Easy Money (29 page)

Things had to turn soon. Things would turn.

He would get everything squared away. Radovan’s frostiness—a bad omen. R. sensed that Mrado didn’t see him as he had Jokso. And there was a difference. Jokso’d been a true guru, the man who’d brought the Serbs to the absolute top of Stockholm’s underworld. United, strong, loyal. Radovan didn’t have what it took. A weakling, a divider. Two-faced. Mrado was beginning to envision a path of his own: Maybe one day it’d be him and Nenad, alone.

But it would work out. He wasn’t gonna think about all that crap today. Today was his day of visitation with Lovisa. Planned. Pictured. Pined for. Wednesday night to Thursday night. Too short—but still.

The night before, they’d rented the latest Disney movie. Popped popcorn. Drunk orange soda. Mrado’d fried meatballs and boiled potatoes. Even made sauerkraut. Helped Lovisa peel, cut, and squirt the ketchup. Unfortunately, she didn’t like the sauerkraut, the only Serbian thing on her plate.

What an idyllic fucking scene.

The whole day was theirs. Last time, it’d all gone to hell. Mrado hadn’t been able to pick Lovisa up from school, had to flex his muscles for a junkie in Tumba who’d threatened Nenad. The guy’d gotten hold of Nenad’s number somehow and called home to his wife and kids. Go ahead, shoot up and buy as much smack as you want, but don’t disturb Nenad’s family. Mrado and Ratko’d looked the bum up. Punished him: broken nose and severe cuts to the forehead. The effect of getting your head pounded into a concrete wall in a stairwell at Gödingevägen 13.

The duality: Mrado wanted to see his daughter, but he still often managed to fuck it up. He always regretted it after. Rationalized: Someone’s gotta make cash to give Lovisa a good life. Better that than just whining, like her mom, Annika “Cunt” Sjöberg, did.

It was eight-thirty. Lovisa was watching morning cartoons. Her hair, one big bird’s nest. Mrado lingered in bed for three minutes. Got up. Kissed Lovisa on the forehead. Went down to the 7-Eleven and bought Tropicana with extra pulp, milk, and granola. Prepared breakfast: brewed coffee, poured out the juice, buttered a piece of bread for Lovisa.

They sat in front of the TV. Lovisa made a mess on the floor. Mrado drank coffee.

Two hours later, they were on their way to the Gärdet area of the city by bus. Mrado’d chosen not to drive because of all the complaints hurled at him about speeding with Lovisa in the car. Hated that he gave way to Annika’s criticism, but it was better to be careful, at least in the inner city.

The snow lay like a thick white blanket over the big field by Gärdet. Lovisa talked about a snowman she’d built at school.

“Me and Olivia built the biggest one. We borrowed a carrot from the lunch ladies as a nose.”

“That sounds really nice. How many snowballs did you use to make him?”

“Three. Then we put a hat on him. But the boys ruined it.”

“That was mean of them. What did you do when they did that?”

“Told the teacher, of course.”

Mrado could hardly believe it himself; he glanced around the bus. No one seemed to notice—here was the guy who’d crushed a junkie’s head two weeks ago and now was being the perfect father figure.

They got off the bus at Tekniska Museet, the museum of technology.

Lovisa ran toward the machines and installations right outside the entrance. She was wearing a red puffy jacket with fluffy stuff around the collar. On her legs: green snow pants. On her feet: leather boots for kids. Mrado’s contribution: the boots. His daughter wasn’t gonna go around in crappy foam-rubber shoes.

His daughter was so full of life and careless energy. Just like he’d been as a kid in Södertälje. He remembered: As a three-year-old, Lovisa used to run headfirst downstairs—not a thought about falling. Just rush on down. Full attack. One thing was certain: Her energy wouldn’t be wasted on the same stuff as his.

Mrado reached the installations. He was cold. Lovisa jumped up on a platform in front of something that looked like a giant satellite dish. Mrado walked up to her. Lovisa asked him to read the sign. Something about whispers being audible despite the distance. Lovisa didn’t get it. Mrado understood.

Showed her. He walked over to an identical satellite dish twenty yards away.

“Stay there, Lovisa. Daddy’s gonna show you something really cool.”

The whispers were audible despite the distance, as if they’d been standing with their mouths up to each other’s ears. Lovisa loved it. She whispered to him about her snowman. About Shrek. About Daddy’s meatballs and sauerkraut the night before.

