Easy Money (4 page)

They got out of the car. One of the screws asked a guy who’d just parked if he had change for a twenty. Needed coins for the meter. The screw bought a parking pass.

They went out into the street.

Sweet feeling. Downtown. Kungsgatan. The pulse. August heat. Jorge remembered. He’d rolled down K-street in a BMW 530i, also known as a cocaine sled. That was two days before he’d been picked up. Sure, the car’d been on a long-term loan from a friend, but still. He’d been stylin’. Livin’ life. Livin’ cash. Livin’ booty. Livin’ his reputation.

And now: Jorge was back in town.

What’d he learned since then? At least he knew this: The next gig he did would be well planned. That’s when he realized what made him different from so many others. He felt biggest/best/ballin’. But that’s exactly what everybody else in his hood thought about themselves, too. The difference was that Jorge, deep inside, felt that maybe it wasn’t so—and that was his strength. That would always make him think twice in the future. Always plan, prepare—make the impossible possible.

He kept dreaming.

Looked around. The screws were positioned around him.

The crowd was moving on the street. To the rhythm of free life. He stared. Hot
chicas.
He’d almost forgotten—the bitches were so much more
caliente
in the summer than in the winter. But they were the same chicks. How was that possible? A mystery.

And soon Jorge’d be out. Would roll down Kungsgatan. Grab a lot a boot
ay.
Fix all the chicks. Be Jorge again.

Joder,
he longed to be out. He’d been given parole. Just that was superfly. Alone with three COs on Kungsgatan. What an opportunity. All you had to do was book it. He was fit. Strong. Knew the city like the back of his hand. He was a naughty, naughty little boy. On the other hand, the risk was too great. The screws were being nice today, but they knew their job. They were tense, hyperaware. Kept careful watch over him. Were in total control. Could lose it over nothing. Would have free rein. Cancel the parole. Make it impossible for him to complete his actual plan.

He wasn’t prepared. Couldn’t escape now. The fuckup risk was too big.

The salesclerk was hot. Jorge: horny. But the shoes were more important than pussy. They had the model he wanted. He already knew that. Asics 2080 DuoMax with gel in the heel. Still, he wandered around the store for a while. It was big. Him and his bros used to lift shit here when they were thirteen and Sollentuna grew too small for them. Again: flashbacks from his teenage years. First at McDonald’s and now in the sports store. What the hell was going on?

He looked around the other departments for show. Bought a pair of track pants and a basketball jersey in addition to the shoes.

Five o’clock rolled around. Cool on time. Just one more thing. He was meeting a friend, a former screw from the prison, Walter Bjurfalk. The dude’d resigned of his own accord a year ago. The COs thought it was gonna be nice. Didn’t think it was strange that Jorge and the ex-screw were meeting up. Some screws become friends with inmates; that’s just how it goes. The surveillance COs had no idea why Walter’d really quit.

They were sitting in Galway’s on Kungsgatan: Sven hangout. Swedeville. The place was decorated like a typical Irish pub. Signs on the wall:
HIGHGATE & WALSALL BREWING CO LTD.
Trying to be clever:
IN GOD WE TRUST. ALL THE REST, CASH OR PLASTIC.
It reeked of beer. Felt homey.

The screws sat down a few tables away and ordered coffee. Jorge ordered a seltzer, light on the bubbles. Beer wasn’t allowed on guarded parole. Walter ordered a Guinness. It took ten minutes for the bartender to pour it.

They chatted. Memories from last summer, when there’d been mini riots at Österåker. How the guys who’d gated out were doing. How the ones who’d gone straight back in were doing. Finally, after a half an hour, Jorge lowered his voice, asked what he’d come here to ask.

“Walter, I’ve something serious to discuss with you.”

Walter looked up from his beer. Looked intrigued. “Shoot.”

“I’m gonna fly. No way I’m gonna rot three more years in prison. I’ve got an idea that might work. I trust you, Walter. You were always a good CO. I know why you asked to resign. We all know. You were good to us. You helped us. Would you help me now? I’ll make it worth your while,
claro.
”

Jorge was 99 percent about Walter. The last percent: Walter could double-game him. In that case, J-boy was a goner.

Walter leapt right in: “Breaking out of Österåker is hard. Only three guys’ve done it in the past ten years. Each one of them’s been picked up within a year of the escape. ’Cause that’s the hardest part, to lay low
after
the escape. Just see what happened to Tony Olsson and those other guys. Your plan’s got to be damn solid. Or else you’re fucked. You know, those guys were lying doggo under some bridge when the military forces plucked ’em. They didn’t have a chance in hell. On the other hand, they were violent sons of bitches, so whatever. Fuck ’em. I’m not in that field anymore, so to speak, so I don’t know if I can help you. But I’ll give it a try for some jingle. Tell me what you need. I never snitch; you know that.”

