Easy Money (11 page)

Fall was coming. Jorge’d managed to get a bed at a homeless shelter fourteen out of the past twenty-four nights. Bought personal identification digits from a junkie in the Sollentuna Mall for three grand. Good till the end of the month. The shelters sent their invoices to the junkie’s social welfare officer. The mainliner lost his welfare check—he wanted cash for heroine/amphetamine instead.

Jorge didn’t get why there were mostly Svens at the shelters, when he knew immigrants were the real dirt-poor suckers—
blattes
with
nada.
Did the blizzardheads have no pride?

Life in the shelter was sweet. Well-cooked meals were included for breakfast and dinner. Jorge watched TV. Read newspapers. They weren’t writing shit about his escape.

Chatted a little with the others. Kept it bare bones.

He tried to do push-ups, sit-ups, or jump rope when no one was around. He couldn’t run; his foot was still busted from the jump off the wall.

It wasn’t working in the long run. Couldn’t keep his hair curly without people wondering. Couldn’t smear himself with self-tanner without them looking. There was the risk that one of the bums would recognize him. What’s more: After fourteen days, the shelter started charging five hundred kronor a night instead of two hundred. There was no fairness in this world. The junkie’s money could run out. The Social Service rep could get suspicious.

He hadn’t been able to pay his cousin, Sergio, or his screw fixer, Walter, back. Shameful.

Everything sucked.

Gray, frightened thoughts. Psychological low point.

Zero ability to run. Shitty stamina. Physical low point.

This wasn’t what he’d gone AWOL for.

He had to score money.

Out one month. Not bad, if you thought about it. Better than many others. But no big success. What’d he been expecting? That plastic surgery, a passport, and a field of clover’d just materialize, for free? That he’d find a few pounds of blow under his pillow at the Night Owl homeless shelter? That his sister’d call and tell him she’d bought tickets to Barcelona and borrowed her BF’s passport? Fat chance.

Sergio’d taken a lot of risks. Jorge hadn’t heard from him since the day before he left Eddie’s. Didn’t dare get in touch with him. His bad conscience burned. He should pay Sergio back. But what could he do?

What the FUCK could he do?

He didn’t think the cops had a red alert out on him. In their eyes, he was a harmless small-time druggie. Armored-car robbers, rapists, and other violent criminals were much higher up on their list. That was his luck: He hadn’t used any violence during the break. Still: Life on the lam was no cakewalk. Cash was the solution.

The thought of Radovan. The ace up his sleeve.

He didn’t want to use it. Had been lying at night in the shelters, thinking. Tossed. Turned. Sweated. Reminded him of the nights before the break. But worse, somehow. Then, it could either fly or not fly at all. Now, it could either get fucked up or even more fucked up. Still, he had hope. Maybe it’d work.

The idea: Jorge’d worked for Radovan’s organization. Knew stuff they didn’t want leaked. Above all, they didn’t know exactly how much he knew. He could scare them. Had learned the game on the inside; snitches are bitches and silence is golden. The Yugos should be willing to cough it up.

R. was difficult to get in touch with. No one could or wanted to disclose his home or cell number.

Impossible to reach the Yugo boss.

Radovan’s underling, the rat who’d wrapped him in his witness testimony, Mrado, would work fine. Jorge tracked him down instead.

He finally got Mrado’s cell phone number from an old dealer in Märsta. Mrado wasn’t Radovan, but he was as close as Jorge was gonna get. It’d have to do.

He made the call from a pay phone near Östermalmstorg’s subway station.

His fingers shook as he dialed.

He immediately recognized Mrado’s voice. Deep. Dangerous. Damning.

Almost shat a brick. Straightened up. “Yo, Mrado. It’s Jorge. Jorge Salinas Barrio.”

Silence for a short moment. Mrado cleared his throat. “Jorge. Nice to hear your voice. How’s life on the outside?”

“Cut the crap. You guys fucked me two years ago. The game you pulled at the trial was bullshit. Still, I’m willing to make a deal now.”