They laughed.

Inside the museum, they checked their coats and her snow pants. Mrado’d prepared himself—he was wearing a blazer under his jacket. Didn’t want the holster to show. It smelled like a cafeteria. Mrado’d done his homework—after they made the rounds, they would have a snack in the café.

They walked from room to room. Teknorama: the museum’s experimental wing for kids.

In one room: power measurements. Showed how you could become stronger than you really were. Pulleys/blocks/levers/screws/wedges. Mrado on the short end of a seesaw, Lovisa on the long end. Mrado: 265 pounds of pure muscle. Lovisa: fifty-seven pounds of girl. Still, her side weighed down. Mrado shot up. Seemed as though Lovisa was heavier than Daddy. Lovisa clucked. Mrado’s spirit: laughed.

They went on. Tested machines/inventions/installations/mechanisms in every room. Lovisa chattered. Mrado asked questions. Swedish/Serbian mixed.

After they’d had a snack, they went home. Lovisa watched the Disney movie again. Mrado prepared a real lunch: sausage with whole-wheat macaroni, ketchup, and salad. They rested an hour on the couch. Napped. Lovisa in Mrado’s arms. Mrado thought, I don’t need anything more in life.

On their way out. Lovisa put on her snow pants and jacket. Mrado didn’t give a shit if Annika complained—there was no way he was taking public transportation to the gym.

Four o’clock in the afternoon. Not a lot of people at the gym. Mrado worked his legs. Grimaced. Growled. Groaned.

Lovisa played on the mats on the floor. Mrado tried to smile between grimaces. Lovisa had been here before, knew the drill.

A guy from the reception desk crouched down by the mat. Talked baby talk. “What did you do with Daddy today?”

Mrado loved Lovisa’s reply: “Why are you talking like Grandma?”

It was five-thirty. Mrado: watching the clock. The mood was already bad after the blunder two weeks ago when Lovisa’d waited for him for forty-five minutes outside school. Mrado’d been off cracking the junkie’s skull. Finally, the teachers’d called Annika, who came and picked her up. Not good.

After the gym, they drove to Gröndal. The freeway was clogged with rush-hour traffic. Listened to Serbian music in the car. Lovisa tried to sing along.

Turned off above Stora Essingen. Drove down to Gröndal. Drove seventy in the forty-five zone. Mrado couldn’t help himself. Hit the breaks. Did twenty on Gröndalsvägen. Mrado reined himself in. Kept to the speed limit.

Drove carefully all the way up to her apartment building.

Dropped her off at the curb. Waited in the car.

Saw her enter the key code to unlock the door to the apartment building, open the door with both hands—it was heavy—disappear inside.

Away.

He was elated, high on human warmth.

A day of fatherhood.

The day after his visitation day: back to reality. Over the past couple of months, Mrado’d met with the most important people/leaders of Stockholm and middle Sweden’s underworld. Robbers/rapists/murderers/drug lords—it didn’t matter what they’d done as long as they had influence.

Unanticipated success. Mrado, surprised. They listened, meditated, deliberated. Most of them came back with answers. They were in line with his thinking: Dealing with the pigs demanded a market division and an end to the war.

The result: The deal creating Stockholm’s criminal cartels was taking shape. Could be a triumph for Mrado.

The downside: Nova Project reaped its victims, including some of the Yugos. Two of Goran’s men’d been collared. On suspicion of aggravated tax fraud.

A summary of the market division: The Bandidos’d agreed to drop their coat-check racketeering and cocaine dealings in the inner city. Instead, they’d increase the protection racket, especially in the southern boroughs. The HA would increase their booze smuggling in all of middle Sweden. Reduce their protection racket. Expand whatever financial crime schemes they wanted. The Naser gang: difficult to sway. They were gonna keep running H as usual. The Original Gangsters: did CIT heists all over Sweden. Not really a competitive field. On the other hand, they’d promised to reduce their blow biz in the boroughs. They had the run of the northern boroughs. Fucked For Life kept the weed business in southern Stockholm, would reduce their scope in the north.

Mrado’d organized it all. Valued the different markets. Shares. Areas. Weighed. Analyzed. Talked to over forty different people. Lobbied. Buttered up when necessary. Been hard as bone when the situation demanded it.

Most people trusted him, treated him like a Yugo with honor. Saw the advantages to his proposal. Saw the risks with Nova.

