Easy Money (20 page)

“Get it together. You’re always saying that. It’s fine. You’ll be back.”

“I’ve got to practice more on the guys at the gym. People more in my class. Right? We should organize a little poker night. Sip whiskey, puff cigars.”

“Not a bad idea, but a lotta guys are gonna pass on the booze. Too many dangerous calories.”

“Yeah, but what the fuck am I supposed to do? I don’t have a pissing chance against these guys.”

“Just the heavy hitters here tonight?”

“You can say that again.”

“You seen Ratko?”

“No, not yet. Didn’t see him at the gym today, either. You guys have a date?”

“He better have a good excuse. We were supposed to meet twenty minutes ago.”

“If I see him, I’ll tell him you’re up there and you’re steaming. I’ve gotta head home, or this might get ugly for real.”

Mrado resumed his upward climb. The guy in the stairwell was obviously on the verge of becoming a gambling junkie. Mrado wondered what was worse, gambling addiction or steroid addiction.

He pushed through the doors to the upper level. Green carpeting. The same color as the felt on the poker tables. Black ceiling with discreetly angled spotlights. No mirrored walls here—cheaters thrived anyway. Mrado made the rounds. Stockholm’s legendary professional players were there: Berra K., the Joker, Piotr B., the Major, and others. Men who’d flipped the day just like Mrado. Worked from 10:00 p.m. until the casino closed at 5:00 a.m. Players who never had less than fifty grand in rubber-banded wads. Maladjusted mathematical masterminds.

Half the room was filled exclusively by one-armed bandits.

The other half housed the poker tables. Thick velvet ropes kept curious bystanders and Peeping Toms at bay. Poker was popular. At the middle of each table’s long end stood the state-employed dealer, dressed in a white shirt, red silk vest, and pressed black slacks. The mood was solemn, tense, deeply concentrated.

Two of the tables were reserved for high-stakes play. Someone looked desperate—maybe the family’s savings were all blown. Someone beamed—maybe they’d just pulled in twenty, thirty grand in one pot. The rest just looked incredibly immersed in the game.

There were free spots by one of the expensive tables.
No limit:
no restrictions on the stakes, possible to do
all in.
About twenty deals an hour. The state took 5 percent of the pot. Expensive hobby—excluding losses.

Mrado’s idea was based on the fact that you were provided with receipts for all wins of over twenty grand at the state poker tables—the money was white as fleece. Mrado wasn’t the world’s best player, but it happened that he got lucky. In that case, play high stakes. The odds were bad tonight—a lot of good players at the table. On the other hand, that’d make it a higher-stakes game, more money that could be laundered. With luck, he might be able to clean a hundred grand. His plan: play tight. Only bid if he had a good opening hand. Cautious low-risk tactic.

He sat down.

The game: Texas hold ’em. Supertrendy since Channel 5 started airing American competitions. Lured lots of greenhorns to the poker tables, even though it was the toughest type of poker. Fast, most deals per hour meant greatest chances of winning. Bigger pot than in Omaha or seven-card stud, with more players at the table. No open cards except for the five community cards. The game for fast, fat wins.

From the look of it, there were only staples around the table tonight.

Bernhard Kaitkinen, better known as Berra K. Even more famous as the man with Stockholm’s longest schlong, which he never passed up an opportunity to point out—Berra with the Boa. Always dressed in a light suit, as though he were in a casino in Monte Carlo. Been paired off with most of the city’s society dames: Susanna Roos, editor in chief of
Svensk Damtidning,
the royal gossip rag, was just one in a long line of Botoxed bellas. Berra K.: a loudmouth, a romance scammer, a gentleman. Most of all: a fantastic poker player. Mrado knew his tricks. The dude always buzzed about other stuff, distracted, created a poker face by letting his mouth run nonstop.

Piotr Biekowski: pale Polack. Won the World Championship in backgammon a few years back. Switched over to poker—more money in it. Dressed in a dark blazer and black pants. Wrinkly white shirt with the two top buttons undone. Rocked a nervous, insecure style. Sighed,
oy’
ed, eyes flitted. That might fool the casino rookies. Not Mrado. He knew: Never play too high against Piotr—best way to empty your wallet.

