Easy Money (7 page)

A yellow Ferrari.

His first thought: The model looks the same as the one in Camilla’s pictures.

His second thought: There can hardly be more than one car like that in all of Stockholm.

The memory of his sister washed over him.

He had to know.

Who owned that car?

District Attorney Markus Sjöberg
Stockholm District Attorney’s Office

1. Joakim Berggren, 740816-0939
   

   Vapengatan 5
   

   126 52 HÄGERSTEN
   

2. Daniel Lappalainen, 801205-2175
   

   Lundagatan 55
   

   117 27 STOCKHOLM
   

1. Patrik Sjöquist, 760417-0351
   

   Rosenlundsgatan 28
   

   118 53 STOCKHOLM
   

2. Mrado Slovovic, 670203-9115
   

   Katarina Bangata 37
   

   116 39 STOCKHOLM
   

Martin Thomasson, Esq.
Box 5467
112 31 STOCKHOLM

Aggravated Assault

Subsection 3, Paragraph 6

Prison, 3 years.

Count 2 (Mrado Slovovic, regarding assault)

The prosecutor has as
written evidence,
referred to a medical report regarding injuries incurred by Joakim Berggren. The report is in reference to, among other things, a fracture in the nasal bone, a crushing of the jawbone in two places, a fracture in the right cheekbone, torn skin in five places, bruises and swelling on cheeks and forehead, bruising around the right eye, swelling and tearing of the lips, four severed teeth in the upper front row, as well as bleeding in the brain, severe swelling of the brain, and brain contusion.

As
verbal evidence,
the prosecutor has referred to the statement of the witness Joakim Berggren, the statement of the witness Peter Hallén, security guard at restaurant Kvarnen, as well as the statement of the witness Christer Thräff, guest at the previously named restaurant at the time of the incident.

The plaintiff Joakim Berggren has, among other things, said the following: The three men, Patrik Sjöquist, Mrado Slovovic, and Ratko Markewitsch, came to restaurant Kvarnen at around 0120 on August 23 of this year. The security guard who was working the line at the door, Jimmy Andersson, informed Berggren through the internal communication system that the three men had acted in a hostile manner and had demanded to speak with the person in charge of the coat check. Jimmy Andersson chose to let them in. Berggren understood that the three men belonged to the so-called Coat Check Mob, a segment of Stockholm’s organized-crime world that seeks to make money on different restaurants’ and bars’ coat-check business. He therefore informed them that Kvarnen was not interested. Despite this, he welcomed them into the restaurant. The three men acted aggressively. Among other things, Patrik Sjöquist said that they refused to leave the venue if they were not permitted to speak to the person in charge of the coat check. After approximately two minutes, the men entered the venue without having spoken to anyone regarding the coat check. Berggren continued to work the coat check and the door. At around 0300, he went to the rest room to urinate. Patrik Sjöquist entered the rest room. Shortly thereafter, the other two men also came in. Berggren was standing at one of the urinals. Patrik Sjöquist went up to him and head-butted him across the nasal bone. He believes the nose was broken. After that, Patrik Sjöquist grabbed hold of Berggren’s hair and hit his head against the side of the urinal. Thereafter, Patrik Sjöquist pounded Berggren’s head against the edge of the urinal at least three times. He remembers that Patrik Sjöquist yelled, “You fucking fag” and “This is what happens to people like you.” Shortly thereafter, Berggren lost consciousness.

In response to the charges, the defendant Patrik Sjöquist has made the following claims. He was threatened by Joakim Berggren, who said that “he would grind him to a pulp if he ever set foot in Kvarnen again.” The reason for this was that Patrik Sjöquist had refused to check his coat. He believes that is the reason that Joakim Berggren believes that he belongs to some so-called Coat Check Mob. Later, he went to the bathroom to urinate. Inside the bathroom, he was shoved in the chest by Joakim Berggren. He tried to defend himself and there was a scuffle. He is not able to remember exactly what happened, but he knows that he received several punches and, in turn, hit Joakim Berggren. He is claiming self-defense against Joakim Berggren’s assault. However, he admits that he hit Joakim Berggren in the face with at most three blows. The reason for this is that he was protecting himself and acted in self-defense. He does not believe that he pounded Joakim Berggren’s head on the urinal. He would not do something like that. After that, the two other persons ran into the bathroom. Sjöquist did not know that they were security guards. One of them began to fight with Mrado Slovovic. Sjöquist does not know why. He was inebriated at the time.

