Easy Money (13 page)

Spanish dreams. “Jorgelito, I’ll sit here till you fall asleep. Jorgelito, wait here and I’ll get the storybook. Jorgelito, have I told you you’re my prince? Paola’s my princess. You’re my own royal family.”

Jorge woke up.

It was light outside. Hot in the room. Sweet dreams were over. He lay on a mattress that he’d pulled off a bed. Reduced the risk that someone would see him from the outside. Double safety measures—tall bushes outside the window blocked the view.

He’d spent a total of six days in the cottage. Bored. Soon time to call that Yugo. He thought about Rodriguez. One day, Jorge-boy’d be back. Redecorate his face. Make him crawl. Lick mom’s feet. Beg. Creep. Cry.

Maybe he’d been stupid. Careless. For instance, he’d run out of food the day before. He’d walked out to the road. Followed it until he reached a bigger road. Kept going. Saw water. Boats that people were taking out of the water. Haloed autumn panorama. About an hour and a half later: a grocery store, ICA Nygrens. He went in.

Never felt as dark as there, in the Aryan Swedish national store. The
blatte
stood out, sharp contrast. No one said anything. No one seemed to care. But Jorge,
el negrito,
thought he was gonna be lynched, dipped in poisonous boat paint and rolled in granola.

He bought spaghetti, chips, bread, sandwich meat, eggs, butter, and beer. Laundry detergent and hair dye. Paid cash. Didn’t say thank you to the lady working the cash register. Just nodded. Thought everyone was eyeing him. Hating him. Planning to turn him over to the cops.

Already on his way out of the store, he felt like an idiot. Tried to walk through the woods on his way home. Didn’t fly. Kept hitting private property, houses. Got scared that people might be home. Get suspicious. Get pissed off. Report the nigger to the police. Walked back out to the main road. Hoped no one would take note of him,
el fugitivo.

Jorge fried two eggs. Buttered five pieces of bread. Added sandwich meat. Drank water. A tower of plates and silverware balanced precariously in the sink. Why bother doing dishes? The house’s rightful owner could take care of that later.

He sat down at the kitchen table. Ate the sandwiches quickly. Ran his fingers over the tabletop. It looked old. He wondered if poor people owned the cottage, or if they’d chosen an old table on purpose.

Then: a sound outside. Jorge’s ears perked up.

A voice.

He hunched down.

Slid off the chair, onto the floor.

Lay flat on his stomach.

Crawled toward the window. If someone was on the way in, he could be cooked. If it was the cops outside, he was definitely cooked.

Goddamn it, why hadn’t he prepared better? Nothing packed. His clothes, hair dye, food, toiletries—everything was spread out in the room where he slept. Fucking idiot. If he had to run now, he wouldn’t manage to take a fucking thing.

He tried to look out the window. Didn’t see anyone outside. Just the tranquil garden, surrounded by trimmed hawthorn bushes and two maple trees. Again: the voice. Sounded like it came from the little road leading up to the house. Folded in half, he slunk over to the other window. Through the hall. The broad wooden planks in the floor creaked. Fuck. Didn’t dare look out the window. They might be able to see him from the outside. Listened first. Heard another voice, closer now, but not right outside. At least two people talking to each other. Was it the 5-0 or someone else?

Listened again. One of the voices had a slight foreign accent.

He peeked cautiously. No parked car. Couldn’t see the people. Looked up the road that continued past the house toward a dark red barn behind the garden. There. Three people were walking toward the house.

Jorge fast-forwarded through his options. Weighed the advantages and the risks. The cottage was good. Warm, relatively shielded from view, far from the city and the cops’ searching. He could bunker down here until all his money ran out. On the other hand, the people on the road from the barn. He couldn’t really make out who they were.

They could be the owners of the house. Maybe it wasn’t their house but they were just curious. Took a look-see through the windows. Saw the mountain of dishes, saw the mattress on the floor, saw the mess.

It could be the cops.