“Wow, talk about cutting to the chase. What’s this deal about?”

Jorge didn’t let himself get provoked. “You know what it’s about, Mrado. I had your back, yours and Radovan’s both. And you let me sink. Fucking deep. You owe me.”

“Ah, I see.” Mrado sounded sarcastic. “I guess we’d better see to it that you’re happy right away.”

“Sure, you can choose to fuck me. But I’ll talk, fast. You know I know too much about Radovan’s business. I got slammed with three fuckin’ years for your sake.”

“Easy, Jorge. If you hurt us, we’ll make sure you’re sent right back to where you came from. But a little deal isn’t a bad idea. What’d you have in mind?”

“Simple. Radovan gets me a passport and a hundred G’s, cash. I’ll jump ship and you’ll never hear from me again.”

“I’ll convey your request to Radovan. But I don’t think he’s gonna like it. Blackmail isn’t his thing. Nothing he lets himself get subjected to. How can I reach you?”

“You think I’m a fuckin’ idiot? I’ll call you on this number in ten days. If he’s not in on my deal by then, I’ll fuck him up.”

“It’s lucky for you Radovan didn’t hear that. Call me in two weeks. Good passports can’t just be bought on the street.”

“No, ten days. Can’t you fuckin’ order passports from Thailand, or somethin’? And yo, one more thing. If anythin’ happens to me, some accident or somethin’, you catch my drift, what I know’ll leak on the spot.”

“I follow. Make it two weeks.”

Mrado hung up. Fucking chesty Yugo fuck. Jorge was the one setting the rules, wasn’t he? But now all he could do was accept. Two weeks. That was still better than expected—could be kale at the end of this. Was he back on track?

Jorge kept standing where he was. People kept streaming past.

Jorge-boy: the world’s loneliest homeboy.
Solo y abandonado.

Jorge’d been thinking about a possibility—seemed served on a plate. Svens shut up their summer homes during the off-season. New housing market for him. Maybe that would at least solve one problem.

He was screwed when it came to cash. Had one G left of the five Sergio’d given him.

His expenses had been too big so far. A total of three thousand kronor for the shelter. Every session at the tanning booth: sixty-five kronor. Vending machine grub for lunch. A new pair of pants, gloves, two T-shirts, a knit sweater, underwear, socks, and a winter jacket from a thrift store: 450 kronor. In preparation for a cold autumn.

He took a last trip to the tanning bed. He was dark now. Had nailed the walk. The right rhythm. Now he wanted to get away for a while. Wait for Radovan’s answer.

He took the subway to the Royal Technical Academy station. Didn’t really know where he was going. Just that he wanted to head north. Somewhere deserted. He nixed the express bus to Norrtälje. Got on bus number 620 instead, also headed north to Norrtälje, but with a more roundabout route.

He dozed.

The bus drove past Åkersberga. There were hicks on the bus. A lady with two wiener dogs stared at him.

He got off at a stop that looked nice, called Wira Bruk. The plastic bag with his clothes in it was twisted around his wrist. He let it get tangled.

Not his kind of turf. Jorge’d been to the country once in his life, on a school field trip when he was thirteen. Ended with his being sent home. You weren’t allowed to set the forest on fire.

To his right was a stone church. The clock tower stood separately, built of gray wood. A couple of gravestones in the grass around the main building. To the left, the land slanted upward. To the woods. One road kept going straight, and one took off to the left. Fields farther up. The crops had been harvested.

The sky was gray.

He started walking.

Toward the fork in the road. Looked down the road that veered to the left. A couple of houses and parked cars. He walked closer. Saw a sign:
WIRA BRUK—OLD HOMESTEAD MUSEUM
. He walked across the parking lot. Nine cars total. Toyed with the thought of boosting one, then scrapped it. Walked down toward the houses.