Jorge’d made up his mind. He was gonna put his chips on Walter.

“I need to know a couple of things from you. Five large if you can help.”

“Like I said, I’ll try.”

Weird feeling. Sitting in a pub—with the screws only a few feet away—talking escape plans with an ex-screw. Had to strain his face. Control his body movements. Make sure you couldn’t tell how stressed he was by looking at him. Jorge put his hands in his lap under the table. Crossed his legs. Picked at a napkin. Tore it to shreds. Tried to focus.

“Two questions. First, I want to know what routines the COs have to check on us when we’re in the rec yard. Second, I need to know how fast the COs could pick up a chase if someone skipped over one of the walls, probably one on the south side, by D Block.”

Walter sipped his beer. Got foam on his upper lip.

Started talking about what he’d done last summer. Uninteresting chatter.

Jorge looked at him. Walter was thinking, calculating, but he wanted his mouth to run in case the screws looked over.

Jorge glanced at them. The screws were talking. Chilling.

It was cool.

He calmed down.

Walter knew a lot. Went over it. Good info. Useful. For example: the placement of the guard towers, escape preparation plans, communications codes, established routines. Times for guard change, schedules for frisking, alarm systems. Plans A and B, where A was in case of an individual inmate’s escape attempt, and B in the case of several inmates’ escape attempts. Skipped C: plan in case of riot. Walter’s knowledge was golden.

Jorge, eternally grateful. Promised to get Walter his five grand within a few weeks.

The screws waved.

Time to go back.

J-boy to himself: Rubber’s rolled on and I’m ready to dip.

No one in the posh parts of Stockholm knew the following about Johan Westlund, alias JW, the brats’ brattiest brat: He was an ordinary citizen, a loser, a tragic Sven. He was a bluff, a fake who was playing a high-stakes double game. He lived the high life with the boyz two to three nights a week and scraped by the rest of the time to make ends meet.

JW pretended to be an ultrabrat. Really he was the world’s biggest penny-pinching pauper.

He ate pasta with ketchup five days a week, never went to the movies, jumped turnstiles, stole toilet paper from the university bathrooms, lifted food from the grocery store and Burlington socks from high-end department stores, cut his own hair, bought his designer clothes secondhand, and sneaked in for free at the gym when the receptionist wasn’t looking. He rented a room from a certain Mrs. Reuterskiöld—well, Putte, Fredrik, Nippe, and the other guys did know about that. Being a boarder was the only thing about his real situation that he hadn’t been able to hide. It was accepted somehow.

JW became a pro at being cheap. He wore contacts only on the days he had to and used the one-month disposable kind much longer than recommended, until his eyes itched like hell. He always brought his own bags when he went grocery shopping to avoid the tiny bag fee, bought Euroshopper-brand food, poured budget vodka from Germany into Absolut bottles—miraculously, no one ever seemed to notice.

JW lived like a rat when no one was watching. Big-time.

He just barely earned enough to make it work. He got money courtesy of the welfare state: a student allowance, student loans, and housing assistance. But that didn’t go far with his habits. He found salvation in a part-time job—as a gypsy cabbie.

Balancing the checkbook was hard. He easily dropped two thousand kronor on a night out with the boyz. With luck, he could pull in the same amount on a good night in the cab. His strengths as a driver: He was young, looked nice, and wasn’t an immigrant. Everybody would brave a ride with JW.

The challenge of the game was becoming one of them, truly. He read etiquette books, learned the jargon, the rules, and the unwritten codes. Listened to the way they talked, the nasal sound of it, worked hard to eliminate his northern accent. He learned what slang to use and in which contexts, understood what clothes were
correct,
what ski resorts in the Alps were
in,
which vacation destinations in Sweden were
it.
The list wasn’t long: Torekov, Falsterbo, Smådalarö, et cetera. He knew the trick was always to spend with class. Buy a Rolex watch, buy a pair of Tod’s shoes, buy a Prada jacket, buy a Gucci folder in alligator skin for your lecture notes. He looked forward to the next step, buying a BMW cab in order to realize the last of the three
b
’s: backslick, beach tan, BMW.

JW was good; it worked. High society took him in. He counted. He was considered fun, hot, and generous. But he knew they still noticed something. There were gaps in his story; they weren’t familiar with his parents, hadn’t heard of the place he went to school. And it was hard to keep the lies straight. Sometimes they wondered if he’d really been on a spring break trip to Saint Moritz. No one who’d been there at the time remembered having seen him. Had he really lived in Paris, pretty close to the Marais? His French wasn’t exactly super. They could feel it: Something was off, but they didn’t know what. JW recognized what his challenges were: to create effective camouflage, to fit in and seem genuine to the core. To be accepted.

