Easy Money (40 page)

He had to keep working on Project R. The visit with his sister’d felt good. Jorge perked up, even though Hallonbergen revisited him every night.

He planned the next step. The last thing that’d happened at the brothel’d been timely. Only right—after all those dull days staking out Radovan’s house. Something to work from—had invited himself, through Jet Set Carl, to some kind of luxury whore party. Gotten a password texted to the dead pimp’s cell. Written the password down that same night, after he went back to Fahdi’s. The apartment’d been empty. Jorge’d put the shotgun back. Wiped off the barrel. Tucked it into the closet. Then he’d thrown the pimp’s phone in a trash can, the SIM card in a sewer.

The gig he’d invited himself to was happening today. Questions: What, exactly, was it? He didn’t know if he was considered a guest or one of Nenad’s underlings. Maybe he’d be expected to guard, arrange, or herd whores. Worse: He didn’t know how to get there, the address.

He couldn’t care less about the first question. It would sort itself out once he got there.

The answer to the final question: He’d have to shadow Jet Set Carl all day.

Jorge knew the brat king’s address.

Rocked his old trick—by 8:00 a.m., he was already sitting in a stolen Saab with tinted back windows. Didn’t want to miss Jet Set Carl no matter how early he was. Sipped coffee. Peed in a soda bottle. Listened to the radio.

Maybe getting there as early as 8:00 a.m. on a weekend was exaggerated—the dude didn’t come out till 12:30.

Jorge thought, What a life. Jet Set Carl organizes parties, snorts coke, pounds hookers. Never has to struggle. Knows
nada
about concrete. Spoiled, carries daddy’s plastic, and has stinking self-confidence like crazy.

And yet it was Jorge’s dream—to be just like that. He knew every spliff-smoking
blatte
wanted to be Jet Set Carl. But
negritos
were never let in. They might as well stop dreaming.

Jet Set Carl was dressed in a black coat with a hoodie underneath. Hat. Stan Smith shoes. Jorge couldn’t help but notice the similarities in dress with the guy whose guts he’d shot out in Hallonbergen two weeks before.

He started the car. Unnecessary—Jet Set Carl only walked two blocks down to the 7-Eleven on Storgatan. Bought milk and toast. Disappeared back into his building.

Jorge chilled in the car. Ate a chicken salad he’d brought along. Thought about himself: I’m becoming a stakeout pro, even getting used to chick food. Maybe I should start my own biz.

Four o’clock. Jet Set Carl walked out again. Same clothes as before—in other words, not time for action yet.

Jorge got out of the car. Kept a good distance. The hood of his jacket over his head. A pair of mirrored sunglasses on his nose. Jorge these days: pure Fletch, disguise master.

Jet Set Carl didn’t venture far. Kept to his own pissed-in territory. Slipped into Café Tures in Sturegallerian, the exclusive indoor mall by Stureplan. Around 750 yards from where he lived. The geography within the golden rectangle was simple: Karlavägen-Sturegatan-Riddargatan-Narvavägen. The area practically had a velvet rope around it.

Jorge sat down at Grodan, the restaurant across the street. Read a newspaper. Drank a Coke. Saw Jet Set Carl through Sturegallerian’s large glass windows. The dude was having coffee with an Östermalm
mina.
Maybe the prettiest Jorge’d ever seen.

The Jet Set guy ran his hand through his hair. Greased up his fingers. Jorge wondered how many chicks the player dated at once.

Two hours passed. They hugged good-bye. Did Jorge see what he thought he saw? Did the guy make an attempt to kiss her on the mouth? Did the girl pull back? Unclear.

The Jet Set dude went home alone.

Six-thirty.

Jorge still in the car. Wondered when something would happen.

Bored.

Thought about all the hours outside of Rado’s house.

Thought about all the people who’d helped him.

The blue glow of the digital clock read 7:00.

The door to the apartment building opened. Jet Set Carl walked out, now dressed more like Jorge remembered him. Same coat as before, but underneath he glimpsed a tailored shirt with the top buttons undone. The Stan Smiths had been traded in for a pair of polished, pointed leather kicks. His hair was slicked back.

The dude walked down the block. Unlocked an enormous car—a Hummer. Vodka ad in white lettering across the sides. The car was an ill marketing tool. Regular SUVs—hit the sack. This monster—broader than a truck.