A stream to his left. Picturesque. A little bridge. Leafy trees. Gravel road. Red kiosk. Seemed boarded up for the fall, but they’d forgotten the ice-cream cardboard cutout outside. Farther down, three larger houses. A gravel square between them. Signs on the houses. An old school. An old parish hall. An old county sheriff’s house. A middle-aged couple entered the school. He was seriously off. There were no vacation homes here. It was a fucking museum.

Out on the main road again.

He kept walking. For fifteen minutes. No houses in sight.

Fifteen more minutes.

Saw houses farther up between the trees.

Got closer.

The first seemed lived in. There was a Volvo V70 parked outside.

He went on to the next one. Woods all around.

Jorge wondered if it’d been the right move to come up here. Unknown territory. Away game. Simple fact about J-boy: He wasn’t exactly the type who’d been raised a Boy Scout, field biologist, or explorer. Limited exposure to a world without asphalt and McDonald’s.

The house was about three hundred yards farther up. Couldn’t be seen from the first house. No car parked outside. It was big. Two glassed-in porches. Faded red paint. White trim. Green paint around the windows. The bottom porch was hardly visible behind all the wild trees and bushes. Jorge walked up the path. The gravel crunched. The door to the house faced the yard, at the back of the house if you stood on the road. Perfect. Looked in through all the windows. No one home. Knocked on the door. No answer. Yelled “Hello.” No one came out. Walked back out on the road. No other people or houses in sight. Went back. Tried to locate an alarm system.
Nada.
Put his gloves on. Broke a window. Carefully reached his hand in. Didn’t want to cut himself. Unhooked the window latch. No problem. Opened the window. Pulled himself up. Jumped in.

Listened. No alarm. He yelled again. No answer.
Qué lindo.

After two days in the house, he felt right at home.

He made a room with a window facing the hedge his bedroom. Avoided the other windows. Cleaned all the grub out of the cupboards. Found pasta, rice, canned goods, beer, herring. Old condiments. No favorite foods, but it’d have to do.

During the day, he did push-ups and jumped rope on one foot. More training: sit-ups, back exercises, stretching. Wanted to stay in shape. Make up for what he’d missed during the time in the shelters.

Nervous. Ears perked. He listened for the sound of cars. Crunching on the gravel. Voices outside. He took an old beer can and put it on the handle of the front door—if someone came, it’d fall on the floor and make enough noise to wake him up.

It was peaceful. Tranquil. Quiet. Damn dull.

He was supposed to call Mrado in ten days.

He couldn’t sleep that night, his thoughts distracted. What would he do if Radovan refused to give up? How would he make cash? Maybe he’d have to be in touch with someone in the C business after all. Flip a few grams. Deal for dosh. Back to the old routine.

What’d happened to Sergio? Eddie? His sister? His mama? He should really give them a call. Show he cared.

He thought about Sångvägen, the street where he’d grown up. His first pair of soccer cleats. The grass field down by Frihetsvägen. The hangout room in Tureberg’s School. The basement of his house. His first joint.

Man, he wanted one.

Got up. Looked out the window. The sky was starting to glow. Fog rose off the ground. Sappy flick. Cue the music. Dig the paradox: him, Jorge, progeny of the asphalt jungle, sucking up the bumpkin paradise and enjoying it. It was so beautiful outside.

In that moment, he didn’t give a shit if anyone saw him.

JW was soon a real hot ticket. The rings spread on the water after the party at Lövhälla Manor. The talk about the rager went on for weeks: how crazy Nippe’d been, how funny Jet Set Carl’d looked when he’d run riot, the killer jokes Lollo’d made, how randy Nippe was all the time. The gossip exaggerated the drinking, the dancing, the scandals, and the rush, to JW’s advantage.

He made good money in the weeks that followed. Abdulkarim loved him. He painted their brilliant plans for the future, fantasized—they were going to own this town. JW didn’t know if he should take Abdul seriously or if he was kidding around. The Arab talked so damn much.

JW stopped driving the gypsy cab, let another guy take over. Checked with Abdulkarim first. It was cool with the Arab.

JW saw himself with new eyes: business baron, blow bringer, bitch banger—got three girls home in two weeks. A personal record. He felt like a mini Nippe.

