Easy Money (3 page)

The gym: Serb hangout. Anabola-fixated. Bouncer farm.
Summa summarum:
Radovan-impregnated.

Mrado’d hung out at Fitness Club for four years.

He loved the place even though the machines were shitty. Made by Nordic Gym—an old brand. The walls weren’t too clean. From Mrado’s perspective: didn’t matter. The free weights and the clientele mattered. The overall interior: ordinary gym kitsch. Plastic plants in two white buckets with fake dirt. A TV tuned to Eurosport screwed into the wall above two stationary bikes. Constant Eurotechno from the speakers. A poster of Arnold Schwarzenegger posing from 1992, another of Ove Rytter from the 1994 World Gym Championships. Two posters of Christel Hansson, the chick with a six-pack and silicone tits. Sexy? Not Mrado’s style.

Niche: big guys. But not the biggest training freaks—those guys weren’t made of the right stuff.

Niche: guys who care about their bodies, size, and muscle mass but who also realize that some things trump training. Work can take priority. Honor takes priority. The right stings have priority. Highest priority always—Mr. R.

Radovan was in on 33 percent of the gym. Brilliant business concept. Open 24/7, all year round. Mrado’d even seen guys roaring in front of the mirrors on New Year’s Eve. Putting up big plates while the rest of the country watched fireworks and drank bubbly. Mrado was never there on nights like that. He had his business to run. His own standard times were between nine-thirty and eleven at night. The gym then: perfect.

The place was an asset in other ways. Recruitment base. Information magnet. Training camp. Mrado kept his eye on the meatheads.

The moment right after the workout in the locker room—one of the day’s best for Mrado. Body still warm from the workout, hair wet. The steam from the showers. The smell of shower gel and spray-on deodorant. The ache in his muscles.

Relaxation.

He put on his shirt. Left it unbuttoned. They didn’t make shirt collars wide enough for Mrado. The definition of a bull neck.

His workout for the day: focus on back, front of the thighs, and biceps. Worked a machine for his back. Slow pulling motions for the muscles in the small of his back. Important not to pull with your arms. Then back-ups. Training for the back, lower region. After that, thighs. Seven hundred and seventy pounds on the bar. He lay on his back and pushed upward. The angle between your lower leg and foot isn’t supposed to change, they say. According to Mrado: crap they tell rookies—if you know what you’re doing, you can stretch it out a little more. Maximum results. Concentration. Almost shat himself.

The last part: biceps. Muscle of all muscles. Mrado only used free weights.

Tomorrow: neck, triceps, and back of the thighs. Stomach: every day. It couldn’t get too much.

He kept a log with daily notes from every workout session at the reception desk. Mrado’s goals were clear. To go from 270 to 290 of pure muscle before February. Then change up his strategy. Shred. Burn fat. By summertime: only muscle. Clean, without surface fat. Would look damn good.

He trained at another place, too, the fighting club, Pancrease Gym. Once or twice a week. Guilt got to him. Should go more often. Important to build muscle power. But the power had to be used for something. Mrado’s work tool: fear. He went far on size alone. In the end, he went even further on what he learned at Pancrease: to break bones.

He usually hung around for about twenty minutes in the locker room. Soaked up that special amity that exists between big guys at a gym. They see each other, nod in recognition, exchange a few words about the training schedge for the day. Become friends. Here also: a gathering of Radovan honchos.

Big boy talking points: BMW’s latest 5 series. A shoot-out on the city’s south side over the weekend. New triceps training exercises.

Two dudes were shoveling tuna fish from one-pound containers. A third sipped on a gray protein drink. Bit into a PowerBar. The idea: to scarf as much protein as possible directly post-workout. Rebuild broken muscle cells into even bigger ones. An unknown face among the guys, a newbie.

Mrado was big. The new dude: gigantic.

He defied the regular ritual: Come a few times. Keep to yourself. Check out the scene. Show humility. Show respect. This guy, the giant, sat right smack in the middle. Seemed to think he was one of the guys. At least he’d kept his mouth shut so far.

Mrado put on his socks. Waited. Was always what he put on last. Wanted his feet to be completely dry.

“I’ve got a job this weekend, if anyone’s interested.”

“What is it?” Patrik asked. Swede. Ex-skinhead who’d left his own and been working for Mrado instead for a year now. His Nationalist tattoos were all over the place. Hard to distinguish. A green mess, mostly.