Across from Mrado: a young guy with sunglasses that Mrado didn’t recognize. Mrado stared. Did the kid think he was in Las Vegas, or what?

Mrado started with the
big blind:
one thousand that someone—in this particular round, Mrado—had to chip in to incite play. No one could stay in the game without betting at least the same sum.

Piotr sat with the
small blind
—five hundred kronor.

The dealer dealt the cards.

Mrado’s hand: five of hearts and six of hearts.

The
flop
hadn’t happened yet.

Berra K. was the first to act. Said, “These cards remind me of a game I played on a boat in the archipelago last summer. We had to stop because a huge fuckin’ thunderstorm blew in.” Mrado tuned out the nitwit nonsense.

Berra K. folded.

The Sunglass Kid posted a grand.

Piotr bet five hundred, up at the same level as the big blind.

Mrado looked at his cards again. It was a pretty shitty hand, but still—
suited connectors
were consecutive cards of the same suit, and it didn’t cost him anything to stick out the round. He checked, kept pace.

Flop: the first three cards on the table. Seven of hearts, six of clubs, and ace of spades. Nothing perfect for his hand. Small chance of suit remained. Piotr starting whining—his style.

Mrado had to really think things through. The game was high. Piotr could bluff, try to get the rest of the players to raise the stakes by grumbling and moaning. In that case, Mrado should fold, even though he had a chance at suit or flush. Had promised himself to show tableside restraint.

He folded; the betting went on without him.

The Sunglass Kid called. Put in four grand. Not bad. Maybe he was one of the newbies who’d learned everything from online gaming. But it was different in real life. With hard cards.

Turn:
the fourth card on the table. A seven of diamonds.

Piotr first out. Added fifteen big ones.

The Sunglass Kid put in thirty grand. Doubled the bet fast as hell.

All eyes on Piotr. Mrado knew: The Polack could have three of a kind, even a full house. Also possible: The guy could be blowing smoke.

Piotr went for it—put
all in,
100,000 kronor. A murmur of disbelief swept over the table.

The Sunglass Kid cleared his throat. Fingered his chips.

Mrado eyed Piotr. Was convinced the Polack was bluffing—a brief glitter in his gaze gave him away. Their eyes met. Piotr saw that Mrado knew.

The Sunglass Kid didn’t see. The strong offense turned him yellow.

He folded.

River:
the final card—was never dealt.

Mrado thought, The Polack is shooting high tonight. Playing tough with nothing.

Time for the next round.

The game continued.

Deal after deal.

Mrado stayed afloat.

Piotr played aggressively. Berra K. babbled about broads. Distracted. The Sunglass Kid tried to win back what he’d just blown.

After twenty-four deals: Mrado’s hand—the
big slick
of hearts. A classic in the poker world: an ace and a king. You’ve got a chance to get the best-possible hand,
royal straight,
and you’ve got the highest cards. And still, you’ve got nothing. Binary: If it flies, you soar; if it crashes, you’re done for.

A single drop of sweat on Mrado’s forehead. Could be his chance. So far, he’d played tight. Piotr, Berra K., and the Sunglass Kid didn’t think he’d put all his chips in without having something. But it could be a trick, too. You play steady, trick everyone into thinking that you never take risks. Then you bluff like Abagnale.

His best opening hand of the night. He made up his mind, for the sake of the companies, to save the Rado situation—bid high.

The drop of sweat lodged itself in Mrado’s eyebrow. So close to a royal straight and still, hardly one in several thousands of a chance.

He twirled a chip around his fingers.

Thought, Let’s do this thing.

Bid five grand.

Berra K. called his bet. Five grand. High-stakes game.

The Sunglass Kid pulled out. Would be crazy to ride out a game this aggressive without really sitting on anything good.

Piotr, with the big blind, raised him. Twenty-five total. Crazy.

Berra K., Mrado, and Piotr all had a sick number of chips in front of them.

Mrado considered: It’s make it or brake it now. He knew the odds; his hand was one of the top ten opening hands you could get in this game.