During the days, he went berserk in the boutiques. Two new pairs of shoes to call his own: Gucci loafers with the gold buckle, and Helmut Lang boots for the winter. He bought a suit, Acne design with visible seams at the cuffs. It was hip, possibly too hipster. Maybe not the correct, strict style. He gorged himself on new shirts with double cuffs: Stenströms, Hugo Boss, Pal Zileri. Bought new jeans, pants, socks, belts, tank tops, and cuff links. The best buy of all was a cashmere coat from Dior, for the winter. The price was twelve thousand kronor. Expensive, sure, but it costs to be on top. He hung it in front of his bed so it’d be the first thing he saw when he woke up in the morning. Coat for a king.

JW loved every minute. He didn’t save a cent.

As for the Ferrari, he kept repeating to himself: There’d been two cars like it in Sweden that year. It shouldn’t be impossible to find someone with a connection to them, someone who’d known Camilla or at least knew more than the police. Peter Holbeck, the owner of one of the cars, had hardly used his. Anyway, it didn’t seem likely that Camilla would’ve had anything to do with the guy; the dude was never in Sweden. That left the leasing company, Dolphin Finance, Ltd. The company’d filed for bankruptcy a year ago—that was obviously shady.

JW looked up info about the company with the National Registry of Incorporated Companies. It was bought as a shelf company, Grundstenen, Ltd., but had immediately changed its name to Leasing Finance, Ltd. Six months later, it changed its name to the Finance ER of Stockholm, Ltd. A year later, it changed its name again, this time to Dolphin Finance, Ltd. Three name changes in less than three years. The fish stink was unmistakable. The same person’d been on the board ever since the storage company’s buyout, a certain Lennart Nilsson, born March 14, 1954. JW looked the man up with the Civil Population Registry.

Lennart Nilsson was dead.

JW ordered a copy of the documents connected with the bankruptcy case.

Peculiar information: Lennart Nilsson was a known user from Nacka and had died of cirrhosis. According to the compulsory information the administrator of the bankrupt estate was obligated to supply in case of eventual falsifications, the man was probably a cover, a so-called front man.

JW’d reached a dead end. The Ferrari was leased by a company that’d gone under and whose only physical representative had passed away. How would he proceed now?

The only thing he could think of was to get in touch with the administrator of the bankrupt estate personally. He called, got a secretary on the line, and asked to speak with the lawyer. According to the secretary, there were tons of hurdles. Every time JW called, she said, “Can you call back? Unfortunately, he is in a meeting at the moment.” JW asked her to tell the lawyer to call him. He thought that should be enough. The lawyer jerk never called back. JW had to keep at it. Took over a week to reach him.

Finally, they were able to talk. A real anticlimax for JW. The lawyer/administrator didn’t have any more information than what was written in the documents he’d ordered. The company hadn’t kept any books, had no employees, and there were very sparse annual financial reports. The accountant wasn’t in the country, and it wasn’t clear who owned the stocks.

All the leads to the Ferrari ended in a bankruptcy that seemed Criminal with a capital
C.
It was blatantly obvious that something wasn’t right, but JW’d stopped thinking about the car for a few days. There wasn’t much more he could do.

He tried to let it go.

Didn’t work. He couldn’t escape his thoughts. His sister was missing and there had to be a way to learn more.

Four years ago, a policeman had told JW’s family the odds: “Normally, the unfortunate fact is that if we don’t find a missing person within a week, the person is most likely dead. The risk of that is nine out of ten.” The police kept explaining, “Most often, the person hasn’t been the victim of a violent crime. As a rule, there are accidents, like drowning, heart attacks, unfortunate falls. The body is usually found. On the other hand, if it isn’t, it can be a sign that other circumstances brought about the death.”

Memories of the conversation with the police gave JW ideas. He knew Camilla’d last been heard from on the night of April 21 of the year she went missing. At the time, she called a friend, Susanne Pettersson, who was also the only known acquaintance of Camilla’s that the police’d been able to dig up in Stockholm. She’d told the police she didn’t know anything. Her only connection to Camilla’d been that they studied together at Komvux, a continuing-education center. Maybe that’s why he hadn’t given her more thought before.