“Nothing too big. Just need a little help. The usual.”

“How the hell’re we supposed to work if we don’t know what it is?”

“Relax, Patrik. Don’t get so worked up you shit yourself. I said it’s the regular.”

“Sure, Mrado. I’m just fucking around. Sorry. But what’s the deal?”

“I need some help collecting. You guys know my routes through town.”

Ratko, a countryman, Mrado’s friend and squire, raised an eyebrow. “Collecting? Something more than the usual? Aren’t they paying up every weekend like they’re supposed to?”

“Yeah, most of ’em. But not all. You know how it is. Might be some new bars who want us, too.”

One of the few Arabs at the gym, Mahmud, was smearing wax in his hair. “Sorry, Mrado, I gotta work out. Do another session every night.”

“You work out too much,” Mrado replied. “You know what Ratko says. There are two things that’ll give you blisters up the ass: being too small in the slammer, so you have to take cock, and always pressing at the gym ’til you shit your pants like a toddler.”

Ratko laughed. “The job, will it take all night?”

“I think it might take a while. Ratko, you in? Patrik? Anyone else? I just need some backup. You know, just to make sure I don’t look like I’m alone.”

No one else offered.

The new giant opened his mouth, “Seeing how fucking tiny you are, you probably need an entire army of extras.”

Silence in the locker room.

Two possible alternatives. The giant thought he was funny, trying to become one of the guys. Or the giant was challenging him. Seeking a confrontation.

Mrado stared straight out into nothing. Poker-faced. The music from up in the gym was clearly audible. Mrado: the man who could paralyze an entire bodybuilding club.

“You’re a big guy. I’ll give you that. But lay low.”

“And why’s that? Is joking not allowed in here, or what?”

“Just lay low.”

Ratko tried to defuse the tension. “Hey, you, take it easy. Sure, you can joke around, but—”

The giant cut him off. “Fuck yourself. I’ll say what I want, when I want.”

The mood in the locker room like at a wake.

Same thought in everyone’s head: The new giant is playing Russian roulette.

Same question on everyone’s mind: Does he want to be carried out on a stretcher?

Mrado got up. Put his jacket on. “Hey, man, I think it’s best you go upstairs and do what you came here to do.”

Mrado walked out of the locker room. No problem. Nice and easy.

Twelve minutes later, in the upstairs gym area. The giant was standing in front of the mirror. A one-hundred-pound dumbbell in each hand. Swaying slightly and rhythmically. Veins like worms along his arms. Biceps as big as soccer balls. Arnold Schwarzenegger—you can hit the showers.

The guy grunted. Growled. Groaned.

Counted lifts. Six, seven … 

It was eleven-thirty at night. The gym was practically empty.

Mrado was standing by the reception desk, writing down the day’s workout in his notebook.

… eight, nine, ten …

Patrik came up. Talked to Mrado. Told him, “I’ll call you on Friday about the job. I think I’m in. That work?”

“Thanks, Patrik. You’re in. We can talk more when you call.”

… eleven, twelve. Pause. Rest a minute. But don’t let the muscles contract.

Mrado walked over to the giant. Stood next to him. Stared. Arms crossed.

The giant ignored him. Began the count over again.

One, two, three … 

Mrado picked up a sixty-five-pound dumbbell. Did two lifts in time with the giant. Heavy on freshly worked biceps.

… four, five.

Dropped the dumbbell on the giant’s foot.

He screamed like a stuck pig. Dropped his dumbbells. Grabbed his foot. Jumped on one leg. Eyes teared up.

Mrado thought, Poor, stupid oaf. You should’ve taken a step back and raised your guard instead.

Mrado swung with full force at the guy’s other leg. Three hundred and thirty pounds hit the floor. Mrado over him. Unexpectedly quick. Careful to keep his back to the window. Pulled his gun. Smith & Wesson Sigma .38. It was small but, according to Mrado, functional: It could easily be worn under a blazer without being seen.

People outside couldn’t see what was happening. To flash a live weapon—unusual for Mrado. Even more unusual at the gym.

The barrel pushed into the giant’s mouth.

Mrado released the safety. “Listen up, kiddo. My name is Mrado Slovovic. This is our club. Never so much as set foot here again. If you have any foot left, that is.”