He looked at Piotr. Didn’t he glimpse that same glitter in his eyes as in the first deal, when the Polack bluffed? The feeling was the same. Piotr was up to something. Mrado was sure of it—the Polack was trying to pull a fast one—it was Mrado’s turn to make it big this time.

He kept going. Twenty into the pot.

Berra K. started prattling again. Jabbered on about other crazy games he’d played and that this one was the craziest one yet. Then he folded. Not surprising.

Mrado faced off against Piotr, waiting for the first cards on the table.

The Sunglass Kid removed his shades; even Berra K. stopped talking. Silence settled around the table.

The flop gave an ace of clubs, a two of diamonds, and a queen of hearts.

Piotr bet another fifteen. Maybe to check Mrado’s pulse. Disgustingly high stakes.

Mrado still had a pair of aces, the best pair you could get. He just had to be in the clear, since he had the highest kicker, the king. And still a chance he could land a royal straight. He kept going. Bet fifteen grand. Called.

He was gonna crush that fuckin’ Polack.

Turn: jack of hearts. Crazy lucky. Mrado still had a chance at a royal straight. He wasn’t going to give up now. And he kept feeling more and more certain: The Polack didn’t have jackshit. The guy was crazy bluffing.

Crazier than crazy.

Piotr raised him another thirty.

Mrado thought he saw that gleam again.

He took the chance—played all in, the rest of the money he had in front of him, 120 grand. All his chips on one board. Prayed to God that he was right, that Piotr was trying to pull a fast one.

Piotr shot back the call, didn’t miss a beat.

The dealer felt the tension around the table. Both Mrado and Piotr turned up their cards.

Everyone around the table leaned in to get a look.

Mrado: almost royal flush, except for the ten of hearts.

Piotr: three aces.

Mrado’s heart sank. The Polack fucker hadn’t bluffed this time. That gleam in his eye was something else—maybe triumph. Mrado’s only chance was that the river contained a ten of hearts.

The dealer took his time with the river. Piotr shifted uneasily in his seat. Everyone in the poker area stopped what they were doing, sensed that something big was about to happen at one of the tables. If Mrado won, he’d rake in over 300,000.

The dealer dealt the card: three of clubs.

Mrado was dead.

The winner: Piotr. Three of a kind. The entire pot. Mrado’d blown 160,000 on one hand. Congrats.

Mrado could hear his own breathing. Felt dazed, got vertigo. Ready to hurl.

Felt the beating of his own heart. Fast, sad beats.

Piotr stacked the chips. Swept them off the table into a cloth bag.

Got up. Left the table.

Someone called Mrado’s name. Ratko was waiting on the other side of the velvet enclosure. More than two hours after the appointed time. Mrado nodded toward him. Turned back to the poker table.

Remained seated, as though in a fog. Felt a flash of heat. He was sweating.

Finally, the dealer turned to him, asked, “Are you in for the next deal?” Mrado knew—for him, a catastrophe had just occurred. For the dealer, it was only a question of when the next round could begin.

Mrado got up. Walked away.

Bobban used to say, “Things happen quick in hockey.” Mrado knew—things happen even quicker in Texas hold ’em. Burned more than 160 grand within an hour. Not his night tonight. He should’ve known. Too many vets at the table.

Ratko stood at a one-armed bandit with his back to the poker table. Fed bills to the machine.

Mrado knocked him on the shoulder. “You were late?”

“Me, late? Sure, but you’ve been playing for over an hour. Made me wait.”

“But you were the one who was late. We were meeting at ten.”

“My apologies. How’d it go?”

Mrado, silent.

Ratko asked again. “That bad?”

“It went so fuckin’ bad, I’m considering throwing myself off the Klaraberg viaduct.”

“My sympathies.”

Mrado remained standing and watched as Ratko played. He was done for. Shouldn’t have played when he was so beat. Money that belonged to the video-rental stores. This couldn’t get out.

Motherfucker.

Ratko fed a final bill to the machine. Pressed the play button. The symbols started spinning.

Mrado’s head was spinning even faster.

Back in business. The long-lasting feeling: J-boy, baddest bad boy in town.
El choro.
Phoenix out of the ashes. Gotten back up after what they thought was a knockout.

