Easy Money (46 page)

Experienced, efficient, evil. They cleaned the Arab out. And the best part of it: By extension, they were sinking Radovan.

Mrado and Nenad, the dynamic duo, didn’t take shit. Pinched the blow bags till it stung the old toad.

Abdulkarim used to work for Nenad and was now directly under R. He couldn’t have suspected Nenad knew shit about the C deal, since the Yugo boss’d shut him out. Dumbass.

Despite all the planning and JW’s information, Mrado was still slammed with some surprises: One of the Arab’s helpers was the Latino he’d beaten up eight months ago in the woods north of Åkersberga. What was he doing in Västberga Cold Storage? JW’d said that a Latino was working alongside him on this gig, but he’d never mentioned his name.

It was a bizarre collaboration. Mrado thought, Either the Jorge dude’s hired help for this one gig or else he’s been working for Abdulkarim the whole time. In that case, he’s been working indirectly under Nenad the whole time, and, even more indirectly, under Rado.

Ironic but not impossible. The Latino knew a lot about C. Wasn’t strange that Abdulkarim’d wanted to recruit the guy. Not strange that Nenad didn’t keep track of every clocker who worked for the Arab, either. And if Nenad’d known, it wasn’t strange that he hadn’t mentioned it to him: Nenad couldn’t know that he’d taught the Latino a lesson he deserved.

Mrado thought, The Latino only has himself to blame. Humiliated by me a second time. And now by sitting with his hands tied and watching his Arab employer snot all over the floor. What a joke.

They had less than one crate left to unload. Mrado stood by the suitcases, Nenad by the packing crates. Lifting out cabbages. Making incisions with a knife, carefully, precisely. Unnecessary to cut anything that shouldn’t be. Mrado picked up the bags. Filled the last suitcase.

The ski mask was uncomfortable.

Abdulkarim spat on the floor. Refused to stay calm. Yelled curses in Arabic. Mrado guessed, it was something like: I’m gonna fuck your mother/sister/daughter. The pool of blood around the gorilla on the floor grew big. JW and Jorge sat with their arms taped, each with his back against a packing crate. They were staying calm.

Everything’d gone according to plan. JW’d done a good job. The kid could be trusted. Like Nenad said: The guy wanted up. Would do anything for cash. He’d informed Nenad and Mrado exactly where, when, and how the Arab and his crew would receive the blow. Said all they had to do was drive there, cut down that one lookout, and step right in.

Almost too easy.

In three or four minutes, they’d be done. Mrado and Nenad in one car. Bobban in the other. If shit went down, they had an extra escape car parked safely on the other side of the cold-storage facility. Ready to roll instead of the others cars if the situation blew up.

Within six months, when the whole load’d been sold off, they’d be 100 million richer.

Fresh as fuck.

That’s when he was hit with the day’s second surprise. The JW guy got up. His hands were obviously untied. Mrado’d cut the guy’s tape so it’d be possible to break free. Unnecessary, he realized now.

Why had he gotten up?

Abdulkarim’d understand that something was off. That JW’d collaborated with Nenad.

He said something.

Mrado glanced over. Nenad looked up, interrupted what he was doing. Held a head of cabbage in one hand, the knife in the other.

JW was holding a Glock in both hands. Pointed at Nenad at only four yards’ distance.

Jaw clenched. Eyes like slits.

The guy hollered something inaudibly slurred.

What the fuck was the brat up to?

Mrado listened closer.

“Nenad, you pig. If you move, I’ll shoot you. In the head. Promise. Goes for you, too. If you move, Nenad dies.”

Nenad dropped the cabbage. Tried to look relaxed. It rolled away over the floor. He said to JW, “What’s the deal? Sit down.”

JW remained standing as he was, arms raised.

Mrado made some high-speed calculations: Was JW losing it, or was the kid sharper than they’d thought? Did he plan on raking in the whole load himself? And if so, how good was he with a gun? Would Mrado have time to pull his S & W before this loon fired off a shot at Nenad’s head or chest? Conclusions: Whatever the JW guy was up to, it was a sticky situation—not a good idea to make any sudden moves. The distance was too short; JW seemed too steady with the gun.

Mrado stood still.

“Answer one question, Nenad. Very simple.”