The risk was too big. Better to pack up his things and clear out before they got here. There were other houses. Other warm beds.

Jorge shoved his stuff into two bags, food in one and clothes and toiletries in the other. He went to the door. The upper half was made of painted glass. He looked out. Didn’t see the people. Opened the door. Walked quickly to the left. Not the gravel path out to the little road. Pushed through an opening in the bushes instead. Got caught on thorns.

Thought the voices sounded closer.

Fuck.

He ran without looking back.

JW: on his way to the top. Jet Set Carl’s offer—a golden opportunity. Abdulkarim: overjoyed. Babbled on about their expansion plans. “If you just find that Jorge dude,” he reminded JW, “we’ll own this city.”

JW didn’t break any unnecessary sweat looking for the Chilean. He’d put out some hooks here and there. Had dinner with peeps from the Sollentuna area and offered them money for information that could lead to zeroing in on the fugitive. It’d work out.

Today, he had another project.

JW’d called the Komvux teacher, Jan Brunéus, a couple of days ago. The teacher remembered Camilla well but really didn’t want to talk about her. When JW’d insisted, he’d hung up on him.

JW hadn’t been able to deal with his reaction at the time. Hadn’t bothered to call him again. Tried not to think about the whole thing.

But today it was time. He had to.

He put on jeans, shirt, coat.

Walked toward Sveaplan Gymnasium, the high school below the Wenner-Gren Center where the continuing-education center, Komvux, was located. Wanted to meet Jan Brunéus face-to-face.

Valhallavägen was louder than usual, either due to the heavy traffic or due to his headache. Probably due to both.

He spotted the school building at the end of Sveavägen.

It was 11:30 a.m. Lunch break. JW suspected that the reception desk would close during lunch. He didn’t want to have to wait till after, ignored the arrows and signs and just asked someone for directions. A woman with a Fjällräven Kånken backpack who seemed on her way out gave him a good explanation of how to get there: Take the main entrance, up the stairs, then to the right.

JW ran against the current. Mostly young people his own age on their way out to lunch. The washed-up middle class—didn’t realize there were faster ways to Life.

He took the stairs three at a time. Got short of breath.

Reached the reception area.

A woman in a pleated skirt and an old-fashioned blouse was on her way out the door with purposeful movements that said, I’m closing now.

Typical.

He said, “Hello, ma’am. May I please ask a question before you close for lunch?”

JW’d become the prince of politesse—calling the receptionist “ma’am.” He’d learned well from his Stockholm crowd.

The lady was mollified and let him in. She got back behind the counter.

“I need to speak with one of your teachers, Jan Brunéus. Does he have classes this week, and if so, where might I find him?”

The woman grimaced, looked uncomfortable. JW didn’t like her style. Instead of using clear communication, some people grimaced their way through life.

She pulled out a schedule and ran her finger down the boxes. Finally, she said, “He has a class today that is letting out in ten minutes, at noon. Room four two two. That’s one flight up.”

JW thanked her kindly. Wanted to maintain a good relationship with the woman, for some reason. Sensed he might need it later.

He ran up the stairs. Found the right hallway.

Room 422. The door was closed, still five more minutes till lunchtime.

He waited outside. Put his ear up to the door, heard a chanting voice but couldn’t recognize if it was Jan Brunéus’s.

JW checked out the hallway. Beige walls, wide windows, simple white china light fixtures in the ceiling, graffiti on the radiators. Classic high school. He’d expected a different vibe at Komvux. More mature.

The door to the classroom opened.

A black guy with baggy clothes and jeans almost down to his knees stepped out. Twenty-odd students streamed out behind him.

JW popped his head into the classroom. A couple of girls were collecting their pens and notebooks by the desks.

A teacher stood at the whiteboard, erasing writing. He didn’t see JW.

It had to be Jan Brunéus.

The teacher was dressed in a brown corduroy suit with leather patches at the elbows. He wore a green V-necked knit sweater under the jacket. Three days’ worth of stubble made it more difficult to appreciate his age, but he was probably around forty. He had thin-framed glasses, maybe made by Silhoutte. JW thought he looked like a nice guy.