His life vacillated between justified hate and high-level blow business. The hate toward Radovan & Co.: the ones who’d shredded him. The blow business: his job for Abdulkarim.

But Jorge was the man with the plan; he would break Radovan’s empire once and for all. Make sure the Yugo Mafia got locked up or wiped out. All he needed was more information and time to plan.

R.’s day would come. Jorgelito was mad certain.

Flashbacks.

Jorge’d recovered surprisingly quickly. First, when JW found him in a thousand pieces in the woods, he didn’t clock a thing. Who the hell was this Östermalm creamer? Buzzing about new markets, blow-biz expansion. Did he want in?

Fifteen minutes of explaining to a busted Latino.

Jorge was hardly listening at the time.

JW promised that a car would come. That he’d fix painkillers.

Jorge asked him to leave.

JW walked down to the road.

Jorge left alone on the ground. Half an inch of movement equaled otherworldly pain. The cold crept up on him. Jorge wanted to pass out. Disappear. But the questions were buzzing worse than the pain in his head: Would the Yugos hurt Paola? Would they leave him alone now? Should he skip the country right away? In that case, what were his chances? No money, no passport, no connections. In other words, about as much chance of survival as a twiggy with attitude at Österåker.

Darkness settled over the forest. The weather was getting worse. The trunks of the trees looked black. The branches hung low to the ground.

Felt like his upper arms and thighbones were broken. Felt as though his back was torn apart. Felt as though he’d gotten a second asshole torn up beside his first. Nature’s strange symmetry completed: two eyes, two nostrils, two arms, and two legs. And now, two assholes.

He tried to sleep. Not a chance.

He shivered.

The definition of eternity: Jorge’s one and a half hours in the forest before JW showed up again. He had a big guy with him, a gorilla. They lifted him. Jorge thought he was going to die for the second time in four hours. Pest or cholera. First to be beaten to death by a psycho Yugo and then to be carried to death by an enormous Lebanese.

A white Mazda van was waiting on the road. There was a padded gurney in the back. They strapped him down. A Swedish-looking man who Jorge, at the time, thought was a real ambulance EMT poured morphine down his throat. He numbed off. Dreamed of dancing grocery bags.

Fragments of memory.

Woke up in a stark room. Confused. Safe, but scared he’d ended up in a hospital. He’d get treated at the same time as he’d get found out—be sent right back to his cell at Österåker. Then came the pain. He howled.

A big man in the room, the same man who’d carried him to the van. The guy in a turtleneck and dark blue jeans. Jorge realized he wasn’t in a hospital. Something about the man signaled the opposite—that face didn’t belong in the health-care sector. Dark, coarse features. Scratches/scars along one side of his face. The man smiled; gold gleamed in his upper row. Maybe that’s what confirmed it—no one who worked in a hospital would grin with a gold grill like that.

The man, Fahdi, smiled, “
Allahu akbar,
you’re alive.”

A few days later. He woke up. Someone was dabbing at his arm; it was a sickly green color. On one arm and his left thigh, scabs were healing. Improvement. So, he wasn’t beaten black-and-blue anymore—he was beaten green.

The guy dabbing at his arm introduced himself as Petter and said, “You’re gonna be fine, man.” Jorge let his arm fall down on the bed again. The guy reached for a glass of something red. There was a straw in the glass. He held up the straw to Jorge’s mouth. Jorge sucked. It tasted like raspberry Kool-Aid.

The guy left the room. Jorge looked at the wall. Drawn curtains. Was there a window behind them? He tried to turn his head. Hurt too much.

Lay still. Fell back asleep.

Morphine dreams: Jorge was walking on a dark road with Paola. Along the side of the road were tall green stone walls. Spotlights lit up stretches of the road. Soft asphalt. Jorge’s feet sank down. Created imprints in the granulated, warm mass. He thought, If I have to run now, how fast can I go? His sister turned to him, “My prince, do you want to play war with me?” Jorge tried to lift his foot. It was hard. The asphalt mass stuck to him. Black, coarse. Felt heavy.

