Easy Money (10 page)

JW fingered the manila envelope in his pocket. Fourteen grams, just to be on the safe side.

Dinner was served at seven-thirty. Beforehand, Sophie and JW played tennis doubles against Nippe and Anna. Seven-five. Six-four. Four-six. Seven-five. Spirits soared among the winners. Nippe was a bad loser, threw his racket on the ground. Anna stayed calm. JW hadn’t really played tennis while growing up and thanked his natural athleticism for his ability to impress—made it look like he’d been playing all his life.

They showered. JW napped for half an hour. Nippe took a shit.

They changed into tuxes. JW had a secondhand Cerruti that he said had cost twelve grand. The actual damage was 2,500. Nippe wondered if JW’d brought some gear. “Seems like you’re reliable these days.”

JW didn’t know if the comment was good or bad. Had he moved too quickly?

He laughed. “Sure, I’ve got some. You want a taste?”

They split thirty milligrams, enough for a mild rush.

The coke hit right away.

They were slammed unexpectedly fast with a fit of giggles.

They walked down the stairs to the cocktail party in the salon. JW felt like the world’s most intelligent human being.

The fourteen other guests waited with champagne glasses in hand. JW scanned the crowd.

The guys: JW, Fredrik, Nippe, Jet Set Carl, Gustaf, and three other dudes.

The girls: Sophie, Anna, Lollo, and five chicks JW hadn’t met before. They were all upper-crust creamers. Girls with good genes. Rich dads equaled hot moms, or the other way around. They knew how to make themselves up. How to apply the right rouge, the best eye shadow, smooth foundation. Above all, they knew how to rock self-tanner for a sun-kissed look. They knew how to dress themselves, how to cover up the flaws: a somewhat saggy belly, a thick waist, too-small breasts, too-flat back. They highlighted their strengths: nice neck, full lips, long legs. Fit, slim girls. Odds were, they all had luxury gym memberships.

Gustaf was selective with his invites. It was an honor to be invited, especially since he’d met the evening’s host only three times before.

Everyone sipped, made small talk, chilled. JW had to try to contain himself; he was soaring. Felt like every word coming out of his mouth was brilliant, like he was the life of this party. Nippe winked at him—you and me, JW, flyin’ in the C sky.

They sat down for dinner.

JW was seated between Anna, whom he often sold to these days, and a girl named Carro. Worked well; both were easy to chat up.

The appetizer was already on the table. JW could see right away that it was not of this world. A piece of toasted bread topped with Kalix roe, sour cream, and finely chopped red onion. The basic idea wasn’t too original, but it was the large glass bowl in the middle of the table that made it so ridiculous—at least eleven pounds of extra roe. An orgy of excess. JW piled at least four hundred kronor’s worth on his plate.

Gunn brought the main course: venison with a sauce of wild chanterelles, and oven-roasted potatoes. JW loved game. They drank a Bordeaux. Anna told him about her parents’ wine cellar. Sorbet with blackberries and raspberries for dessert. JW promised himself: Within ten years, he’d have his own Gunn. Gorgeously good gastronomical miracles.

The mood grew lighter in time with the bottles of wine that Gunn kept bringing. After dessert, Gustaf walked around with a frosty bottle of Grey Goose and poured out brimming shots. The heat intensified.

The girls eyed Jet Set Carl and Nippe. Always Nippe.

JW checked out Sophie.

She didn’t give him the time of day.

The room wasn’t a room. The right word would probably be
salon.
Or maybe
hall.
Huge, incredibly high ceilings, tremendously grand decorating job. Two chandeliers with real candles burning in them were suspended from the ceiling. Two-toned dark red wallpaper with wide stripes. Modernist art on the walls. A few were possibly very valuable.

JW’d gone to the Museum of Modern Art with Sophie that week. He wasn’t exactly a fine-art kind of guy, but Sophie said she liked powerful color combinations and therefore was more a fan of modern art. JW’d read up on what was on display in the museum a couple of days beforehand. He wanted to make an impression. Without realizing it, he’d gotten a feel for a couple of artists. Maybe one of the paintings here was a Kandinsky. An enormous one with three muted fields of color that matched the wallpaper might be a Mark Rothko.