Nenad nodded. His eyes could be glimpsed under the ski mask. He didn’t look away from the barrel for an instant.

“What’s the color of your Ferrari?”

Nenad was silent.

Mrado slowly moved his hand inside his jacket to pull his gun.

JW said again, “If you don’t tell me what color your Ferrari is, I’ll shoot.”

Nenad stood still. He seemed to consider.

The gun in JW’s hand, his finger on the trigger. Game time.

Nenad said, “I used to have a Ferrari. What do you care? But it wasn’t really mine. It was leased.”

JW raised his head slightly.

“It was yellow, if you’re wondering.”

JW’s eyes changed. Furious. Wild. Unpredictable.

“Tell me what you did to my sister.”

Nenad giggled. “You’re messed up.”

JW clicked off the safety.

“I’ll count to three; then you’ll talk. Or else you’re dead. One.”

Mrado gripped the gun inside his jacket.

Nenad said, “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

JW counted: “Two.”

Mrado didn’t have time to act before Nenad started talking.

“Oh, now I know who I thought you looked like the first time I saw you in London. Couldn’t think of who. I guess I just couldn’t imagine you were the brother of a whore.”

Mrado thought, Why is Nenad even talking to the guy? Insanity.

“She was fine, your sis. Made good money. I even hung out with her for a few months. She was the freshest call girl we had. I promise.”

A pause for effect.

Silence in the cold-storage facility. Even the Arab was completely still.

“She was a little too cocky, though. When she started with us, she was still a student and knew her place. Apparently, it was her teacher, an old regular of ours, who tipped her off about our way of making dough. But after a while, she got uppity. Tried to pull some funny biz. We couldn’t tolerate that. As you must understand.”

JW stood still. Arms straight out. Gun in a firm grip.

“How’d you find out, by the way?”

“Fuck that. Pig.”

Mrado tore out his gun. Raised it toward JW.

He didn’t care if Nenad was making some sort of confession to JW. The situation had to end. Time for him to do some yelling.

“JW, put down your gun.”

Pointed his gun at the brat.

JW’s gaze skipped. Probably saw Mrado out of the corner of his eye.

Deadlock. Triangle drama. Mexican standoff.

If JW shot Nenad, he would fall, as well.

Did the guy understand the situation?

“JW, there’s no point. If you hurt Nenad, I’ll blow your head off. I’m a better shot than you are. Maybe I’ll have time to pop you before you even pull the trigger at Nenad.”

JW remained standing.

Mrado felt how the polyester of the ski mask itched.

Nenad clocked, kept quiet.

Mrado said, “Put your gun away and we’ll forget about this.”

Nothing happened.

Abdulkarim started screaming.

That’s when Mrado was hit with the third surprise of the day. The worst one.

The entrance to the loading dock opened again.

Cops stormed in.

Two shots went off.

Jorge in the midst of the chaos.

JW’d fired. Mrado’d fired.

Nenad on the floor. The police crawling like ants. Despite that, the shot toward Nenad’d spooked them. Confused. Mrado’s shot at JW’d missed. JW on his feet. Unharmed. The cops’d stormed in at just the right moment to distract the Yugo.

Tear gas in the cold-storage facility.

Mrado shot wildly at the cops.

They took cover. Interrupted. Hollered commands. Made threats.

Jorge behind the packing crate.

JW next to Jorge, a box cutter in his hand. Cut off the tape around Jorge’s hands.

Jorge rose to his feet. They looked at each other.

Eyes stung like hell.

They ran toward the back door.

The cops clocked the situation too late. Focused on Mrado, who still had the gun in his hand.

Jorge unlocked the door.

He and JW ran out into a hallway.

No cops.

A fluorescent light was flickering farther down.

They fumbled around in confusion.

A ladder leaning against a wall.

Up.

They climbed toward the ceiling, a hatch.

Took the rungs three at a time.

Heard cops bursting into the hallway.

Jorge looked down. Opened the hatch. They yelled from below, “Freeze, police.” Jorge thought, Fuck you. J-boy’s been around the block and has some golden rules: Never stop. Give it hell. The pigs’ll
se pierden.

They got up on the roof. The sheet metal was flat and gray-colored, as if it’d once been white. The sky was clear.