A couple of nights later: Paola was jumping double Dutch. Two ropes. Made out of twisted sheets. Two friends of hers were holding the ropes. Paola: eight years old. Jorge ran toward the ropes. Was about to fall. Stumble. And right then: an enormous blue trampoline. It cushioned the fall. He rolled around. Couldn’t get up. The trampoline was too soft. Like quicksand. He sunk down. Tried to support himself with his hands, his elbows, his knees. Paola laughed. The girls laughed. Jorge cried.

Later: The guy who’d dabbed at him, Petter, sat by the bed. Said everything would be fine. That Jorge would look so great. Better than before.

Jorge was too tired.

Didn’t ask what they were gonna do.

A bright light blinded him.

He turned his head. Shut his eyes.

Could instinctively feel that something was approaching his face.

A man he hadn’t seen before rubbed his nose with something.

Suddenly: extreme pain.

Screams.

Felt like his nose’d been torn off.

He sat up.

The man held him down.

Poured something down his throat.

He fell back asleep.

Someone was shaking him. “Wake up, buddy. You’ve slept enough today.” Jorge looked up. A dark-haired man. Maybe around thirty years old. In a suit. A shirt with broad cuffs. The top buttons undone. A white Craig David hat on his head. “Open your eyes for real.”

Jorge stared in silence.

“I’m Abdulkarim. Your chance in life. Your boss.”

Jorge, confused.

“You been lying here for over three weeks now. You gonna be a morphine junkie if you’re not healed already. You gotta be able to function by now. Raise your arm.”

Jorge raised his arm. Yellow at the top, near his shoulder, but otherwise okay.

“You look fine, buddy. Allah is great.”

Abdulkarim held up a mirror to his face.

Jorge saw the image of himself: a thin, dark-haired, and bearded man, maybe twenty-five years old, dark eyebrows, bulky nose, almost like a boxer’s, olive-colored skin.

A version of Jorge.

He grinned. At the same time, he felt sad. On the one hand, it was his chance. Abdulkarim—whoever he was—had fixed him up. Rubbed him down with a new type of self-tanner, curled his hair, dyed it. Better than he’d done himself. And he was skinnier.

But aside from that, something was different about his nose.

“What’ve you done to my nose?”

Abdulkarim laughed. “Broken in two places, buddy. Brought in a guy who set it straight. Hope it didn’t hurt too much. I think it looks better now. A little flat, maybe, but cooler.”

Jorge like Nikita: picked up off the street. Woken up, made up, fixed up to be their new supersoldier. How would the rest of the story go?

Abdulkarim kept talking.

“They pounded you real good. You looked like a fuckin’ blueberry when we found you. Then you became like the Hulk. Spotty green. Too bad you don’t have his powers.”

Jorge turned over in bed.

Abdulkarim tried to be funny. “What jerks. Did they pork you, too, buddy? Who was the bottom?”

Jorge fell asleep.

Everything’d gone so quickly. He was almost completely recovered from Mrado’s and Ratko’s rough treatment. The only problem: scars on his back and pain in one of his upper arms. He’d been given a chance to stay in Sweden and earn pesetas. That his nose’d been broken and realigned by Abdulkarim’s people could be an advantage. It was crooked, broader. Jorge’s appearance was even more altered.

Enough time’d passed since his break. The cops no longer had his picture as one of the top one hundred that popped up on their screens as soon as they had a lead. With his new look, the Arab’s money and help, Jorge realized he had a chance.

He knew why he was so perfect for Abdulkarim—his blow know mixed with his dependence and debt of gratitude to the Arab would make him the most faithful dog in Abdul’s dealer kennel. Abdulkarim’s business idea worked the way JW’d explained it. The boroughs were ready for a coke invasion. Blowkrieg. Jorge dug the plans. He’d thought about similar strategies when he was still at Österåker.

Jorge and JW sat in Fahdi’s apartment during a couple of days in November and made plans. Abdulkarim stopped by and discussed the big picture. Guidelines, strategy. How much blow did they think they were gonna need for the month of January? In which boroughs were they gonna start? Jorge name-dropped. People they had to get in touch with. Dealers to contract. People to consult. Fahdi brought pizzas and Coca-Cola.