He walked up to Jan.

Jan turned around, studied JW.

JW thought, Does he see the resemblance between me and Camilla?

Jan said, “How can I help you?”

“My name is Johan Westlund. We spoke on the phone a couple of days ago, as you might remember. I would like to speak to you about my sister, Camilla Westlund. If that’s okay.”

Brunéus sat down on the edge of the desk. Didn’t say anything. Just sighed.

Did he want to seem like he was ready for a heart-to-heart, or what?

The girls who’d been in the classroom left.

Jan got up and closed the door behind them. Sat back down on the edge of the desk.

JW remained standing. No comment.

“I really want to apologize for my behavior. Thinking about her made me upset. The whole disappearance is just so tragic. I didn’t mean to hang up on you like that.”

JW listened without saying anything in return.

“I remember Camilla very well. She was one of my favorite students. She was talented and interested. Good attendance. I gave her an A in every subject.”

JW thought, Teachers care about bullshit like attendance.

“What subjects did she have with you?”

“Language arts, English, and, if I’m remembering correctly, social studies. You know, around two hundred faces pass through my classes every year, but I remember Camilla. You look a lot alike.”

“People say that. Can you tell me more about what you remember about her? I know that she hung out some with a girl named Susanne Pettersson. Did she have other friends here?”

“Susanne Pettersson? I don’t remember her. But I honestly don’t think Camilla had a lot of friends, which was strange. I thought she was very extroverted and nice-seeming. She looked nice, too.”

Something was off. Susanne Pettersson’d said that she and Camilla used to cut class. Now Jan Brunéus was saying she’d had a good attendance record. And that she’d looked nice. Did teachers usually say stuff like that?

They talked for another two minutes or so. Jan spoke in generalities. “Komvux is an important social institution. High school doesn’t suit everyone. Here, they can get a second chance.”

JW wanted to get away from the classroom. Away from Jan Brunéus.

Jan shook his hand. “It’s a sad story. Send my regards to your parents. Tell them that Camilla would’ve gone far.”

Jan picked up a worn leather briefcase from the floor and disappeared out into the hall.

JW walked back to the reception desk. Took note of the hours. The administration offices were closed for the day. Typical, or what?

At home, he flipped through the phone book. City of Stockholm, Education Department. Called the number and asked to be connected to someone who could answer general questions about transcripts and official records. He was put through to the responsible administrator. They discussed JW’s questions for fifteen minutes. That was enough. JW got all the answers he needed.

He would definitely go back to the reception at Komvux. Dig deep in the school’s transcript archives. Something wasn’t right with Jan Brunéus’s story.

Mrado’d played crime thriller for two and a half days while he waited for Mahmud’s sister to visit Österåker. Ordered passport photos of Jorge. Called his two cop contacts, Jonas and Rolf. Promised five grand to the one who’d dig up useful info on the Jorge fucker. Looked up the Latino’s relatives with the Population Registry. No leads. Checked in with his colleague Nenad, Radovan’s blow and whore page. Nenad didn’t even remember Jorge, other than from the trial. Mrado had breakfast with Ratko and Ratko’s brother Slobodan, alias “Bobban.” They gave him the lowdown on Stockholm’s northwest criminal map—which junkies to talk to, which employees to talk to at which bars, which dealers knew Jorge’s crowd. He went out to Sollentuna and Märsta twice and talked to various cocaine contacts and Latinos. Bobban went with him. Good visual aid.

Most already knew who the fugitive was, and those who didn’t got the passport pics shoved under their noses. A hero. A legend. Everyone wanted to buy the hero a drink. Celebrate the guy. Congratulate the guy. But no one’d seen him.

Jorge’s mom lived with a new husband, and he had a sister, Paola. The mom lived outside Stockholm. The sister in Hägersten. He ordered passport photos of the sister and mom. Got two hits when he Googled the sister’s name. She’d written an article in the Stockholm University newspaper,
Gaudeamus,
and taken part in the campus Literature Days. Good girl. Was apparently trying to make her own way from scratch. He figured maybe he should take a closer look at the university.