Summa summarum:
He was close to a market division. Best of all, the coat checks in the inner city, his own pet project, were becoming protected ground.

According to Mrado: He was a genius.

Left to convince: Magnus Lindén, the Wolfpack Brotherhood.

They were meeting up at the Golden Cave pub in Fittja. Neutral ground.

Mrado loved his Benz more than usual. It was the effect of the crayons Lovisa’d left behind. Mrado’d pinned the box on the dashboard like an icon. Crayola. Thought, Soon it’ll be Wednesday again.

No traffic. Smooth driving. He thought about the Wolfpack Brotherhood.

Created by a couple of inmates at Kumla seven years ago. The founder was the self-appointed president, Danny “the Hood” Fitzpatrick. According to him, he got the idea of creating the Brotherhood after a couple of years on the inside, when he “realized that there were a lot of us who had to live with a reality where the cops threw tear gas in our apartments now and then and came after us with machine guns.” The goal’d been to copy the Hells Angels’ hierarchy: hang-around, prospect, member, sergeant at arms, and president. But after a couple of years, the shit really hit the fan. The Brotherhood’s president found himself in a power struggle with Radovan’s brother. War broke out between the Brotherhood and the Yugos. Went on for two years; three people lost their lives. But that was many years ago now. The Brotherhood had gotten a new president: Magnus Lindén. The Yugos calmed down. But the scars remained.

Mrado parked the car. Before he locked it, he said his customary prayer to the Car God.

Didn’t feel anything before his meeting with Lindén besides a weak hope for a successful market division. No nerves. No fear.

He entered the pub.

Spotted Magnus Lindén right away. The dude exuded cruelty.

The pub was almost empty. A middle-aged woman behind the bar was stacking glasses. Lunch had been over for two hours. The place was dimly lit. In the background: Led Zeppelin, “Stairway to Heaven.” A classic.

Lindén rose, arms hanging by his sides. Not so much as a hint of a greeting. Was rocking some serious attitude.

Mrado in his new role as mediator: ignored that Lindén ignored. Extended his hand. Met Lindén’s gaze.

He remained standing like that for three seconds too long.

Lindén backed down. Extended his hand. Shook Mrado’s.

“Welcome. Want something to eat?”

The ice was broken.

They ordered beer. Made small talk.

Mrado knew the game by now. Discussed engines, cars, bikes.

Lindén imparted his words of wisdom, sounded a lot like HA philosophy to Mrado’s ears: “If you drive Japanese, you’re a faggot.”

Mrado agreed. Honestly. He’d owned a lot of cars in his life, but never an Asian, and he planned to keep it that way.

The conversation was easy.

Lindén’s approach was different from that of a lot of others. The dude was a roaring racist. Kept sliding into talk about nigger decay/commie Jews and the Swedish Resistance Movement, some sort of organization made up of old skinheads. Mrado was uninterested. Where was the money in this bullshit?

Lindén shook his head. “Why’d I think a person of the Slavic race would understand?”

Mrado got fed up. “Listen, li’l Hitler. I don’t give a fuck about your race theories. You know what I want. It’s about all of us. Cut the bullshit and answer the questions already. Will you agree to the market division or not?”

Risky to push Lindén. He’d made a bloody mush of people for less. But Mrado wasn’t “people.”

Lindén nodded. Had made up his mind.

It was decided.

Mrado on a happiness high on his way home.

Called Ratko with the news.

Called Nenad.

“Sealed the deal with the Brotherhood, too. Like I told you, we’re sitting pretty. Our markets are protected.”

“Damn, you’ve done a fucking fantastic job, Mrado. Pray to God they keep their promises. The blow biz in the boroughs is soaring at record speed. The sky’s the limit. We’re gonna do some serious revving up now.”

“Real good odds.”

Mrado’d been thinking about where Nenad stood for a long time. Was he with or against the boss? Mrado’d heard the talk, knew that Nenad’d had conflicts with Radovan, too. There was a possibility that Nenad was as ticked off as he was. A possibility he had to test.

Mrado went for it. “No matter what Radovan does, we’re safe.”

“Yes, no matter what Radovan does.”

Nenad paused. They were silent.

Then he went on. “Mrado, we’re on the same team, right?”

Nenad tested Mrado the way Mrado’d planned on testing him.

Nenad in the game. Mrado and Nenad on the same side against Radovan.

* * *