Abdulkarim kept talking about import. They had to get more. Structure smarter smuggling.

Jorge taught JW everything he knew. The Östermalm-boy inhaled the knowledge like a teenager inhales beer at his first kegger. According to Abdulkarim, the dude was a whiz at dealing to the Stureplan crowd. Jorge had a knowledge advantage. Still, JW tried to seem worldly. Snobby. Jorge didn’t like his style.

Abdulkarim, shady but good. In every other sentence he praised Allah, in every other sentence he talked blow pricing. One night at Fahdi’s, he said, “Jorge, can I ask you a serious question?” Jorge nodded. Abdul continued, “What religion do you have?” Jorge shook his head. “Mom’s a Catholic. I believe in Tupac. He lives on.” Tried to joke. All ghettoites knew about Tupac, didn’t they? The Arab replied, “You know, there’s a war going on. You have to pick sides. You think all the Swedes are gonna accept you just ’cause you got cash? Allah can give you guidance.”

JW claimed the Arab hadn’t always been like that. Before: only talked blow. Allah was definitely a new player on the field.

At the end of November, Jorge hit the streets again. At first, he was paranoid. Kept looking around every third step. The cops or the Yugos reappeared from his nightmares. He slept at Fahdi’s. Every time the Lebanese dude came home at night, Jorge woke up, thought it was the 5-0 and that he was done for. After a few seconds, the sounds from the pornos calmed him. He realized that he actually looked different. Bonier. Blacker. Broader beak.

He went to a tanning bed regularly. Kept curling his hair. Tried to learn to use a pair of dark brown contacts Abdulkarim’d given him. The rhythm to his step got better with every day; he did his best to walk like a gangsta.

He needed his own place.

Jorge got in touch with Sergio and thanked him for his help. Blessed/praised him. Told him everything was cool but that they couldn’t see each other for a while. Sergio understood. He explained: His broken fingers were still crooked; his girlfriend was still shaking like a kitten.

Jorge hated the Yugos even more.

Wrote a text to Paola from a prepaid phone that Abdulkarim’d given him:
I’m alive and doing well. How are you? Don’t worry about anything. Say hi to Mama! Hugs /J.

Two guys, the Sven who’d taken care of him, Petter, and a Tunisian, Mehmed, became Jorge’s assistants. Looked up people in the Sollentuna area on his orders. Distributed grams to the right people. Sold on from there. Jorge himself worked the other projects. Places where his face, even if it was new, had never been known.

Everything went beautifully. In January, they grossed 400,000 kronor. After they’d deducted the purchase price and Abdulkarim’s cut: 150,000 kronor for Jorge, Petter, and Mehmed to split. Life was sweet. Jorge was royal—Jorgius Maximus.

One thought he hardly ever had time to think: Was this preordained? Was dealing C as far as an ordinary slumdog from a Stockholm ghetto could get? Was the race already rigged when his mama decided to leave Chile and try to become a normal citizen of a new country? It was like when you get on the subway and realize the train is going in the wrong direction. There’s nothing you can do. Can’t jump off the train. What happens if you pull the emergency brake? Jorge and his buds’d done that a ton as kids. The fuckin’ train didn’t stop in the middle of the track like you thought it would; it drove on to the next station before it stopped. What was the point of an emergency brake if you still had to go where you didn’t want to go?

Jorge’s project for the future slowly morphed. Leaving the country as quickly as possible was no longer a given. To get back at Radovan became more important. And there was still a long way to go on that road. He knew some about Mr. R.’s cocaine dealings from before—but not enough. Radovan must’ve thought J-boy knew a hell of a lot more than he did. If not, why send Mrado and Ratko after him? Jorge needed more, enough heavy shit to sink Radovan instantly.

Enough to put Paola out of danger.

Enough to sate his hate.

Abdulkarim’s plans took time. To establish the blow biz in the western boroughs as well as select areas in the south: Bredäng, Hägerstensåsen, Fruängen. And he was in the middle of planning/preparing a large shipment of snow. Maybe straight from Brazil.

Jorge’s new free life was keeping him busy.