He called the Literature Department. The sis was taking the “level 3 course,” whatever that was.

Mrado drove out to Frescati, university playground. Parked the car at the back of the blue high-rises. His Benz stuck out. The rest of the cars in the parking lot: dud cars.

The university for Mrado: a foreign country. Population: stick figures, four-eyed bookworms. Players who preferred parlance to performance. Pussies. To Mrado’s surprise, however, there were hot chicks en masse.

He eyed some signs. Found the Lit Department. Rode up in the elevator. Asked a lady in the hall who was responsible for the level 3 course. Got the name of the teaching assistant. Eyed more signs. The TA’s room was farther down the same hall. Tacked on the door was another sign:
I LOVE MY WORK … DURING LUNCH AND COFFEE BREAKS.
Mrado knocked. No answer. Asked a woman in the room next door. The TA was in a meeting in room C 119. Rode down again, all the way down. The halls felt half-finished. Pipes and ventilation systems hung from the ceiling. Some walls looked unpainted. White wood panels leaned up in a corner. He eyed the arrows. Found the room. Knocked. A guy in a blazer and frizzy bangs opened the door. Mrado asked to speak to the TA. The guy said they were in a meeting. Mrado cocked his head to the side. Put his foot in the door so it wouldn’t close. Stared the guy down. Mr. Frizz stood his ground. After fifteen seconds, he looked away. Went to get the TA. A young girl—twenty-five tops. Mrado’d expected an older woman. She asked what he wanted. He pulled some bull. Said he was supposed to buy books from a girl who hadn’t shown. Wondered if the TA had her number or knew where she had class today. She asked why he was in such a hurry. Mrado pulled some more bull, something about heading out of the country and needing the books today. An emergency. The TA: gullible and too nice, a cold trick. They went up to her office. She found Paola’s telephone number and the schedule for the level 3 course. Said Mrado was in luck. “Paola is in a seminar today in room D three twenty-seven.” Finally, a hot hand.

How she let herself be fooled by a six-foot Yugoslav, he couldn’t even begin to imagine.

To D 327. Eyed signs again. Found the room.

Same deal as with the TA. Some dude opened. Mrado asked him to get Paola.

Mrado closed the door of the seminar room behind her. Paola understood immediately that something wasn’t right. Jerked her head around. Took a step back, averted her face. Mrado had time to see her eyes. If unease had a face, it would look like hers.

Not what Mrado had expected from a lit major. She was wearing a light blue blouse with wide cuffs. Dark, tight blue jeans. Straitlaced style. Black hair, pulled back in a ponytail. It gleamed. Innocent look. Something sparked within Mrado.

He waved toward a bathroom. They walked in that direction. Paola: stiff movements. Mrado: focused. They stepped into the bathroom. Mrado closed the door.

The bathroom was covered in graffiti. Mostly written in pencil and ballpoint pen. Mrado, surprised. College students weren’t supposed to do that kind of thing, were they?

He told Paola to sit down on the toilet. Her face flushed.

“Calm down. I don’t want to hurt you, but there’s no point in screaming. I prefer not to use violence on girls. I’m not that kinda guy. Just need to know a few things.”

Paola spoke perfect Swedish. No trace of an accent. “It’s about Jorge, isn’t it? Is it about Jorge?” Near tears.

“You got it, babe. It’s about your bro. You know where he is?”

“No. I don’t have a clue. I don’t know. He hasn’t been in touch. Not with Mama, either. We’ve just read about him in the papers.”

“Cut it. I’m sure he cares about you. Of course he’s been in touch. Where is he?”

She sobbed. “I told you—I don’t know. I really don’t. He hasn’t even called.”

Mrado kept pushing it. “Don’t lie. You seem like a good girl. I can make your life a living hell. I can make your bro’s life good. Just tell me where he is.”

