Easy Money (41 page)

The room was large. An enormous crystal chandelier was hanging from the ceiling. Spotlights were suspended from the walls. Speakers in a corner. One part of the room was made up of a bar manned by a guy and four girls. Busy mixing drinks. Most of the men stood in clusters with one another or surrounded by girls. Five girls were dancing right underneath the chandelier—at any other place, their moves would’ve been considered unnecessarily provocative.

Jorge positioned himself by the bar. Ordered a gin and tonic. Felt insecure. How should he act? What did he really want to achieve with this? WHERE THE HELL WAS HE?

Gulped the drink. Asked for a cigar, Habana Corona.
Buena onda.
The girl behind the bar held up a cigar lighter. Small, extra-hot flame. She pouted. Jorge looked away. Sucked the cigar.

Tried to think clearly. Couldn’t let the panic take hold.

Tranquilo.

Did he recognize anyone? Could anyone recognize him? The men: Swedish, well groomed. Posture, poise, attitude. Obvious signals of power. Jorge didn’t recognize a single face. So, no one should recognize him, either. The staff: Yugo meatheads and Jet Set Carl, plus some of his peeps, the party organizers. The brats. Jorge didn’t think the Jet Set dude would recognize him from Kharma; the guy’d been totally trashed. The biggest risk: that Jet Set Carl was extra vigilant because of the shots in Hallonbergen. On the other hand, he’d apparently chosen to organize this party.
Chico
wasn’t the cautious type.

Jorge hadn’t seen Radovan or Nenad. He should find out if they were here.

He took it chill—one out of about one hundred people. The guests probably thought he was a guard. The guards thought he was a guest.

Jorge gazed out at the room. Considered his next move. Listened to two men next to him at the bar.

One: darting gaze. Relentlessly checking out the girls in the room. The other: calmer. Took deep drags on a thick cigar. They seemed to know each other well.

“These events just get better and better.”

The man with the cigar laughed. “Damn well arranged this year, I think.”

“Just look at the women he gets. I’m going crazy over here.”

“That’s the point. You weren’t at Christopher Sandberg’s two months ago, were you?”

“No, I don’t know him. Was it nice?”

“Wow. Amazing. Christopher is as honorable a guy as Sven here.”

“I heard Christopher bought a new house near you guys.”

“That’s right. On Valevägen. Company must be doing well, because it was a nice shack he landed.” The old guy grinned.

“I understand he’s been doing a good job in Germany.”

“Yes, the market has shot straight up there. Apparently, they’ve grown by thirty percent in one year.”

“Damn. Hey, check out the one in the braids over there. Those are some fucking melons.”

“Your kind of cut.”

The man with the darting gaze stared. Drooled over the girl. Then he took a sip of his drink. Turned to the guy with the cigar.

“I’ve been wondering something. I know these parties are safe and all, but how do you know no civvies manage to get in? I wake up at night with cold sweats when I think about the party here last year. I mean, if Christina found out, well, you know.”

“Don’t worry. He’s in with the police. The guys who help him organize this thing are good. The people with the power in our dear police force wouldn’t touch these events. According to what I’ve heard, the guys who run this show would end Stockholm’s finest if they tried to interfere. Sometimes police chiefs do naughty things, too. You just have to know what.”

“So damn nice. I like this.”

The men clinked glasses.

Jorge almost in a state of shock. Was Radovan behind this? If so, he was a fucking genius.

The captains of industry supported by the Yugo Mafia. An unbeatable whore cocktail.

Until tonight—J-boy was on to them.

He stayed by the bar. Tried to see if Radovan or someone else he recognized was there.

After a while, the music was switched off. Someone shushed into a microphone.

The men next to Jorge stopped talking.

The chicks stopped dancing.

Spotlights were directed at the bar.

A man climbed up on the bar. Careful, scared of slipping. Not exactly a young athlete—overweight, suited up, but
sin
tie. Well-combed graying hair. Eyes: In the strange light of the room, they had a milky all-white look.

“Hello, everybody. It’s so great to see you here tonight.”

The old guy held a glass of champagne in one hand, a microphone in the other.

“As you know, I usually host these parties once a year. I think it’s pleasant when just us boys have a chance to get together.”

After the word
boys,
he paused dramatically. Awaited the laughter that followed.

“I hope that everyone’s going to have a nice night. I’ll shut up soon so we can turn the music back on and party all night long. Before I toast the night, I want to take the opportunity to thank those responsible for making this night possible. Radovan Kranjic and Carl Malmer. They organize events like these, among other things. Let’s give them a round of applause.”

The people around the room applauded. The men def with more enthusiasm than the women, Jorged noted.

The old guy on the bar raised his glass, toasted the night.

Was helped down.

The music blasted out once more.

A couple of daddies started dancing with the girls on the dance floor.

An hour later.

The party’d derailed.
Eyes Wide Shut,
but for real, Smådalarö version. No more talking. December was chasing spring. The old men wanted young pussy. The girls were ready to serve it up. It was obvious this was a marketplace.