The table was set with style and panache. White linen tablecloth, pressed green linen napkins, and silver napkin holders. Antique coasters for the wine bottles. Gleaming silver cutlery and crystal stemware—only appropriate.

JW ate it all up.

They kept chatting. The guys liked the sound of their own voices. Jet Set Carl bragged, Nippe made lame jokes, and Fredrik spewed business plans. Same old.

Anna told him about her latest trip to Saint Moritz. Reapplied lip gloss between every other sentence. She and a girlfriend’d become friendly with a polo team that traveled down every year to play on the frozen alpine lake. Normally, they were bankers in London; polo was just a little weekend fancy. JW dove right in, told her about his trip to Chamonix last year. Made up most of it, added and exaggerated. The only time he’d been to the Alps for real was on a budget trip during spring break five years ago, when fifteen guys from up north, from Umeå and Robertsfors, had crowded, slept, and farted on a bus for twenty-six hours.

Anna was pretty and nice. But boring. No spark. He listened to her, laughed at her jokes, and asked follow-up questions. She kept talking, seemed to like his company. JW only had thoughts for Sophie.

The dinner rolled on. People were lit but still mellow. Gunn kept serving and clearing the table. Everyone seemed expectant.

Fredrik gave a speech of thanks to the host.

They rose from the table and went into a kind of barroom. Wide couches piled with pillows stood along two walls. A long table was placed in front of each couch. Gunn had put iittala glass candlesticks in four different colors on the table. In one of the corners of the room was a bar, built with classical wood paneling. Behind the bar: martini glasses, highball glasses, tumblers, beer steins, and wineglasses in a built-in glass display case. An insane number of bottles lined up on shelves.

Gustaf positioned himself behind the bar. Hollered that he was the bartender for the night and that it was time to place their orders. Someone put on music. Beyoncé. Badonkadonk beats.

They boozed. Drank apple martinis, G and Ts, beer. Gustaf’s dad had a blender. They made fruity drinks: strawberry daiquiris, piña coladas.

JW drank a beer. Eyed his friends.

Nippe hit on Carro. Jet Set Carl was at the bar, talking to Gustaf. The rest of the guests sat on the couches, chatting.

Music played in the background. JW heard clatter from the dining room as Gunn cleaned up.

He got the feeling that something was off.

Gunn’s sounds were distracting, too audible.

JW understood what was wrong. The barroom lacked volume—no one was dancing, no one laughing, no one hollering. Simple conclusion: It wasn’t much of a party.

He got behind the bar and walked up to Gustaf. Took a sec to listen to what Jet Set Carl was saying before he excused himself. Asked to speak with Gustaf privately. Suggested they talk in another room.

They went back into the dining room, where the table was completely cleared. Gunn was efficient. JW pulled out a chair for Gustaf.

“Gustaf, it’s so damn nice to be invited here tonight. What a fantastic dinner.” JW knew the linguistic ground rules: Swearwords were permitted only in positive contexts. He started his pitch. “I’ve got a totally sick idea. I happened to bring a couple grams of Charlie. I know you’ve tried before. How about taking some? That’ll rev up the party for sure.”

“Yeah, you’re totally right. You got coke? That’s fuckin’ sweet. We’ve gotta have some. What do you want for it?”

Best-possible question. Saved JW the tricky business of asking for money. Gustaf wanted his party to be a rager. Who didn’t? JW could deliver.

“I don’t usually, like, sell and stuff, but right now I’ve got some left over. You want six grams? You can have it for twelve hundred a gram. That’ll last all night, for everyone. The chicks go wild, too; you know that.”

Gustaf bit the bait straight off. He didn’t have cash but promised to pay JW the following week—no problem for JW.

Gustaf positioned himself behind the bar once again. Blazoned out, “There’s a fuckin’ blizzard over here!” JW’d already lent him a snort straw and two mirrors.

Everyone but two guys took a hit, twenty milligrams each.

The party exploded.

