few seconds left of the second round. The punches echoed. The Romanian tried to get three punches in. The Dutch guy lowered his chin, raised both gloves in front of his face. Successful block.

Mahmud glanced at Stefanovic. The Yugo’s face was rigid like a rock. No sign of panic about the forty G’s that were about to be flushed down the toilet.

The third round began.

Something’d happened. It was like the Romanian was kicking in slow motion. Looked tired. But Mahmud was watching from closer up
than most—the guy wasn’t even out of breath. This had to be rigged. Was that really possible? Massive advantage two minutes ago, and now it looked like he was the one who’d almost been down for the count. Someone ought to react.

Slowly but surely, Fuentes took over the fight. Heavy punches, low kicks, and rapid kicks to the head. The Romanian fought like a girl. Retreated ringside at every advance. Waved his arms in front of his face without even touching the Dutch man on the nose.

It was stupid. Felt like an American WWE fight. Fake.

The rounds passed by one by one. The dudes in the ring grew more tired.

Mahmud almost laughed. Even if it was a rigged fight, Stefanovic was gonna get rich—and his boss, R., would probably get even richer.

The gong sounded. The fight was over. The Romanian was barely standing. The judge grabbed hold of their gloves.

Raised Ernesto Fuentes’s arm.

For the first time, Stefanovic turned to Mahmud. A smile barely flickered across his lips—but his eyes glowed like embers.

“Okay, soon we’ll talk business. The next fight is going to be huge. I promise, they’re giants, he-men. It’s what everyone’s here to see. The audience is going to be in ecstasy. Deafening support for the Swedish guy. That’s when we’ll talk. When everyone’s attention is directed at the ring and no one can hear us. You follow?”

Mahmud followed. Soon, he’d get his chance. If only the Gürhan fag knew. Mahmud was about to cut a deal with the Yugos.

A half hour later: it was time again. Mahmud was in his seat, waiting. During the intermission, he’d walked around. Said hi to people he knew, buzzed with the guys from the gym. People were happy to see him out. “Welcome back, Twiggy. Now it’s time to get cracking and bulk up again.” They were right—the slammer was no place to work out. It should be perfect: lots of time, no booze, no unhealthy food. But you couldn’t sneak any juice in there, you couldn’t even buy dietary supplements in the prison commissary. Plus: the gym at Asptuna sucked. But the biggest difference was that it just wasn’t the same thing on the inside. The pen sucked you dry. Mahmud’d lost forty-four pounds.

The Yugos were the right move for him. He wanted up—was
going
up.
Six months in the pen couldn’t stop him. Not a chance he’d let himself get benched. And anyone who wanted up knew one thing: sooner or later you have to deal with R., so you might as well do it on sweet terms. Play on the same team as the Yugo boss. Mahmud: the Arab they couldn’t gyp, the man who went his own way. This was
soooo
right. He just wondered what it was they wanted him to do.

Radovan came walking down a set of stairs. Trailed by a posse. Mahmud recognized a few of them: Stefanovic, of course. Goran: known as the city’s booze and smokes smuggling king. The Ratko dude. A couple other beefy guys he recognized from the gym. A trail of skanks.

Stefanovic sat down next to Mahmud again.

Jon Fagert stepped into the ring. Looked out over the sea of people. Silence settled.

“Honored guests. Today is a big day. One of the two men who are soon going to go head to head in the ring will advance. Not just to anything. Not to yet another championship fight in their individual genre. No, on to something much bigger. To the ultimate championship for the sport of sports. What I’m taking about, of course, is the K-1 championship in the Tokyo Dome in December, where more than one hundred thousand people will be in the audience. First prize is over five hundred thousand dollars. One man will advance tonight. One man is strong enough. One man has the best fighting spirit. Soon, we’ll know which one.”

Smoke billowed out beside two entrances to the ring.

One silhouette appeared at each end.