Everywhere, old guys had their tongues down young girls’ throats. Hands inside bras, fingers between legs, tongues in ears. High school prom, with two exceptions: thirty-year age difference between the make-out partners and only the dudes were paying for the good stuff.

Throughout, the girls were willing.

Clear everywhere: The wolves were wild for fresh meat.

Jorge tried to keep moving. Not end up too long in one spot. Avoid calling attention to himself. Danced for fifteen minutes with a pretty, tall girl with an Eastern European accent and pupils the size of needle pins. High on blow or other uppers. He thought about Nadja. Parts of her story were starting to fall into place. The only thing that didn’t jibe was that he hadn’t seen Radovan anywhere.

For fifteen minutes, Jorge sat in an armchair and carried on an incomprehensible conversation with a guy involved in financial instruments. Worked reasonably well, despite all odds.

For fifteen minutes, he disappeared into the bathroom.

Picked up the name of the guy who was giving the party: Sven Bolinder. Who was that?

A couple of old guys and girls started disappearing from the room. Jorge, worried. Had they gone home? He asked the Eastern European chick he’d danced with. When she answered—Jorge almost yelled out his surprise—it was more hard-core than he’d expected.

“I guess they’ve gone up to the rooms. Want to take a peek up there?”

Joder.

The rooms.

The guy who organized the party hadn’t just brought the whores. He provided rooms, too.

That was some high-class shit. Nicely done. Commonest, dirtiest, simplest form of prostitution—you go to a place, you pay, and you get a room and a girl—remade to create the feeling: I’m invited to a party without my wife. I happen to meet a hot piece of ass there. I turn her on and we sneak up to an empty room in the house and have a little fun.

He declined her offer. No room for him.

Thought: What’ve I achieved?
Nada.
No further evidence against Radovan. I have to do something, now. Before everyone leaves to get what they came here for.

He got an idea.

Jorge approached the bartender. Played wasted.

“Excuse me. Is there somewhere I can make a call?”

“Don’t think so, sorry. Do you need a taxi? I’ll get you one.”

“No. I need to make another call. I left my phone in the coat check. Could I borrow yours for a sec?” Jorge waved a thousand-kronor bill. “I’ll pay, of course.”

The bartender averted his eyes from the money. Continued to mix his drink, crushed ice and strawberries in a blender.

Jorge was playing a high-stakes game. Possibly they had cell phone policies. Or they’d just asked him to leave his own phone in the coat check out of courtesy. It could work.

“It’s cool.” The bartender handed over his phone.

“I’ll step outside and make the call. Have to have quiet around me. Okay?”

“Cool.”

Beautiful, J-boy.

Jorge took the cell phone. Turned it around. As expected. Yugos and brats had something in common: They liked high-tech gadgets. No matter which category the bartender belonged to, Jorge’d guessed right. The dude had a cell phone with a high-def camera.

Jorge got going. The men weren’t paying any attention. Staff surveillance had decreased as people started disappearing from the party room to the separate rooms.

Jorge pretended to talk. Held the phone a few inches from his ear. Actually, the camera was snapping away—paparazzi-style. Didn’t give a shit if the bartender guy wondered what he was doing. Quickly scanned through some pictures. Crappy quality. He didn’t dare use the flash. Bad light and distance—the pictures were grainy and dark. Could hardly tell it was people in the pictures.

Didn’t work. He deleted the pictures.

Tried to get closer to the armchairs.

Hard to get a good angle.

Decided to take the risk. Held the phone up in front of him. Snapped new photos. Looked again. They were somewhat better, but still hard to make out much in them.

To be safe, he scrolled to the e-mail function. Typed in his own Hotmail address. Sent a picture. Then two more.

Looked up. Saw the bartender coming toward him. Followed by the security guard from the front door.

Fuck.

Sent two more pictures.

Smiled.

Scrolled back to the main menu. Held out the phone.

The bartender yelled over the music. “You said you were stepping out. What’ve you done?”

“It’s cool. I just chatted a little. Ended up staying in here.”

The bouncer guy didn’t look pleased. “No cell phones in here. Don’t you know that?”

Jorge repeated, “I just chatted with a colleague. What’s your problem?” Jorge tried to sound self-assured. “Maybe we should talk to Sven Bolinder about this?”

The bouncer hesitated.

Jorge plowed on—it’d worked by the gates.

“Come on. Let’s take this to Sven. I’m apparently not allowed to borrow a phone and make a call. Is that what you’re saying?” Jorge pointed over toward Sven Bolinder. The nasty old hound was seated in one of the armchairs, closely entwined with a girl who didn’t look a day over seventeen.

The bouncer hesitated even more.

Jorge kept pushing. “I’m sure he’d love to be bothered right now.”

Tension in the air.

The bartender looked at the bouncer.

The bouncer gave up. Apologized. Walked away.

Jorge acted calm. Inside: keyed up like crazy.

He had to get away from there.

Walked out to the coat check.

When the coat-check girl handed him his coat, she said, “Too bad you’re leaving, sweetie,” in an accent he couldn’t place.

Jorge, silent.

Took the coat.

Walked out.

Didn’t see any guards.

He started the car. Drove toward the gates.