The giant as passé as a reality TV celeb three months after the fact. Realized he’d lost face.

Maybe forever.

Maybe he was done for.

Mrado got up. Angled the gun down. Aimed at the giant. His back to the window. Important. The giant remained lying on the floor. Mrado stepped on his bad foot—265 pounds of Mrado on fresh-crushed toes.

The giant whimpered. Didn’t dare wriggle away.

Mrado took note: Was that a tear he saw in the corner of the guy’s eye?

He said, “Time to limp home, Tiny Tim.”

Curtain.

Life dr
aaagged.

When you’re locked up from eight every p.m. to seven every a.m., there’s a lot of time to think in your cell. One year, three months, and, now, sixteen days on the inside. Escapeproof, they said. Forget that.

Jorge was walking on eggshells. Craved smokes. Slept like shit. Back and forth to the crapper. Drove the screws nuts. Had to unlock his cell every time.

Slow nights brought serious thoughts. Memories.

He thought about his sister, Paola. She was doing well in college. Had chosen a different kind of life.
Suedi-
style with security. He adored her. Prepared things to say to her when he was out, when he could see her for real. Not just stare at the photo he’d pinned up over his cot.

He thought about his mother.

He refused to think about Rodriguez.

He thought about different plans. He thought about the Plan. Most of all: He was working out more than anyone else.

Every day he ran twenty laps around the compound, along the inside of the walls. The total distance: five miles. Every other day: a session in the prison gym. Leg muscles were top priority. Front, back of thighs, and calves. He used the machines. Meticulously. Stretched like crazy after. People thought he’d lost it. The goal: 440 yards in less than fifty seconds, two miles in less than eleven minutes. Could work, now that he’d cut back on smokes.

The area was well groomed. The grass well cut. The bushes low. No tall trees—the risk was too obvious. Gravel paths around the buildings. Good to train on. Big open lawns. Two soccer goals. A small basketball court. A couple of outdoor bench presses. Could’ve been a nice college campus. What sabotaged the collegiate snapshot: a twenty-three-foot wall.

Running: Jorge’s thing. His build was sinewy, like a guerrilla soldier’s. Not yolked, no extra fat. Veins protruding on his forearms. A nurse in junior high once said he was every blood bank’s dream. Jorge, young and stupid, told her to dream of someone else ’cause she was such a fucking dog. No checkup for him that time.

His hair was straight, dark brown, combed back. Eyes: light brown. Despite everything he’d been through in the asphalt jungle, there was an innocent look in his eye. Made it easier to sell snow when it came to that.

They slaved in the workshops during the weeks. Were allowed out twice a day: one hour for lunch and again between five o’clock and dinnertime at seven. After that: lockdown. Just you and your cell. They got more time on the weekends. Played ball. Hit the weights. The gangs shot the shit. Smoked, chatted, sneaked a roach when the COs weren’t watching. Jorge worked out.

He’d started studying for his GED. It was appreciated by the prison administration. Gave him believable reasons to be by himself. He would sit with the cell door open and read between five o’clock and dinnertime every night. The show worked. The screws nodded approvingly.
Putos.

The cell was small: sixty-five square feet painted light brown. The five-square-foot window had three steel bars across it to prevent escape. They were painted white, with nine inches between them. But the king, Ioan Ursut, had done it. Dieted for three months and smeared himself with butter. Jorge thought about what would’ve been the hardest to get through, the head or the shoulders.

Spartan decoration. A cot with a thin foam mattress, a desk with two shelves above it and a wooden chair, a closet and another shelf for storage. Nowhere to hide anything. A wooden strip intended for posters ran around the length of the room. No tape was allowed directly on the wall—there was a risk that drugs or other stuff could be hidden behind whatever was put up. Jorge’d tacked up the photo of his sister and one poster. A black-and-white classic: Che with a tangled beard and beret.

The screws searched the cell at least twice a week. Looked for drugs, pruno, or larger metal objects. Man, they were pissing in the wind. The place was crawling with weed, hooch, and Subutex pills.

The environment made him claustrophobic. Other days, he was riding high—thoughts of the escape were like a supertrip. At times, he acted like a fucking tweak fiend. Avoided everything and everyone. Dangerous/unnecessary. Just one tiny suspicion and his plan could be shot to hell—snitching fags sucked CO cock.