She kept denying it, point-blank.

“Listen carefully, little lady. Stop pouting. This bathroom looks like shit, don’t you agree? Walls totally scratched up. You’re leaving this kind of shit behind. You want to get out with your fancy education. Up in life. Your brother can get a good life, too.”

She stared straight into his eyes. Her pupils big, glossy. He saw his reflection in them. She’d stopped crying. The mascara painted black lines down her cheeks.

“I really don’t know.”

Mrado analyzed. There are people who can lie. Dupe. Fool anyone. Stand up against cops, prosecutors, and lawyers in interrogation after interrogation. Even stand up against guys like Mrado. Maybe they believe their own stories. Maybe they’re just extremely good actors. Other people try to lie and it shows right away. Their eyes shoot up to the left, a sign that they’re making things up. They blush. Sweat. Contradict themselves. Miss details. Or the opposite: try to be calm. Pretend it’s raining. Speak slowly. But it shows. They’re too confident. Their stories are too sweeping, too big picture. They sit abnormally still. Seem too secure in their statements.

He knew them all. Paola didn’t belong to any of these. Mrado’d been in the protection-racket business long enough. Had squeezed juice out of people. Forced them to show him where the cash was stashed, how much blow they’d dealt, where they were delivering their moonshine, how many johns they’d had. Held his gun to people’s temples, in their mouths, against their cocks. Asked for answers. Appraised their answers. Forced answers. He was an expert at answers.

Mrado checked her hands. Not her face. He knew people control their mugs, but not their bodies. Hands speak the truth.

Paola wasn’t lying.

She really didn’t know where the Jorge fucker was.

Damn it.

He left her sitting on the toilet. Paralyzed.

Jogged down to the parking lot. Jumped in the car. Pulled the door shut hard behind him. Drove off to meet Mahmud’s sis.

Mrado felt stressed-out. He saw her right away. She was sitting with a Pepsi in front of her. The Arab joint was packed. Two veiled women with at least 140 ankle biters occupied the back half of the place. In the front were a couple of Svens lapping up multicultural Sweden. Mahmud’s sister held out her hand. Meaning: I want my two thousand cash. The chick’d been compliant last time. Now: considerable attitude problem.

Mrado sighed. Thought something that surprised him: Too many people who are downright losers rock an attitude. He’d experienced it a lot. Unemployed Sven boozehounds, uneducated bouncers, and cocky project
blattes
played tough guy. Did that protect them? Did it keep them from feeling like the dregs they were? This chick was an obvious loser. Why did she even try?

He sat down.

“Okay, babe, let’s hold off on the money. You’ll get it soon. First, tell me what he said.”

Before she’d even said a word, he knew the answer.

“My man, he know nothin’.”

“What do you mean? He knew about Jorge, didn’t he?”

“No, I mean, like, they hung never, or whatever.”

Got irritated. The chick couldn’t fucking speak straight. Someone should return her to the store. Reclaim the warranty.

“Come on. Of course he knew who Jorge was. Think. What’d he say?”

“What’s your deal? Don’t think I remember, huh? Me, comin’ from there now. I just said—they hung never.”

“You want your dough or what? Did he know who the Latino was or not?”

“He knew. Said tightest break he’d ever heard.”

“You mean the escape? Did he see the escape?”

“Shit, you nag. My man not there. Not on motivation.”

“Girl, if you want the dough, you have to fuckin’ talk so I understand you.” Mrado was about to snap. Pushed back his chair. Signal: Wise up or I’ll leave.

“He, like, in not same block. Not motivation. He somewhere else. You know?”

Mrado knew. Bummed. Mahmud’s sis was a dud. There were two units at Österåker. One for inmates who wanted to get their lives back on track, where they got motivation to get off drugs. Learn society’s rules. Pedagogical programs, workshops, bullshit psychology and chat therapy. Of course that’s where Jorge’d been, the so-called motivation unit. Then it was true what she’d said: Her tired-ass man didn’t know zilch.