JW seemed out of breath. Still held the Glock in his hand. He probably didn’t have any bullets left. Jorge in better shape, despite the lack of exercise lately.

They ran across the roof.

JW seemed to have a direction. Took the lead.

Jorge yelled, “Where we goin’?”

JW replied, “There’s supposed to be a car, a Volkswagen, parked out front, by the flagpoles.”

Cop cocks poured out of the hatch in the roof, positioned themselves. Took up the chase.

Autotuned voice over a megaphone: “Stop where you are. Put your hands over your heads.”

JW raised his gun, pointed back toward the men. Idiot move.

Jorge heard the cops yelling, “He’s armed.”

He ran faster.

Breathed through his nose.

The smell of his own sweat.

Not stress. Just exertion.

No stress.

Continued over the roof.

The megaphone again.

JW held the Glock in his hand. Turned back to the cops. A sharp sound was heard. Was he the one who’d shot?

Shit—Jorge hadn’t thought he still had bullets left.

Another shot sounded.

JW fell. Grabbed his thigh.

What the fuck were the cops doing?

No time to think.

He rushed on alone.

Harmony in the runner’s stride.

Jorge with flow. Jorge with rhythm.

In a trance: All he knew was how to run.

Remembered his loops around the Österåker rec yard. Remembered his homespun rope tight over the wall.

Ran so fast.

Toward the edge of the roof.

Didn’t even look down.

Just jumped. True to habit.

Farther fall than from the Österåker and the Västerbron bridge.

A cracking sound in one of his feet.

He saw the Volkswagen.

Fuck the pain.

Limped up to it.

Broke the window. Opened the door.

The driver’s seat, covered in shards of glass.

He tore out the ignition wires from under the wheel.

He could hot-wire a car better than anyone.

The king.

The car started up.

Adiós,
losers.

Paola should’ve given birth by now.

Jorge lit a cig, leaned back. A rickety lounge chair. A beach umbrella with a Pepsi ad on it.

His foot felt considerably better.

Ko Samet: not one of the most popular islands. Farther up the bay than Ko Tao and Ko Samui. No Swedish charter trips, no German mass tourism, no families with children. Instead: cheap bungalows, solitary beaches, and backpackers with greasy hair. On top of that: single middle-aged men and Thai whores.

Half his stack exchanged into dollars was packed into the shoulder bag next to the lounge chair. The rest in an account at HSBC. The bank with offices all over the world.

Suited him well.

The beach was almost empty of people.

He groped with his hand to make sure the bag was still there.

He thought back.

He’d made it. Jorgius Maximus. Driven the car like a maniac despite his sprained ankle. Obvious comparison: like the escape from Österåker, except no planned escape route. They were less than a minute behind him. He drove into Midsommarkransen. A lot of houses and narrow streets. The cops couldn’t keep him in sight like on the freeway. He ditched the car by Brännkyrka Gymnasium. Boosted a new one in under thirty seconds. They didn’t clock shit. The Miracle Man strikes again. Shook the cops. Outbrained the 5-0.

First thing he did after that: drove to Fahdi’s apartment. Had the keys on him. Limped into the bedroom. To the closet. Took out the shotgun he’d used in Hallonbergen. Stuffed it in a paper shopping bag. Limped out.

Had second thoughts. Back into the bedroom. Grabbed the assault rifle and Fahdi’s other weapons, too. Wrapped them in his sheets.

Fahdi was a friend. If he survived, he wouldn’t have to do more time than necessary.

Went into the kitchen. On the kitchen table were, as usual, scales, Red Line baggies, manila envelopes, mirrors, and razor blades. Three hundred grams of blow in different dime bags.

Jorge put the bags in the paper bag.

Rummaged. Turned the place upside down, soundlessly. Gloved hands. Didn’t leave a trace. Found what he was looking for: the keys to the storage units.

Down to the street. Boosted a new bucket.

Threw the sheet with the weapons into Edsviken Bay.

Drove around for the rest of the day. Shurgard Self-Storage in Kungens Kurva, Högdalen, Danderyd. Emptied the stash spots.

The next day: the stashes in Rissne, Solna, and Vällingby. Total harvest: 2.7 pounds of blow.