He thought about his background. Slyly racist teachers in Sollentuna. Welfare whities, pussy profs, cocky cops. All the right circumstances for a kid from the projects to make all the predictable mistakes. They didn’t know shit about Life. Justice relegated to the rules of the streets. But Jorge never whined. Especially not now. Soon, he’d be out. He thought about trafficking blow. Collected ideas. Analyzed. Spun schemes. Learned from Rolando and the other guys.

Had strange dreams. Slept poorly. Tried to read. Jacked off. Listened to Eminem, the Latin Kings, and Santana. Thought about his training. Jacked off again.

Time cr
aaaaawled.

Jorge waited. Anticipated. Contemplated. Fluctuated between rushes of joy and regret. Took himself more seriously than ever. Had never thought this much about any one thing in his entire life. It had to work.

Jorge had no one on the outside ready to take big risks. The consequence: He had to be his own fixer. But he didn’t have to do everything.

Rolando’d never returned to their conversation about flight in the chow hall. The dude seemed trustworthy. If he was gonna sing, word should’ve spread by now. But Jorge had to test him more. Double-check that it was time to reveal parts of his plan. The fact was, he needed Rolando’s help.

The first real problem: He needed to speak to certain people and he had to prepare stuff. Needed hours outside the prison. Österåker didn’t grant regular parole anymore. But prisoners could get guarded parole if they had specific reasons. Jorge’d applied two months ago. Had to fill out form 426A. Specified “study and see family” as his reasons. Sounded okay. Anyway, it was true.

They approved of his studies. Liked that he didn’t belong to a gang. He was perceived as orderly. Didn’t mess around. Never high. Never cocky. Obedient without being a pussy.

They granted him one day, August 21, for studies and family relations. He even got permission to shop and see friends. First day on the outside since he’d been locked up. They made a schedule. Would be a hectic day. Fantastic. Maybe he’d pull the whole thing off; he had to do a good job. Not a chance that J-boy was gonna rot in Österåker for the rest of his life.

The one problem: This kind of parole always came with three screws.

D-day arrived: twelve hours of well-planned hysteria.

Jorge and the COs took the prison minivan into Stockholm at 9:00 a.m. Straight to the Stockholm Public Library.

Jorge’d joked with the COs on the ride in. “Am I going to see some Nazi or something?”

They didn’t get it. “What do you mean?”

“A libr-ARIAN.”

They howled.

Spirits were high in the minivan.

The day was off to a good start.

Fifty minutes later, they parked in the city.

On Odengatan.

Got out.

Walked up the stairs to the public library. Inside: the rotunda. Jorge dug the high ceiling. The COs eyed him. Was he into architecture, or what?

He asked to see Riitta Lundberg. The super librarian. He’d told her his story over the phone already: He was in a penitentiary, studying to get his GED at a distance. Needed a proper high school transcript to start a new life on the outside. Wah, wah. Now he was doing an independent study about the history of Österåker and the surrounding area in general. Was gonna study the cultural development of the place.

Riitta showed up. Looked like Jorge thought she would: Communist-academic in a knit sweater. A necklace that looked like a glazed pinecone. Straight from central casting.

The screws spread out in the rotunda. Sat by the exits. Kept an eye on him.

Jorge used his velvety voice. Toned down his ghetto accent. “Hi, are you Riitta Lundberg? I’m Jorge. We spoke on the phone earlier.”

“Of course. You’re the one writing about the cultural history of Österåker.”

“Right. I think it’s a really interesting area. It’s been inhabited for thousands of years.” Jorge’d done his homework. There were brochures at the prison. Certain books could be checked out from the prison library. He felt like the master of cheap tricks.

As long as the screws didn’t hear.

She bought it. Had prepared what he needed after their phone conversation. A few books about the area. But, above all, maps and aerial photographs.

Sweet, sweet Riitta.

The screws checked that the windows in the reading room were high enough off the ground. Then they waited in the great hall, by the exits.

All clear. They were clocking
nada.

Three hours of intellectual quibbling with maps and photos. Wasn’t used to this kind of stuff. But he wasn’t an idiot. Had checked the maps in the phone book and the map books in the prison library weeks before to learn how they were drawn. Regretted cutting geography class in school.