And why? He didn’t even know the answer. Not because he didn’t think about it—he knew he was driven by a desire for validation, to feel special. But he didn’t get why he’d chosen this particular way of doing it, which was the easiest route to humiliation. If he was found out, he might as well leave the city. Sometimes he thought maybe that’s exactly why he kept pushing it, because of some self-destructive desire to see how far he could take it. To be forced to deal with the shame of being found out. Deep down, he probably couldn’t have cared less about Stockholm. He wasn’t from there. Didn’t feel as though the city had anything profound to offer—other than attention, parties, chicks, the glamorous life, and money. Superficialities. It could be any city, really. But right now, the capital was where it was at.

JW had a real story. He came from Robertsfors, a small town above Umeå, in the rural north, and moved to Stockholm when he was a junior in high school. He took the train down without his parents, with only two suitcases and the address to his dad’s cousin in hand. He stayed there three days, then found the room with Mrs. Reuterskiöld. Flung himself out into the world he now inhabited. Changed style, clothes, and haircut. Enrolled in Östra Real, a premier brat high school. Hung out with the right crowd. His mom and dad were worried at first, but there wasn’t much they could do once he’d made up his mind. After a while they calmed down—they were happy if he was happy.

JW rarely thought about his parents. For long stretches of time, it was like they didn’t even exist. His old man was a foreman at a lumber factory, pretty much as far from JW’s life plan as you could get. His mom worked at a job-placement agency. She was so proud that he was going to college.

What he did think about, a lot, was the family’s own tale. An unusual, unsolved tragedy. An incident that all of Robertsfors knew about but never mentioned.

JW’s sister, Camilla, had been missing for four years and no one knew what’d happened to her. It took weeks before anyone even knew she was missing. Her apartment in Stockholm revealed no leads. Her phone conversations with Mom and Dad didn’t give any clues, either. No one knew anything. Maybe it was just a mistake. Maybe she’s grown tired of it all and moved abroad. Maybe she was a movie star in Bollywood, living it up. JW couldn’t deal with home after it happened. His dad, Bengt, had buried himself in drink, self-pity, and silence. His mom, Margareta, had tried to keep it all together. Believed it was an accident. Thought it would help to get involved in the local Amnesty chapter, work longer hours, go to a therapist and talk about her nightmares, so that she, since she was reminded of them twice a week by the damn shrink, dreamed them over and over again. But JW knew what he believed: no fucking way Camilla would just up and leave somewhere without being in touch for four years. She was really gone. And deep down, everyone probably knew it.

It kept eating at him. Someone was responsible and hadn’t paid the price.

The mood at home risked crushing him. He had to move. At the same time, he was forced to retrace his sister’s footsteps. Camilla, who was three years older, had also left Robertsfors early, when she was seventeen. She wanted bigger things than to waste her life away behind some painted picket fence. Mom claimed that when they were little, Camilla and JW’d fought more than other kids. They had zero positive connection. But after she’d been in the city for two years, a relationship began to develop. He started getting texts, sometimes short phone calls, occasional e-mails. They reached a kind of understanding, that the two of them wanted the same thing. JW could see it now, they’d been a lot alike. Camilla in JW’s imagination: the queen of Stureplan. The party’s hottest
it
girl. Elevated. Well known. Exactly where he wanted to be.

The gypsy cab gig was easy. He borrowed a car from Abdulkarim Haij, an Arab he’d met at a bar over a year ago. He picked it up with a full tank and returned it with a full tank. The other city drivers accepted him—they knew he was driving for the Arab. The price was set ad hoc at each pickup. JW would write the info down on a pad: time of pickup, destination, price. Forty percent went straight to Abdulkarim.

The Arab would occasionally do tests. Like, one of his men would pretend to be a customer and take a ride with JW. Afterward, the Arab would compare what his controller’d paid with what JW wrote in his log. JW was honest. He didn’t want to lose the extra cash he made on the job. It was his lifeline, his salvation in the race to score points with the boyz. JW only had one road rule. He didn’t do any pickups at Stureplan. The risk of exposure was too evident on his own turf.

JW was driving off the books tonight. He picked the car up in Huddinge with Abdulkarim, a Ford Escort from 1994 that’d once been painted a pure white. The interior was crappy. There was no CD player and the seats were frayed. He smiled at the Arab’s attempts to spruce it up—Abdul’d hung three Wunder-Baum air fresheners in the rearview mirror.

JW drove home. A cool August night—perfect for the taxi business. As usual, finding a parking spot in Ö-malm was tough. The SUVs hogged the streets. Driving by the latest beauty from Porsche made him drool: Cayman S. A 911 combined with a Boxter—hotness incarnate. He finally found a spot—the Ford wasn’t exactly a big machine.