The following three days were hectic. He sold it all off at a
loco
dumped price. Seven hundred a gram. Flew as fast as frosted bottles at a beer garden on a warm spring day.

Got a half-assed passport. Dished way too much for it, but there wasn’t any time to play cold.

Ordered tix on a charter flight to Bangkok. Chanced it.

It worked. No one checks passports too closely on an outbound flight.

He left the country within four days of the fiasco in the cold-storage facility.

Not the way he’d planned it.

If it was a boy, Paola’d promised him she’d name him Jorge. A real Jorgelito. Even if he could never live a Sven life, at least Paola could. Let Jorgelito grow up in peace. Without Social Services hags, racist teachers, cock-sucking cops, and Rodriguez. Jorge would create some structure, would send every cent he could to his sister’s baby.

A pale European man walked down the beach hand in hand with a young Thai woman.

Jorge closed his eyes. He’d had enough of johns, but still had a few left to pop.

Thought about JW back in the cold-storage facility. JW hadn’t wanted to understand at first. Jorge’d kept pushing. “I’ve seen your sister raped and beaten in a movie. By those guys. You gotta believe me.” JW stared straight ahead. Mumbled, “Shut up, Jorge. Shut up already.” Jorge kept going, whispered just loud enough for JW to hear him clearly, “Believe me. You’ve picked the wrong side. I get it if you can’t rethink this. You’ve invested in these guys. But your sister was some kind of prostitute. Those Yugo Mafia guys’ve murdered her.” It was then that JW seemed to react. He turned to Jorge. Said,
“Shut up before I fucking club you.”
Nenad and Mrado still didn’t seem to care about JW and Jorge—they were slicing cabbages, pouring bags of blow. Abdulkarim kept screaming. But Jorge could tell he was listening now. “JW, I’ve been watching those guys for months. I know what kind of business they’re in.” Jorge told him quickly about the brothel in Hallonbergen. He didn’t mention the shots at the pimp and the brothel madam. Instead, he described the whore party out at Smådalarö. The way the johns carried on, the way the girls looked, who was there. Underscored the latter by telling him about the parking lot outside the enormous mansion. The luxury rides in a row. And that’s when JW suddenly got in a hell of a hurry.

Jorge stubbed out his cigarette in the sand. Enjoyed the heat. The sun gave him a real tan. Nice not to have to deal with the nasty smell of the self-tanner. Except for that, his appearance was back to normal. Straight hair, trim body, no beard. Only his broken nose reminded him of Jorge Nuevo.

Safe.

At the same time, he had to keep moving.

The cash wouldn’t last forever.

Maybe worth going home soon. Get more kronor.

Meet Jorgelito.

***

The sound of a key scraping in the lock. The double doors opened.

Margareta began to cry. Bengt looked strained; his eyes were glued on the floor.

The CO closed the door behind them.

Margareta’s face had the same color as Österåker’s walls: bone white.

JW sat on the other side of the wooden table. Margareta and Bengt sat down. Margareta’s hands reached across the table and met JW’s. Held them tightly.

“How are things, Johan?”

“It’s cool. Much better than jail. I can study here.”

Bengt kept staring down at the tabletop. “And what kinds of jobs did you have in mind?”

JW thought, He will never forgive. Bengt: the honest Swede in a nutshell. And, yet, he came. Maybe Mom made him.

“I’ll get a job.”

Bengt didn’t reply.

They talked more about other stuff—the food in the prison, the lawyer’s visit, and JW’s schoolwork.

They discussed the final days of the trial. The prosecutor’d tried to get JW convicted for attempted murder. He’d told his parents about the drugs. But the bullet to Nenad—never. Wished he’d been better with a gun—he’d only hit Nenad in the shoulder. The court’d believed his explanation, that he’d been scared when the cops stormed in, scared by Mrado’s threats, by Fahdi’s death, that he’d let a shot slip. Without the intent to kill or even harm.

The court bought that stuff. JW confessed to his involvement with the cocaine. His line throughout was that he’d been there only to help boost the gear. They lowered the sentence a few years on account of that and of his age. Still, he’d have time to rot, to decompose ten times over, before he was let out.

The boyz’d turned their backs on him. Pretended like they never knew him. That was to be expected. Those who wade through shit would rather not look down—too nasty. But he’d set his hopes on Sophie. Without success.