Spread the papers out in front of him. Asked to borrow a ruler. Went through them all, map by map. Aerial photo by aerial photo. Picked out the maps that showed the terrain and the roads best. Picked out the most detailed photos. Looked for nearby roads, the closest wooded areas, clear paths. Studied the guard towers he knew of, their placement and relation to one another. Checked out the connecting highway. Possible alternative routes. Learned the signs for marsh, hill, forest. Saw where the ground was okay. Visualized. Memorized. Measured. Marked. Mused.

What’s the best way out?

The inside: two one-story main buildings with the inmate cells and a two-story building with workshops and the chow hall. Then there was an infirmary, a several-story building for the screws, a chow hall for the screws, and visitation areas. Between the first- and the last-named buildings was an additional wall.

The outside of the facility: around a hundred feet of clear-cut area, with the exception of a few bushes, brush, and smaller trees. Then miles and miles of forest. But there were small back roads.

He closed his eyes. Committed everything to memory. Studied the pictures and maps again. Went through the pile. Made sure he understood which lines indicated difference in height level. Which were roads. Which were watercourses. Checked the scales. Different for different maps. One inch was fifty feet, one inch was three hundred feet, and so on. Jorge: more meticulous than he’d ever thought he could be. Created an overview of the area.

Finally, he had three alternative spots for the escape and three for a waiting car. He made a copy of a map. Marked the spots on the map. Numbered them. Spots A, B, and C. Spots one, two, and three. Memorized them.

Double-checked everything.

Walked out.

The COs’d been bored. Jorge apologized. Had to stay on good terms with them today. They looked pleased that he was done.

Next stop, the most important of the day: Jorge’s cousin, Sergio. Brother in arms from his time in Sollentuna. The key to the Plan.

Jorge plus screws stepped into the McDonald’s by the public library. The burger smell brought back memories.

They were met by a broad grin.

“
¡Primo!
Good to see you, man.”

Sergio: tricked out in a black tracksuit. Hairnet like some kinda cook. Dapped knuckles in greeting. Ghetto classic. Unnecessary of his cuz to roll in all gangsta in front of the screws.

They sat down. Chatted. Kept to Spanish. Sergio treated all four of them to burgers. Heavenly. The screws sat at another table. Ate like real pigs.

McDonald’s seemed more modern since Jorge’d been there last. New interior. Chairs in light wood. The pictures of the burgers were sexed up. The chicks working the registers looked sexed up, too. More salads and greens. In Jorge’s opinion: rabbit food. And still it was the sign of freedom. Sure, it sounded soft, cheesy, but McDonald’s was special to J-boy. His favorite restaurant. A meeting spot. Ghetto base feed. Soon he’d be able to hang there whenever he wanted.

He felt stressed. Had to get to the point.

Briefly described his escape plan to Sergio. “Six different spots are marked on a map. The car should be parked at a spot marked with a number. On one of the spots marked with a letter, you’re gonna do the rest of what I wrote in the instructions. I don’t know what spots are best yet. I have to go back and think about it. I’ll write you a letter telling you. I’ll put the letter and the number of the spots in the third line from the bottom. A copy of the map and the instructions are folded inside page forty-five in a book called
Legal Philosophies.
The writer’s name is Harris. At the public library, over there. You with me?” Jorge pointed.

Sergio: not the sharpest tool in the shed, but he understood this kinda shit. Jorge would be indebted to him forever, even though he had to take care of the planning himself. Sergio would do the best he could to deliver.

Jorge asked about his sister. The smell of McDonald’s in combination with memories of Paola. Junk food equaled nostalgia.

The rest of their conversation was nonsense. They talked about their family, old friends from Sollentuna, and chicks. Put on a show for the screws.

It was time to roll.

Jorge kissed Sergio four times on each cheek when they parted ways. Exchanged Chilean pleasantries.

It was already four o’clock. At seven o’clock, he and the screws had to go back.

Next stop: He was gonna buy shoes. Had ordered catalogs. Read up. Called the stores. Researched the hell out of it. Gel, Air, Torsion, and the rest of the techniques for comfy kicks. God knows how much crap/fake technology there was. You had to see through the bull. Really buy good stuff. The two desired features: good running shoes—important; best shock resistance ability on the market—even more important. The screws thought it’d be fun to check out lame sporting goods stores. Jorge in the know. Stadium on Kungsgatan had the biggest inventory.

They drove the minivan into a parking garage on Norrlandsgatan. Jorge asked to drive the last short bit. The screws said no.