The security guard Peter Hallén has recounted, among other things, that he saw Patrik Sjöquist holding Joakim Berggren by the neck when he entered the bathroom. He also saw how Mrado Slovovic “wrestled” one of the other security guards, Daniel Lappalainen, to the floor and put his leg in a lock. The restaurant guest Christer Thräff has recounted how he heard Patrik Sjöquist yell to Joakim Berggren that he would “teach him a lesson,” as well as that he saw how Patrik Sjöquist head-butted Joakim Berggren. The witnesses’ testimonies appear to be reliable. The District Court further believes that Joakim Berggren’s testimony is reliable. For example, he has described details regarding what Patrik Sjöquist yelled. His testimony is supported by the medical reports and by the testimonies of witnesses Peter Hallén and Christer Thräff.

Patrik Sjöquist sustained no reported injuries and also did not consult a doctor after the incident in question. The witness Christer Thräff has recounted that it was Patrik Sjöquist who, unprovoked, head-butted Joakim Berggren. This leads the District Court to believe that Patrik Sjöquist’s testimony is unreliable.

In summation, the District Court finds Patrik Sjöquist guilty of assaulting Joakim Berggren, consistent with the prosecution’s allegations. Patrik Sjöquist did not act in self-defense. The assault was of an unusually ruthless nature and shall be judged as aggravated assault, since it included repeated blows to the head, with severe injuries as a result. The charges are supported and will therefore be accepted. The crime shall be labeled aggravated assault.

Patrik Sjöquist has seven previous convictions on his criminal record. Most recently, he was convicted for assault by Nacka District Court and sentenced to four months in prison. His record also includes a previous conviction for assault as well as unlawful threats, hate crime, illegal possession of arms, illegal doping, and various traffic infractions. Based on medical records by court-appointed doctors, it is clear that Patrik Sjöquist lives in an orderly way. He is employed as a construction worker and spends a great deal of his free time on so-called bodybuilding. He has a yearly income of around 200,000 kronor. There is no present need for surveillance. Patrik Sjöquist has agreed to community service.

Considering the severity of the crime and the aggravating factors discussed supra, no alternative sentence to imprisonment is available. The sentence shall therefore be set at three years in prison.

The prosecutor has,
as verbal evidence,
referred to the statements/questioning of the plaintiff, security guard Daniel Lappalainen, as well as to the questioning of the witness, security guard Peter Hallén.

Daniel Lappalainen has, among other things, recounted the following. He does not know if he was wearing his security guard’s badge at the time of the incident. He understood that there was something “going on” in the men’s bathroom. When he entered it, he saw Joakim Berggren lying on the floor. There was blood on the wall and on Joakim Berggren’s face. There were a number of people in the bathroom. He yelled at everyone to stay in the bathroom. One man ran past him out the door. Another man, Mrado Slovovic, grabbed hold of his leg, so that he lost his balance. Mrado Slovovic then put his foot in a lock. It hurt a great deal. He thought that Mrado Slovovic would break off his foot. Then Mrado Slovovic told him that “Kvarnen would be visited again” and that “Joakim Berggren had messed with the wrong guys.” After that, Mrado Slovovic and Patrick Sjöquist left the venue.

The security guard Peter Hallén’s version of events is the same as under Count 1.