Jet Set Carl drove south. Jorge stayed a few cars behind him. He could see the Hummer from afar. The hood was three feet above the roofs of the regular Sven vehicles. Jorge thought it was filthy sexy.

They drove Nynäsvägen through Enskede. The Globe Arena was lit up like a giant ball of cocaine. Through Handen/Jordbro. Took a left. Road 227. The darkness grew more compact. Frigid fields lined the road. There was one car between Jorge and the Hummer. Hopefully, it prevented Jet Set Carl from seeing what cars were behind him.

Jorge had a carefully folded suit in the backseat. On a hanger hooked into the back window: an ironed, striped, tailored shirt and a tie. To be safe—if there was a dress code where he was going.

More houses. They drove across a bridge. On a sign:
WELCOME TO DALARÖ
.

The Hummer took a left after the bridge. The car that’d been sandwiched between them took a right. Jorge at a mental crossroads: Did he dare continue to follow Jet Set Carl? A huge fuckin’ chance/risk. He took the chance. Tried not to think about the risk.

They drove on Smådalarövägen.

After five minutes, the Jet Set guy slowed down. Blinked: to the right. Drove up a small gravel path and seemed to stop. Jorge slid on past. Got as good a look as he could. Hard to see anything. No light lit up the road.

He kept driving. The road ended at a cul-de-sac. All around: a golf course. Jorge parked the car. Turned up his hood. Looked around. Got out.

Farther off was a large house. A gravel road led up to it. A sign:
SMÅDALARÖ INN
. A couple of cars parked outside. Jorge walked back on the same road he’d driven. Kept to the side. Up to the place where Jet Set Carl’d turned off. Jorge clocked right away where he’d gone—a black metal gate blocked off the small road. On one side of the gate was a camera and a big sign:
PRIVATE PROPERTY. GUARDED BY FALCK SECURITY.

Jorge kept his distance. Walked up into the woods alongside the gate. Woods—reminded him of what he couldn’t forget: Mrado’s lashes with the rubber baton. One thing was certain, J-boy never gave up. They’d already had a taste of him. Two Yugo pigs shot to pieces. Look out, Radovan, now Jorgelito’s coming to get you.

After shivering in the woods for an hour, Jorge saw a car turn off toward the gate, but he couldn’t see if the driver identified himself to the camera before the gates opened.

Then nothing happened for forty minutes.

Nine o’clock.

Dark in the woods.

Jorge saw someone moving inside the gate. Stared. He could see clearly now. Two people. Behind the gate. With baseball hats. Obvious—they were guards of some sort.

Twenty minutes later, the cars started trickling in. Beamers. Benzes. Jags. A couple Porsches. A few Volvos. One Bentley. A yellow Ferrari.

In some cases, the camera recognized the arrivals. The gates slid soundlessly open. The car rolled in. In other cases, one of the guards came out through a side entrance. Exchanged a few words with the people in the car. The gates opened.

The procedure was repeated with each car. At least twenty of them. Jorge knew what he had to do. Tried to see what the men in the cars were wearing. Glimpsed someone—definitely a suit jacket.

J-boy: pro of pros—
divinas
—he was prepared.

Went back to his car. Changed into the dress shirt and suit. Hesitated over the tie. Finally, skipped it.

Drove back toward the gate. Up to the camera. The butterflies in his stomach fluttered like crazy. Sweat invaded the space between his hands and the wheel. His car—the only Saab. Second-rate and suspicious.

Rolled down the window. Looked up at the camera.

Nothing happened.

He remained seated. Tried to relax.

Saab.
Blatte.
No tie.

One of the guards came out through the gate.

Round, pale cheeks leaned down. “Can I help you?”

Jorge turned down the treble on his ghetto accent. “Well yeah. Is there a long wait to get in here, or what? Is the parking lot swamped?”

“Excuse me. This is a private area. Do you have some business here?”

Jorge smiled broadly.

“You can say that again. It’s gonna be a niiiice night.”

The guard seemed to consider. Appeared affected by Jorge’s confidence.

“What is your name?”

“Tell Carl, Daniel Cabrera says hello.”

The guard took a few steps back. Talked on a phone or a walkie-talkie. Returned. The patronizing chill was back.

“He doesn’t know who you are. I am going to have to ask you to leave the premises now.”

Jorge remained ice-cold.

“Are you fucking with me? Call him again. Tell him it’s Daniel Cabrera and that Moët is on the way. He can check his cell if his memory’s failing.”

The guard took a few steps back again. Talked on his phone.