In JW’s opinion, the police couldn’t have done a particularly thorough job; they must’ve seen the pictures of Camilla in the Ferrari. Still, it wasn’t mentioned in the reports JW’s family’d been shown. They could’ve missed other things, too.

JW grasped desperately at the poor odds—one in ten missing people wasn’t dead.

Maybe Camilla was still alive.

He had to know more; he felt he owed it to his sister. A week after he heard about the dead board member of Dolphin Finance, Ltd., he called Susanne Pettersson. They talked for a bit. She’d never completed her studies, never gotten her GED. Now she worked as a salesclerk at H&M in the Kista Mall. When he suggested they meet up, she asked if their phone conversation wasn’t enough. It was obvious that she didn’t have an interest in digging deeper into the Camilla story.

JW went out to Kista anyway. Wandered around the brightly lit mall until he found the H&M store and asked for Susanne. He introduced himself to her.

They stood in the middle of the shop floor. There were few customers in the store at that time of day. JW wondered how it could be worthwhile to keep the place open.

Susanne had bleached-blond hair, but dark roots were visible at the base of her scalp. She was dressed in skinny jeans tucked into a pair of high boots, and a pink top with print across the chest:
Cleveland Indians.
Her entire body language screamed, I don’t want to talk to you. Arms crossed, gaze glued somewhere other than on JW.

JW tried to pressure her, gently. “What subjects did you study together?”

“I had to redo almost everything. Math, language arts, English, social science, history, French. But school was never my thing. I wanted to be a lawyer.”

“It isn’t too late.”

“It is. I have two kids now.”

JW sounded genuinely happy, “That’s great! How old are they?”

“One and three, and it’s not great. Their good-for-nothing dad left five months before the youngest was born. I’ll stay in this store till the cellulite finishes me off.”

“I’m sorry. Don’t say that. Anything can happen.”

“Sure.”

“It can, I promise. Would you please tell me more about Camilla?”

“But why? The police asked all they needed to know four years ago. I don’t know anything.”

“Relax. I’m just curious. You know, I hardly even knew my own sister. I was just wondering what kind of classes you took together and stuff.”

“I would’ve been a good lawyer—you know, I can really argue when I need to—and then Pierre came along and fucked it all up. Now I’m here. Know what a salesclerk makes?”

JW thought, The chick could never have been a lawyer. Totally lacks focus.

“You don’t remember which classes you took with Camilla?”

“Hold on. I think we were in the same language arts and English classes. Used to do our homework together, study for the tests. She got good grades even though we cut a lotta class. I got shit grades. Never knew how the hell Camilla did it. But then, I didn’t really know her that well.”

“Do you know if she hung out with anyone else?”

Susanne was quiet for a beat too long.

“Not really.”

JW looked her in the eyes. “Please, Susanne. I care about my sister. Don’t I have a right to know what happened to her? Don’t I have the right to ask you these questions? I just want to know more about Camilla’s life. Please.”

Susanne twisted uneasily, looked toward the empty registers, as if she had to go help some invisible customer. Obviously uncomfortable.

“I don’t think she was friends with anyone else in her Komvux classes. Camilla sort of kept to herself. But ask the language arts teacher, Jan Brunéus. He might know.”

“Thanks. Is he still at Komvux, do you know?”

“No clue. Some made it; some didn’t. I never finished. Haven’t set my foot in that place since and don’t plan to, either. And I don’t know anything about Jan. But there are a lot of salesclerks who’ve made a load of money. Won reality-TV shows and stuff like that. Camilla might’ve done something like that.”

Susanne said she really had to get back to work. JW got the hint, went home. Wondered about Susanne’s last comment. Reality TV and Camilla—what was the connection?