In response to the charges, the defendant, Mrado Slovovic, has made the following statement. The security guard Joakim Berggren had been very unpleasant to his friend Patrik Sjöquist earlier during the night. When Mrado Slovovic came into the men’s bathroom, he saw that the situation was generally tumultuous and that a fight was going on between Joakim Berggren and Patrik Sjöquist. He was on his way to break up the scuffle when two men entered the bathroom. Mrado Slovovic did not realize that they were security guards. One of the men, Daniel Lappalainen, must have thought that Mrado Slovovic was involved in the fight, because he tried to “wrestle” him to the floor. At that point, Mrado Slovovic became very frightened. Mrado Slovovic succeeded in freeing himself from Daniel Lappalainen’s grasp. He may have grabbed Daniel Lappalainen’s foot in order to tear himself away, but it was not hard. Daniel Lappalainen was not wearing a security guard’s badge and Mrado did not realize that he was a security guard.

Daniel Lappalainen and Mrado Slovovic’s versions of events differ when it comes to who attacked whom and whether or not Mrado Slovovic injured Daniel Lappalainen’s foot in self-defense. Both have given believable accounts. Daniel Lappalainen’s version is supported by the security guard Peter Hallén’s testimony regarding the fact that it was Mrado Slovovic who “wrestled” Daniel Lappalainen to the ground. Mrado Slovovic’s version is supported by Patrik Sjöquist’s account that it was the security guard who began to fight with Mrado Slovovic.

According to Swedish law, the defendant’s claims shall form the basis of the Court’s judgment unless they are refuted by the prosecutor. In instant case, this is a situation of one man’s word against another’s, and both versions have certain support in the observations of others. It should also be noted that there is no medical record that supports the claim that Daniel Lappalainen’s leg was injured. However, it shall be regarded as irrefutable that the general conditions in the bathroom at Kvarnen were tumultuous. A scuffle had arisen in this situation, and it is possible that it was unclear who attacked whom. It will be considered confirmed that Mrado Slovovic entered the bathroom at a later point than Patrik Sjöquist and therefore may have interpreted the situation differently. Even if Mrado Slovovic did, in fact, injure Daniel Lappalainen’s leg in the alleged way, this may have been defensible if Mrado Slovovic did indeed perceive that he was attacked and therefore acted in so-called putative self-defense; in other words, he believed he was in danger of becoming the victim of a criminal act. It is also not clear whether or not Daniel Lappalainen was wearing his security guard’s badge. Mrado Slovovic’s claim that he did not realize that Daniel Lappalainen was a security guard should therefore be given due consideration. In conclusion, the District Court finds that the prosecution was unable to prove the alleged act. The charges will therefore be dropped.

An appeal should be made to Svea Court of Appeals and be submitted to the District Court no later than three weeks from today.

On behalf of the District Court
Tor Hjalmarsson

Mrado in the serene suburb—like a penguin in the jungle. Didn’t fit in. Wrong habitat. Wrong climate. Wrong size. Attracted stares. A relief that Radovan invited him over to his house relatively seldom.

He couldn’t find a parking spot. The risk of not making it on time was increasing. He drove in circles. Kept his eyes peeled. Maybe someone was on their way to their car to drive off. Improvised with streets. Like a rookie. No structure. No success.

He was busy worrying about other stuff.

No open legal spot to park his Mercedes SL 500. Finally, he parked the car too close to a pedestrian crossing. Ticket bait. Whatever. It was leased. Parking tickets would go to the leasing company.

Mrado walked up to Radovan’s house.

The house: a long one-story, almost four thousand square feet. White walls and a flat roof with black panels. Door and window frames in dark wood. Well-groomed garden during the summer. Fuchsias, perennials, rhododendrons. Now on their way to the inevitable fall brown. The property was surrounded by a wooden fence about five feet tall. Roses grew along the inner periphery. It looked peaceful, boring, and harmless from the outside. Mrado knew that it was heavily guarded from the inside.

“
Dobre dosao,
come on in, Mrado.”

Stefanovic, Rado’s jack-of-all-trades, opened the door. Led Mrado through the house.