It was half-past twelve.

The gates slid open.

He drove out onto the road.

Away from Smådalarö.

Away from the sickest shit on this side of the Pinochet era.

He thought, Captains of industry cavort like kings.

Fuck yourselves.

Jorge’s the King.

The feel of double-double-gaming was titillating. At the same time, it was strange and demanding—almost too many lies to keep track of. The fact was that JW needed to study his own lies instead of his finance textbook, or else there was a risk he’d let his tongue slip.

People thought he was a backslick brat. Really, he was a regular Joe Schmo pleb who made his money in the dirtiest way possible. Abdulkarim thought he made his money by working for him, administrating the C business. Really, JW was gonna make the big time by betraying Abdul for Nenad.

But whom was he betraying, really? Above the bosses were other bosses. He worked for Abdulkarim, who worked for Nenad, who apparently worked or had worked for someone else. Why all this hush-hush? Who was he betraying if he worked for Abdul but worked even more for Nenad? Of course, someone was behind it all. But who? The Yugo boss himself—Radovan? The Yugo boss in some other faction? Some other gang? JW didn’t even want to guess. Anyway, it wasn’t his problem, not really.

Two weeks’d passed since Nenad’d made his offer. Conflicting interests were battling inside him. JW was randy for riches. At the same time, he should be afraid of the person, whoever it was, that he was betraying. He weighed his options. The advantages were easy to see. First up, the money. Runner-up, the money. Third place, ibid. Besides, he was living more dangerously than he cared to think about. Why run that race and not get the maximum dividend? No reason. If he was going to live like a drug kingpin, he might as well live large. He’d heard Jorge say it, the gangsta rappers’ motto: Get Rich or Die Trying. That was the truth of the day.

The disadvantage was more difficult to calculate. It was constituted by the danger. The person he betrayed would, most likely, not exactly be cartwheeling for joy. The risk of being found out by the police’s narcs increased. The risk of being gypped on all fronts increased.

But, he repeated to himself, the money.

It took him two days to think it through. He chose the big shots over Abdulkarim, the high rollers over a B-list Arab, cash over danger. Nenad, in other words.

The arrangements he’d made on the Isle of Man came in handy, even more than he’d thought at first.

The trip to England’d been nice, a relief. JW’d forgotten about his Camilla musings. The reality of Stockholm stressed him out. Sometimes he considered moving home again, when he’d put away enough money.

Abdulkarim was overjoyed about the enormous shipment that was coming; the London deal felt like a success. But it was three months until then. The cabbages had to grow nice and big first. The Arab, JW, and Jorge started preparing the organization for the large quantities that were going to flood the system. They didn’t want to cause too steep a price drop. They needed more dealers and stash spots. Above all, they needed a plan for transport and logistics.

Stockholm’s underworld was still shaken by the double homicide in Hallonbergen. Everyone was speculating. JW couldn’t have cared less about the whole thing. A pimp and a brothel madam shot in a brothel. So what? It didn’t have anything do to with his industry.

The next day, he grabbed a coffee at Foam Café with Sophie. The hot Sunday brunch spot for top-cream types. The place was decorated in an Italian Starck style. The day-after dank didn’t show. The chicks were primped more than was scientifically possible on a hungover morning. The dudes were cropped, showered, scented, fresh.

JW and Sophie ordered pancakes with maple syrup, bananas, and ice cream. A Foam specialty.

JW posed the question he’d been thinking about for a long time: “Why do you want to meet my other friends so badly?”

Sophie pushed the ice cream to the side with her spoon without answering. JW thought, Why’d she order ice cream if she wasn’t going to eat it?

“Hello? I’m talking to you.”

Sophie looked up.

“JW, stop. Of course I want to meet them.”

“Why? What does it matter?”

“ ’Cause I want to know all of you. We’ve been together for almost four months now and I thought we’d get to a higher level after a while. Now I’m starting to realize that this
is
the next level. Not to know anything about you. If you have a bunch of friends that you’re, like, hiding from me, it feels pretty weird.”

“I’m not hiding them. But they’re not interesting. They’re lame. Not worth your time.”

“I thought Jorge was really nice. We talked for hours. Okay, he’s not really like your or my other friends. He comes from a world we’re not familiar with. But I think that’s interesting. A guy who’s had to fight to get somewhere. For most of the people we know, silver spoons’ve been ladling sweets since birth. Right?”

“Sure, maybe.” JW thought about himself. How much did Sophie understand? He continued: “Nippe was wondering who the hustler was you were with at Sturehof. Did you have to go to Stureplan with Jorge?”

“Stop being so lame. Are you ashamed, or what? Stand up for who you are. I thought Jorge was awesome. A badass. He told me about his childhood, actually. Total ghetto, you know, like, there were only four Swedes in his class in elementary school. And I don’t even know anyone with parents born outside of Europe. I think Stockholm’s, like, a total Johannesburg.”

Sophie’s words seared. What did she know about him, really? JW wanted to change the subject. Usually, that was his expertise. But now he couldn’t think of anything to say.

They sat in silence.

Staring down at the melting ice cream.