The music played “Also Sprach Zarathustra” from the movie
2001: A Space Odyssey
.

Fagert raised the volume: “Ladies and gentleman, I have the honor of introducing two giants. From Belarus, straight from Minsk’s Chinuks Gym, we have the former Spetsnaz soldier with more than twenty K-1 championships to his name. The man with the iron fists, the beast, the death machine, the legend: Vitali Akhramenko.”

The audience roared.

One of the silhouettes moved forward. Took a step out from the smoky fog. The spotlights followed his heavy steps. The feeling: like a god who made an entrance in the valley of death.

He was the biggest human being Mahmud’d ever seen, and Mahmud worked out at Fitness Center. Over seven feet tall. Defined muscles
like on a comic-book figure. Chest wide as a sumo wrestler. Biceps broader than Mahmud’s thighs.

Jon Fagert continued, making himself heard over the music: “And in the other corner we have a Swedish super fighter, straight from HBS Haninge Fighting School with over ten knockouts to his name. The powerhouse, the tank, the fighting god, our very own Jörgen Ståhl.”

The atmosphere felt like a heavy-metal concert. The music pounded. The spotlights played. Jon Fagert’s eyes flashed. The little punks in the bleachers were in ecstasy.

Jörgen Ståhl advanced slowly. Allowed the cheering to build gradually. Dressed in a cape with the HBS logo on the back. Black tribal tattoos covered almost his entire upper body. On one forearm in black inked letters:
Ståhl Is King.
Mahmud thought about Gürhan’s tattoo.

Stefanovic opened his mouth, kept his eyes on the ring.

“People are crazed. A couple punches and some blood and those kids up in the bleachers think it’s a world war. They know nothing. Did you bet, by the way?”

“Didn’t bet last time, didn’t bet this time. But it seems like you cashed in.”

“That’s right. This time, I’ve put in one hundred large. On the Belarusian. He’s an animal, I swear. This could be epic. What do you think?”

Mahmud thought, Is Stefanovic trying to make me insecure? He’s ending every sentence with a stupid question.

“I don’t really think nothing about it. You seem to know what you’re doing.”

“Listen, the Belarusian is a three-hundred-pound old man, but he’s got the technique of a two-hundred-pound kid. And speed isn’t the only thing deciding this—timing is even more important. You’ll see. He’s going to let all hell break loose on that Swede. Course, we’ve got a hunch about it, too.”

Mahmud wondered when Stefanovic was gonna get to the point.

The fight began up in the ring. Akhramenko tried to land a left uppercut on Ståhl. The Swede blocked good. This was like heavyweight boxing but with low kicks to the legs.

“Mahmud, we trust you. Do you know what that means?”

Yet another question. Might be the beginning of the real talk they were supposed to have.

“You can trust me. Even if I hung out with Mrado, I know he made
some trouble for you guys. And even if I’m not a Serb. You use Arabs. Our people don’t have anything against each other here.”

“That’s right. Maybe you already know one of them, Abdulkarim. He’s out of the game right now, but you can’t find a better man. Are you like him?”

“Like I said, you can trust me.”

“That’s not enough. We need men who are one hundred and fifty percent loyal. It happens that we bet on the wrong fighters, so to speak.”

Mahmud knew what he was talking about—everyone knew. Lately there’d been a lot of shit going down in Stockholm’s underworld. That kind of thing happened: someone thought they’d be the new king of the hill, someone wanted to challenge the boys at the top, someone’s honor got stepped on. There were plenty of examples. The war between the Albanians and the Original Gangsters, the shoot-out in the Västberga cold-storage facility between different factions within the Yugo mafia, the executions in Vällingby last month.

Up in the ring, Ståhl was landing a series of kicks to Akhramenko’s calves and quick alternating punches to his head. Maybe the Sven was gonna take it home after all.

Stefanovic continued, “You could be our man. To see if you make the cut, I’d like to ask you for a little favor. Listen carefully.”