There was only one thing left to do—create an okay existence for himself on the inside. He could always sell his money-laundering scheme to other inmates. Do business as usual.

His parents didn’t mention Camilla. And JW refrained from telling them. The cops wouldn’t get much out of Jan Brunéus. He probably hadn’t done anything illegal. JW carried the burden alone. Spared Margareta and Bengt from the truth. That made him sleep a little less badly.

Margareta said, “We got a postcard last week that was alarming, I think.”

JW’s interest started churning. “From who?”

“Didn’t say from who. But it was signed
‘El Negrito.’
 ”

“So, what’d it say?”

“Not much. That the person was having a nice time in Southeast Asia, the beaches were beautiful, that there was coral. And then he said he sent three hundred thousand kaley hugs from his island to yours.”

JW looked indifferent. “Huh.”

“Johan, is there something strange about that?”

“No, just a friend of mine who’s having a nice time. He doesn’t even know I’m in prison. When I get out of here, I’m going to head to the sun, too.”

Bengt opened his mouth. Closed it again.

Margareta turned to him. “What, Dad? Were you going to say something?”

Bengt looked at JW for the first time today. JW stared back and thought, Maybe this is the first time ever that my dad’s really looked at me.

“When you get out, you’re not going to the sun. You’re going to get a real job. Far from Stockholm.”

Bengt lowered his eyes to the table again. He didn’t say anything else.

The silence was heavy in the room.

“Johan, can’t you describe what a day is like in here?”

JW let his mouth run. In his head, he let go of Bengt. Gave Jorge eternal thanks. Three hundred thousand deposited into his account on the Isle of Man. The Chilean was a good person. Didn’t forget who’d picked him up in the woods, even though JW’d betrayed them all, gone behind Abudlkarim’s back, sold his soul to the Yugos. Jorge must’ve understood that JW’d double-gamed them, but he’d also understood that JW didn’t know whom he’d been dealing with. That he’d been naïve.

Visiting hours were over.

The CO led his parents out.

Margareta cried again.

JW remained seated at the table in the visiting room.

Knew what he was going to do with the money.

Didn’t know what he was going to do with his daddy issues.

***

The rec yard at Kumla, a maximum-security prison: close-cut grass, no trees. Cement blocks with a polished surface and relatively fresh metal rods—the outdoor gym. Mrado and the other Serbs were pumping iron.

A silent agreement governed. The morning was for the Serbs. The Arabs bulked postlunch.

Life on the inside was better for him than for many others. In the joint, he was someone. His reputation protected him. Still, the climate was harsher than he remembered it from his last turn. Understood his own and Stefanovic’s lectures in a hands-on way. The gangs ruled. The mobs governed. Either you were with them or you were fucked.

What ruined everything: He was gonna lose Lovisa. Annika’d made the case right after the dope sentence’d fallen against Mrado. Demanded sole custody and visitation for one hour once a month for Mrado in a shitty little visiting room with a chaperone present. Strangled him psychologically. Killed him slowly.

Mrado’s luck was that Bobban’d ended up in the same place. Someone to talk to. Someone who had his back.

How could the Nenad fucker’ve been dumb enough not to see the resemblance between the JW guy and that whore he’d been pumping a few years back? Everything’d been so perfect. They would’ve ruled. Spat Rado in the face. Sold blow for millions.

And now: Radovan continued to maneuver Stockholm’s most powerful network, to control the coat checks in the city, to sell C, to push smuggled booze, to sit in his worn leather armchair in Näsbypark, to drink whiskey and just smile.

Fuck.

This wasn’t Serbian justice. One day, Mrado would have his time with Rado. Rub out his smile. Slowly.

A half hour left till lunch. The other Yugos went inside. Mrado and Bobban lingered.

Bobban sat down on a cement block that served as a bench press.

“Mrado, I heard this morning. They’ve put a price on your head.”

Mrado’d known that it would come. Rado didn’t forget. Had to uphold the code.

“Who told you?”

“Some dude on my hall. Sven. Doing time for armed robbery and assault. He heard it from some Latino hustlers.”

Mrado sat down next to Bobban.

“Latinos?”

“Yeah, it’s weird. High price, too. Three hundred grand.”