He went up to his room at Mrs. Reuterskiöld’s. It was nine o’clock. No point in driving the cab before midnight. He settled down with his schoolbooks. Had a midterm in four days.

The apartment was located near Tessin Park. Lower Gärdet was okay for JW. Upper Gärdet wouldn’t cut it—too far off the grid, too bitter. The room was 216 square feet, with a separate entrance, toilet, and a big window overlooking the park. Peaceful and calm, just like the old lady wanted it. The problem was that he had to be so damn quiet when he managed to get a girl home.

The room was furnished with a full bed, a red armchair, and a desk from IKEA, where he put his laptop. He’d swiped it from some oblivious sucker at school. Piece of cake. He’d waited till the owner went to the bathroom. Most people took their computers along with them, but others chanced it. JW’d seen the opportunity—just slid it into his shoulder bag and walked out.

The lamp from his childhood room was screwed into the desk. It still had glue marks from old cartoon stickers. Embarrassing, like whoa. Important to turn it off when he had a girl over—home game.

Clothes were strewn everywhere. There was one poster on the wall: Schumacher in a Formula 1 uniform, spraying champagne from the prize podium.

There really wasn’t much to the room. Sparse. He preferred to go home with the chicks to their places instead—away game.

JW didn’t mind studying. He liked writing his own papers instead of copying stuff off the Internet. He participated actively in class discussions when he was prepared. Always tried to make time to do the practice sets after. Tried his best to be ambitious.

He cracked the books. The Financial Analysis course had the hardest exam. He needed more time.

Turned the sets over in his mind, counted, fed numbers into the calculator. His thoughts returned to the discussion he’d had with the boyz the night before. How much did the
blatte
really make selling coke? How much did he pull in a month? What were his margins? Risk versus possible income. He should be able to calculate that.

JW went through the list of his life goals. One: to not reveal his double life. Two: to buy a car. Three: to become loaded. Finally: to find out what happened to Camilla. A step toward getting over it—if that was possible.

Principles of Corporate Finance
—he got through seven pages. The difference between financing a company through stocks or through loans. How does the value of the company change? Preference shares, beta value, rates of return, obligations, et cetera. He took notes on a pad of paper and underlined in the textbook with a neon yellow highlighter. Almost fell asleep over the pages covered in graphs and equations.

When he nodded off for a second, he dropped his pen. That woke him. He thought, No point to keep going at this hour.

Time to drive home the money.

He was on his way to Medborgarplatsen, on the south side of the city. It was quarter past eleven. He was driving Sibyllegatan down to Strandvägen, past Berzelii Park. Dangerous area, way too close to the boyz’ stomping grounds.

JW kept mulling over his thoughts. What did he really know about his sister’s life in Stockholm anyway? The texts, calls, and e-mails he’d gotten were often without substance. Camilla’d had a part-time job at Café Ogo on Odengatan and gone to continuing-education classes at Komvux to get better high school grades in literary arts, math, and English. She’d had a boyfriend. JW didn’t even know his name. He knew only one point of interest: The guy’d driven a yellow Ferrari. There were photos of Camilla in the car at home in Robertsfors. In them, she was glowing, smiling and waving through a rolled-down window. You couldn’t make out the guy’s face in the pictures. Who was he?

JW drove past the Foreign Ministry at Gustav Adolf’s Square. There were a lot of people out and about. Everyone was back from vacation and wanted to make up for what they’d missed by vegging out at country houses and on sailboats. He drove through the tunnel at Slussen toward Medborgarplatsen.

He parked the car outside the Scandic Hotel and got out. Positioned himself outside Snaps. There was always someone there who needed a ride home or downtown.

Three chicks stumbled out. Possible good pickup. He cocked his head to the side, pulled an irresistible JW. “Hey, ladies. Need a ride?”

One of the girls, a blonde, looked at her friends. They knew what was up, nodded. She said, “Sure. How much to Stureplan?”

Damn it. Gotta play this. Coax, smile. He said, “There’s so much traffic there. I know it sounds like a drag, but would it be okay if I drop you off by Norrmalmstorg?” Charm attack. Added, in a fake
blatte
accent,
“Special price for you only.”

Giggles. The blond girl said, “Only ’cause you’re cute. But then you have to give us a good deal.”

It was settled: 150 kronor.

JW drove toward Norrmalmstorg. The chicks chirped in the back. They were going to Kharma. It had been
so
nice at Caroline’s. Amazing food, crazy atmosphere, sweet drinks. They were
soooooo
drunk. JW shut them out. Couldn’t get interested in anything but driving tonight. He smiled, looked mysterious.

The girls babbled. Did he wanna come? JW felt the vibe, it would be so easy to score. But there was a major hurdle: These weren’t the kind of girls he wanted to meet. Svens.