Radovan was seated in a leather armchair in the library. Dapper as always. Dark blue blazer. Light-colored corduroys. Well coiffed. The furrows/scars on his face spelled out the word
respect.

Dark wallpaper. Tall as well as short bookcases along the walls. On the walls, above the shelves: framed maps, paintings, and religious icons. Europe and the Balkans. Lovely Donau. The Battle of Kosovo Polje. The Federal Republic of Yugoslavia. History’s heroes. Portraits of Karayorye. The Holy Sava. Most of all—maps of Serbia-Montenegro.

Stefanovic left them alone.

Radovan, in Serbian: “Welcome.”

“The pleasure is all mine. We don’t see each other that often.” Mrado remained standing.

“Have a seat, for Christ’s sake. No, we don’t see each other that often. I guess that’s for the best. But we talk on the phone.”

“Of course. As often as you like.”

“Mrado, let’s skip the pleasantries. You know me—I express myself plainly. No frills. That doesn’t mean it’s personal. I think you know how I feel about what happened at Kvarnen.”

“I think I do.”

“A total clusterfuck. Shit like that just can’t happen. I trust you, and you’ve made a fool of yourself. Now the whole situation’s hysterical. Do you understand what the hell you’ve done? The blowback could be war.”

“I’m incredibly sorry, Rado. I misjudged the situation. I take full responsibility for what happened.”

In Mrado’s head: The whole shit show was really Patrik’s fault. But there’s no point in blaming others. If you’re in charge, you’re responsible.

Radovan said, “Well, you fuckin’ better. Anything else would be crazy. You know our situation. That skinhead you used, Patrik, was convicted of aggravated assault. He can’t call or write when he wants. No information goes in or out. We don’t know shit about what he’s saying about us in there. You can’t trust just anyone. For your sake, you better hope the fucker’s no canary. For our sake, too.”

“I think it’s cool.”

“You’ve done good all these years. And now this? Why didn’t you stop that unprofessional skin faggot? The police can crack that guy easier than an egg in a frying pan. What’s more? Hells Angels, Bandidos, Boman, or someone else can flip their shit. The relations between the factions in this city are tense enough as is. Things can’t get worse.”

Mrado was usually Mr. Hard Ass. But Rado was the kind of man that people, even the Yugo Mafia, lowered their voices around and avoided eye contact with. Mrado felt the worry grow in the pit of his stomach. Radovan was really angry. Pulsating thought: Can’t fuck up my relationship with Radovan. Repeat: Can’t fuck up my relationship with Radovan.

On the other hand, Mrado more than pulled his weight. Worked the coat checks, racketeering, and more. Remembered the time under Dragan Joksovic, when he and Rado’d been equals. Colleagues in Jokso’s monopoly of violence. Now Radovan was sitting there saying that he’d “done good all these years.” What bullshit. Radovan was the one who’d done good under Jokso. It was repulsive: Radovan was playing God.

What’s more: Mrado’s cut these days wasn’t big enough. Rado let him in on too little. Most important, too little of the profits. As if they didn’t have a past. As if R.’d always been at the top of the ladder.

But now he had to grovel pretty. Think constructively. Come up with solutions. Subtle mood fixers.

“Rado, Patrik’s good. On my honor. Yeah, he’s a hothead, still too impulsive, but he’s no rat. He’s cool. He knows the rules. I’m not worried about that.”

“That’s good news. But we could be in shit up to our knees all the same. Patrik’s dumb. The guy needs Google Maps to find his own dick. There’re a couple possible scenarios. The first is that the pigs press the skinhead till he serves our asses on a plate. Then they’re gonna start the world’s biggest fucking investigation, cops swarming every bar we’ve got stakes in. Maybe we’ll have to shut down a whole lot of our businesses, pull out. Another scenario is that HA, Göran Boman, or someone else flips ’cause the strategy we’ve been pushing on the coat-check front’s too heavy on the artillery. We don’t want to make the situation any worse than it is, Mrado, and you, of all people, know that. Four of our guys went down in the last round. And let’s not even get into what happened to you. I know war. All of me’s a fucking war. You know the balance—after Jokso, no one’s allowed to be king. Between us, Mrado, they can forget about it. But this is no time to rock the boat.”