The music was jacked up. The girls climbed up on the coffee tables and danced, rolled their hips. Fredrik shouted along to Eric Prydz’s “Call on Me.” Sophie rocked back and forth, Nippe sucked Carro’s face on one of the couches, Gustaf tore his shirt off and jumped to the beat on the other couch, Jet Set Carl dug it all hard. He did the brat dance—pumped one fist in the air in time with the music.

The success of the party was sealed. Their transformation into party animals, total. The two guys who hadn’t snorted the first time tried now. It gave the desired effect. Everyone got down, dug, danced. The music blared. The party spun. Everyone poured stiff drinks. Shouted along to the music, laughed at nothing, danced, bounced without stopping like Energizer bunnies. Felt hot like hell. Superfly. Jet set. Coursing through everyone’s veins: energy, intelligence, hard-ons. Gustaf’s party was the sickest rager. Rock on.

Five hours later, the cocaine ran out. JW was still wrapped up in the rush. He’d been checking Sophie out all night. She couldn’t have cared less about him. He felt deceived.

But Anna came up to him. Said she thought he was really nice, thanked him for their conversation at dinner, and started dancing with him. They got more and more entwined. Half the party’d passed out. The rest’d crashed on the couches, talking or making out.

JW and Anna went up to her room.

It was five-thirty in the morning. JW felt like he could go forever.

They locked the door and sat down on the bed.

Anna giggled. They looked at each other. Got turned on. JW caressed her breasts through her top. She unzipped his fly, pulled out his cock, bent down, and started sucking. Lip gloss on his cock. Groaned. Really tried to hold it, didn’t want to come yet. He pushed himself away and sat up, undressed her instead. Licked her tits. She grabbed hold of his cock again and guided him inside her.

They fucked furiously.

It was way too quick.

He pulled out, came in his hand.

Wiped himself on the sheets.

They lay still, chilled for a moment.

Anna kept talking; wanted to go over the events of the night.

JW didn’t want to talk. Cocaine better than Viagra—after fifteen minutes, he was fit for fight.

Cut the foreplay—just fucked right away.

He came after two minutes, max. Embarrassing.

He felt empty.

Slept like shit.

Mrado’s areas of responsibility within Radovan’s sphere: the coat checks, general racketeering, keeping the lackeys in line. He sometimes helped to set dealers or pimps straight who thought they were Dragan Joksovic, or took care of whores who thought they could make their own decisions. Mostly used Ratko or other guys from the gym as backup.

Mrado had his own business on the side. Import firm. Bought wood from Thailand: teak, ebony, balsa. Sold to fine carpenters, interior designers, and contractors. Smooth sailing. Above all, he needed clean, taxable income.

Mrado’s headaches: Patrik convicted. The ex-skin probably wouldn’t hang anyone, but there was always a risk. Fucking shit luck that the skinhead’d been such a hothead. Even worse: that Mrado’d been stupid enough to bring up his demand for a bigger cut when Rado’d already been pissed. Was a crisis of trust between him and Radovan on the horizon? What’s more: Mrado should find that coke monkey, Jorge. Even more: Mrado’d been given the order from Rado to deal with the so-called Nova Project, the cops and the courts in cahoots on a big-budget crackdown to bring the city’s organized-crime scene to its knees. Finally: Mrado had to see Lovisa, or else he’d explode. Annika, that cunt, was battling him in court. He was preparing to fight for his daughter. Felt like all of society was against him. He had a fucking right to have a good relationship with his kid, just like anyone else.

He was having trouble sleeping. It wasn’t what he had to do or the sheer number of things he had to take care of that made him wake up in the middle of the night; it was thoughts of Lovisa and of a different kind of life that did it. The risk of not being permitted to see her. Thoughts about what he’d do if he stopped doing what he was doing now. Maybe there was another way to live, other businesses where he’d fit in. And still, no. Mrado was who he was. This city needed men like him. The smallest of his current problems was finding a straw man for the video-rental companies. That’s where he’d begin.