Jorge hoped for luck.

After twenty seconds, the gates slid open.

J-boy was in.

He parked the car alongside the others. Counted five Porsches. What kind of place was this anyway?

The house in front of him was big. Three stories. Pillars around the entrance. Ill Beverly Hills style. Supersized McMansion. Did Sweden have stuff like that? Pretty clear: Yup.

Music could be heard from inside.

A man had just gotten out of his BMW. Walked toward the entrance. Jorge followed the guy, who glanced quickly over his shoulder. Saw Jorge. Ignored him. Kept walking. Jorge caught up with him. Extended his hand.

“Hi. My name is Daniel. This gonna be a good night, or what?” Laughed.

The man looked back at him. “It’s usually pleasant. I haven’t seen you before.”

“No, I just got back from New York after a few years. Damn nice city. Already miss it.”

They reached the entrance. Jorge had time to think: I don’t even know in what capacity I’ve been invited. The door was opened from the inside before they’d even reached it. A dude in a suit, with a side part and a strong jaw, held it open for them. Another guard, but better dressed. Greeted the man Jorge’d just been talking to. He slid past. The guard eyed Jorge. Suspicious.

Held out his arm. Jorge stopped just inside the door. The guard asked for his name. Jorge rocked a confident VIP-born attitude. “I’m Daniel Cabrera.”

The guard said, “Do you know Claes?”

Jorge assumed he meant the man Jorge’d tried to talk to on the way in. The dude’d just checked his coat, disappeared in through a dark wood door. Jorge chanced it. “Sure I know Claes.”

The guard: still suspicious. Called someone on his cell.

Nodded.

To Jorge: “Pardon me. I hadn’t been informed that you were invited. Welcome.”

J-boy—James Bond, through and through.

The organizers seemed as confused as Jorge was. He’d thought he was gonna work for Nenad. Now he appeared to be a guest.

Just play along.

A coat-check girl came to take his coat. Nice to lose it. It didn’t fit in. She asked him for his cell phone. Jorge didn’t think about why. Handed it over. Anyway, unnecessary to make a fuss.

He hadn’t reacted at first. Not when the old guy, Claes, had checked his coat or when the girl took his. But now he looked at the coat-check girl one more time. A miniskirt so short, the bottom of her ass cheeks peeked out. Black stay-ups that ended in a lace border halfway up her thigh, left eight inches of provocative skin bare. The pink top—not whorishly cheap, but low-cut enough for her cleavage to form an obvious bull’s-eye for the gazes of the coat-check customers.

Obvious—this was no ordinary coat-check chick. She was some sort of spiced-up call girl.

Jorge opened the dark wood door though which Claes’d disappeared into the house.

Walked through a hallway. The noise grew. Party music. Giggles and chatter.

At the end of the hall, another dark door. Just as Jorge was about to open it, he smelled cigar smoke.

On the other side of the door.

Unreal.

A roomful of people.

Old guys. Well dressed, many in suits and ties. Some, like Jorge, in suits with no ties, a couple of buttons on the shirts leisurely undone. Others in blazers and slacks. Gray hairlines. Deep wrinkles in their cheeks when they smiled. They all looked to be somewhere between forty and sixty.

A few guards/organizers. All younger. Men. Soberly dressed—blazers, light-colored pants, dark turtlenecks or shirts without ties. Jet Set Carl flitted past, a glass of champagne in each hand.

Striking—all the girls were a variation on the coat-check chick. Miniskirts, hot pants, tights. Tops, tank tops, blouses that revealed more than they covered. Garter belts that showed, fake tits that bulged, stilettos, gleaming, glossy lips.

A girl for every taste. Thin, lanky, tall girls. Superbusty broads. Blacks, blondes, Asians. Girls with gripping gazes. Girls with empty eyes.

Still, not a filthy feel. Jorge was astonished. There was something else—a homey feeling. He pushed into the crowd. Counted heads. At least forty men and as many, probably more, women, and then another dozen or so staff. Pounding music. Glowing cigars in wrinkled hands.

Obviously some sort of brothel business, even if he hadn’t quite figured out how yet. Still, the mood was like at a large private party. Purely theoretically: Could’ve been the house owner’s invited friends and their significant others. But not a chance that all these geezers had girlfriends this young. Too good to be true. Or, the house owner’s male acquaintances plus some party chicks who’d been delivered to lighten the mood. But there was something more than that in the air.

Jorge looked around again.