“A good analysis, Rado. As always. Allow me to offer some additional ideas. Want to hear them?”

“Absolutely. That’s also why we’re getting together now. What’re you thinking?”

“Patrik knows the drill. Knows our code. Rats catch cold. Only a couple days ago, he saw what happened to a dude at the gym who was acting up. And that was no little guy, either. The skinhead gets it. If he snitches, he won’t live long enough to make it to the joint’s unguarded urinals and back. Trust me, I know a lot of people who’ve been taken down in the Tidaholm pen. But that won’t happen, him snitching.”

Mrado’d been thinking. Loaded up on ideas. Helicopter perspective. Big-picture perspective. Future perspective. Possibility. Expansion flexibility. Radovan wanted to be king. He had potential. At the same time—Mrado wanted to bring up his cut of the coat-check business.

“We can’t lose the coat checks. Since we put it in high gear last year, that business has yielded around three hundred thousand per month in the winter season and just under one hundred fifty thousand per month in the summer. We’ve got about twenty places. The more places we can control, the more people’ll get used to paying a fee. Finally, every little shit pub in this city’ll be able to charge people something to check their stuff. The crux is what we do with the gold. The coat checks are perfect. We operate cash only. Big Brother doesn’t have a chance in hell to calculate our revenue. All salaries are under the table. The places themselves don’t declare a cent anyway.”

Radovan smiled. He loved cash talk. Squinted. Brought out paper and pen. Calculator. He already knew the numbers. He already knew the advantages. He already knew the money had to be laundered. But Mrado knew that Radovan liked to hear what Radovan already knew.

“It works well, Mrado. I agree, we’ve got laundry issues right now. We need to get rid of the money somewhere. Clara’s and Diamond can’t swallow the kind of sums the coat-check business brings in. We need more companies. In a way, it’s a luxury problem. Sign that business is booming.”

Mrado replied, “Video-rental stores would work, I think. Big Brother can never find out how many movies we actually rent out. We’ll inflate the returns as much as we want. I can do it. I’ve done it before. If it gets messy after all and the state starts getting suspicious, someone else’s head’ll fall. A straw man.”

“Right on. Who?”

“Someone with no folding history. Not a total tool, but someone who doesn’t have a lot to lose, either. I’ll get on it. But the fall guy doesn’t really protect if Big Bro wants the laundry money back. Mostly protects against bankruptcy if we get hit with fat tax debt or something. But you don’t want to get your name dirty with suspicious bankruptcies that’ll nix your trade license. This’ll be perfect.”

“You know this. Start tomorrow.”

Stefanovic knocked. Brought in chai tea and biscotti. Radovan leaned back. Dipped the biscotti in his tea. Like a Sven. Smacked his lips. They made some small talk about Radovan’s daughter. She was starting school. Private school, inner-city school, the suburban school—what was best? Mrado vented his own shit. That he saw Lovisa too seldom. The custody battle with the mother. Rado-style: asked if there was anything he could do. Mrado thought, Hell no. If Social Services finds out you’re in the picture, my custody battle is shot.

Two real Persian carpets on the floor. Radovan’d decorated this as his classicist room. The books on the shelves were mostly for show. On the shelves: encyclopedias and map books. Collected works by Serbian writers. Mrado didn’t even recognize the names: Jovan Jovanović Zmaj, Sima Milutinović Sarajlija, Kraljević Marko. Only one was familiar: the Nobel laureate Ivo Andrić.

Mrado thought about his teacher in Native Language Studies class, who’d gotten him to read Ivo Andrić. A year later, he was Södertälje’s toughest fist.

Radovan set down his glass of chai.