He thought that he had to concentrate on school and selling C, couldn’t waste more time playing detective. The Susanne Pettersson trail didn’t lead anywhere. The chick would’ve already said something if she knew something, wouldn’t she?

JW was at home studying when Abdulkarim called his cell phone. The Arab wanted to meet up—preferably today. They decided to meet for lunch at the Hotel Anglais on Sturegatan, near Stureplan.

JW kept reading. He couldn’t let his studies slip. He’d made a deal with himself: Go ahead and snort, deal, make millions and be happy—but don’t flunk out of school. He saw that kind of thing among the boyz. There were two types of people for whom Daddy picked up the tab. The knowledge that they’d never have to worry about money made one type into lazy, disinterested, stupid freeloaders. They couldn’t care less about their studies, failed their exams, made fun of people who were ambitious. They wanted to do their own thing, pretended to be entrepreneurs, visionaries. In the end, things worked out no matter what. The other type got anxious, knowing they’d never have to lift a finger for their own livelihood. They wanted to prove themselves, had to prove themselves, to create their own successes, to earn the right to the fortunes they were going to inherit anyway. You found them at the Stockholm School of Economics, in law school, or in London. They sat till one in the morning with group projects, before quizzes, tests, oral exams. If they could fit it in, they had part-time jobs, at law firms, banks, or with Dad. They strove and achieved—got somewhere on their own merit.

JW wasn’t the kind of guy to take shortcuts, not really. Sure, he could probably live on C for a few years, but he still wanted the safety. Study a lot, never flunk out.

He packed up his books. Undressed and got into the shower.

With practiced technique, he held the showerhead in his hand with the stream of water angled away from him, as he tried to set the right temperature. Why was it that no matter how you turned the dial, it was impossible to get it right? Too hot. A nanotwist to the left—too cold.

He began by running the water over his legs. The blond hairs flattened downward when the stream of water washed over them. He put the showerhead back in its holder, let the water pour over his hair, head, and torso. Turned up the heat.

Tried to forget about Camilla. Thought about Sophie instead. What was he doing wrong? He’d thought he was going to score with her at the Lövhälla Manor party. Instead, he’d ended up with Anna, her best friend. Anna was nice and all, but she didn’t have that extra something. How retarded was it to fuck Anna? Gossip about the party’d spread so widely, it might as well have been in the tabloids. Sophie could’ve found out. Maybe she was pissed.

Sophie in JW’s eyes: pretty as hell, body like a bikini model, sexy like a Playboy Bunny, charming like an intelligent talk-show host. And she had brains, too. Wrestled him to the ground verbally every time they had a discussion. Radiated smarts every time she opened her mouth. One-upped his jokes with a twinkle in her eye. But that wasn’t all—she seemed nice, too, even though she’d dissed him like a typical Lundsberg prep school chick. She got top grades, ten out of ten. He had to see her more, but without the boyz. Alone.

JW turned up the heat even more. Thought about peeing in the shower but didn’t. Wasn’t his style.

Maybe he didn’t have enough game. Maybe he should ignore Sophie. Not be so obviously into her. Not seem so happy to see her. Talk to her less and hit on her friends more. JW hated the tail game. And yet he was an expert at playing his own game in front of the boyz. But when it came to Sophie, he just wanted to hold her every time she was near. Hug her, kiss her, and all that. How the hell would he be able to act ice-cold? Sure, he could pick up girls at bars. Pull some one-liners. Get ’em in bed. Bag ’em. Brag in front of the boyz. But the serious stuff was trickier. The real game was wily.

He turned the heat up again. That’s what he always did; began with a temperature that was hard to perfect and felt good at first but got too cold after a couple of minutes. Made hot even hotter. In the end, the water was almost scalding. The mirror fogged up; the bathroom turned into a steam room.

Time to have lunch with Abdulkarim. JW got out of the shower and readied himself in the bathroom. Put on Clinique Happy under his arms and Biotherm moisturizer on his face. Putting wax in his hair was the last thing he did—the goo was so difficult to get off his fingers. He looked at himself in the mirror and thought: I look good.