He made the rounds at the gym. No one wanted to be a part of it. Not because they had fortunes to lose—at least not any that Big Brother knew of—but because they didn’t want to fold. The boys had big biz dreams. In the end, everyone had to play somewhat by the legal rules. Conclusion: Don’t dirty your record unnecessarily.

Mrado didn’t want to fuck things up. At the same time—if things got messy, someone else’d have to take the hit.

He could call one of his peers: Goran, Nenad, or Stefanovic. All were underlings of the Yugo king, on the same level as Mrado in the hierarchy. Guys with their ears to the ground. But also competitors in the race for Radovan’s favor.

He called Goran.

The guy was Radovan’s smokes and booze importer. A greasy prick. A brownie. If Rado chewed Goran out, he’d lie on his back and wag his legs in the air. Like a bitch. Despite that, the dude was disgustingly good with his gear. Big profits, a turnaround of seventeen million a year.

Smokes and booze import: complicated logistics, administrative mathematics, well-developed transportation and freight methodology. A global enterprise based in Stockholm’s criminal underworld. Cheap booze and chic booze. Via Finland from Russia, the Baltic countries, Poland, and Germany. Repackaged, with the country of origin and mode of production blacked out. Goran knew the business. Had solid connections within the Swedish Transportation Union. Had his eye on the teamsters. Was friendly with the bosses. Knew which ones to bribe. Knew what European smuggle routes to use. Faked freight passes, rigged credible chains of transport, recipients and senders. Stuck with the tough guys. The ones who wanted to make easy money. Who set the bar low. Old-timers who worked full-time without giving a cent to the Man.

Mrado wanted to get at the latter group. A different type from the guys at the gym. Older. Prestige-free. Saw the world through the bottom of a bottle. Were done striving. Had seen better days.

Mrado on the line with Goran. Even made himself believe he liked the guy. In Serbian: “Goran, my friend. It’s me.”

“Mrado, I hear. Since when did we become friends?”

Goran: a dick to everyone and anyone except il Padre, Mr. R. Mrado bit his lip. Let it slide—his mission was more important.

“We work for the same man. We’re countrymen. We’ve gotten shit-faced together. Aren’t we friends? We’re more than friends.”

“You’d do best to remember that we’re not friends, and we’re not family. I’m a businessman. I’ve never really understood what the hell it is you do. Beat the crap out of poor coat-check people. Do you steal their jackets, too?”

“What’re you talkin’ about?”

“Last weekend, I lost my jacket at Café Opera. The faggots in the coat check didn’t have a clue. Someone pointed to it and claimed he’d lost his tag.”

“Shit happens.”

“Is that the kind of shit that happens at your coat checks?”

“No idea.”

“You should check up on that.”

“Goran, it’s not often that I ask for help. And that’s not what I’m doing now, either. I’m going to reward you; that’s not what I call help.”

“Stop speaking in riddles. Something good can come of this talk. I can feel it. My only question is, What? You started this off so nicely. Calling me a friend.”

If it’d been anyone else, Mrado would’ve hung up. Hunted the person down. Ended said person. But first, preferably, snipped off one finger at a time with a ratchet lopper.

“Witty as usual, Goran. I need someone who’s got the DL on the teamsters. A trusty old-timer. If you hook me up with a good contact, I’ll let you in on five percent of the profits.”

“What’ll that be for me per month?”

“Honestly, I don’t really know yet, but it’s a supertight Rado gig I’ve got going. I’m supposed to set up two companies for him. I’d guess we’re talking at least five grand a month and up. Clean.”

“Five thousand and up, for a name? Per month? What hole are you fucking me in, exactly?”

“I’m not fucking you. It’s just really important to me that this works out. That’s why I’m ready to pay.”

“What the hell. Shoot. What can I lose? What exactly do you need?”

Mrado explained without saying too much.

Goran said, “I’ve got a guy. Christer Lindberg. I’ll text you his number. That cool?”

“Sure. Thanks. I’ll call you this week to let you know how it goes. Maybe you’re a good guy after all.”

“ ‘Good’? Good is just my middle name. Remember that.”

Mrado hung up. Wondered if he’d been smart or a total dipshit.