“The smokes business is going well. Goran’s good. But in the long run, we can’t rely on it. Society at large is against smoking these days. The ban on cigarettes at restaurants is catastrophic, the new pictures of black lungs are repulsive, and increased customs control with non-EU countries is devastating.”

“You’re right, but it’s important that we maintain our contacts with the teamsters. The logistics wouldn’t be easy to build back up from scratch. Soon all of the Balkans will open up with EU membership. Heroin is eight times cheaper there. Even if it rises somewhat, we’ve got to be prepared. The same truckers who drive smokes today can drive brown sugar tomorrow.”

They kept the discussion going. Went through all of Radovan’s businesses and projects: cigarette and booze smuggling, the debt collectors, drugs, the Jack Vegas gambling machine fakes, the apartment brothel, the call-service hookers.

And then the semilegal ones: Clara’s, the bar, and the Diamond, a nightclub. Laundromats.

The abstract read cash flow, rising dough, money that had to be taxed to come back clean. The bar and nightclub didn’t cut it. Radovan had to appear like a law-abiding, respectable citizen.

The conclusion: They definitely needed two video-rental stores. Maybe more.

All along, Mrado had wanted to get to the question of his cut of the coat checks.

Finally, he raised the tea glass to his lips and tried to drink from it, even though it was obviously empty. Hoped he’d softened Radovan up enough.

“Rado, I also want to talk about the economics of the coat checks.”

Radovan looked up from the number-covered papers that were spread out in front of him. “And what exactly do you mean by that?”

“Maybe I didn’t handle this whole Patrik thing too well. But I’m taking responsibility for it and I do a good job. We just went over the numbers. They point straight up. What’ll my cut be?”

Silence.

Mrado tried to push it. “Did you hear what I said?”

Concrete wall.

“Mrado, let me make one thing clear. You don’t make the rules here. No matter how fucking brilliant your business ideas are, they’re all mine. No matter how well you do your business, in the end it’s my cash. We’ll have a discussion about your piece of the pie when I feel like it. Let’s not ruin a good night with that kind of thing. I’m going to forget what you just asked me, okay?”

Mrado, speechless. How could he have made such a miscalculation? And he’d groveled like a fucking faggot begging to be reamed just to ask the question about his cut. Another thought took hold: One day, someone else will be king of the hill.

It was eight o’clock. They moved to the dining room. Radovan’s wife came home. Made small talk with Radovan and Mrado for half an hour. She was thin. Mrado thought she was the most beautiful Serbian woman he’d ever seen.

She ate in the kitchen with the daughter.

Radovan acted irreproachably. As though Mrado’s question’d never been asked.

The mood went back to normal.

They uncorked a Burgundy from 1994. Radovan tasted it. “I’m assuming you already know this, but Jorge Salinas Barrio fled the coop.”

“Ratko told me. I think some rag had a story on it last week, too. It didn’t say much, but apparently he hopped over the wall. Impressive.”

“It’s a bad thing he’s out. We wrapped him at the trial. He might be sitting on a whole mess of shit about our blow business. From what I’ve gathered, he’s pissed at us, and his life is pretty shitty right now. On the run, not a lot of friends. He might decide to do something stupid. I honestly don’t know how much he knows. Do you?”

“Not really. But I know what you mean. What should we do?”

“Nothing yet. But if he tries anything, we gotta stop him. Remind him who’s boss. Rough him up. Right, Mrado, the way we deal with troublemakers?”

Mrado stared down at his wineglass. Was that last statement referring to how Rado was going to treat him if he kept making demands? Either way, the Jorge thug should get it right now. The Latino was a threat to the Yugos.

Mrado had other things to think about. Deal with the coat checks after the Kvarnen fiasco, find a front man to build up the money-laundering biz, fight for his daughter. The Latino’d have to wait.

What’s more: no point in overstepping Radovan’s bounds, taking things into his own hands. Their relationship already felt strained enough.

He’d wait for a green light before he went after that Jorge fucker.