Easy Money (8 page)

And their strained relationship—he had to think about that.

Jorge the man,
rey de los bandidos,
blew the popo outta the water. The 5-0 could drag their bloodhounds around. Forget it—they weren’t finding Jorge-boy.

He was out. He was loose. He was the city’s slickest slumdog.

He thought about how the gab must be rolling. The man who ran faster than Ben Johnson. The man who screwed the screws up the ass with his smarts. The man who caged out of Österåker with the help of a couple of bedsheets and a hook from a basketball hoop. Slam dunk.
Gracias y adiós.

The man. The myth. The legend.

And they didn’t have a fuckin’ clue.

Jorge’s plans before the break had been well oiled. His plan now: stay alive, and stay free. Get cash. Bust the border. In other words: not much of a plan.

Santo Sergio’d delivered the ladder at the right place. Hauled ass to his car and driven outta the woods before Jorge’d even gotten halfway over the clearing. He’d parked the other car perfectly.

Fugitivo fantástico.
A Latino with balls.

Jorge’d driven like a maniac down the forest road. Like a back-road racer. The COs missed his curveball, didn’t see him get in the car. Thought he was still booking it on foot. He’d planned it that way. The road forked three times. By the time the screws realized he was on wheels, it’d probably take them an hour to figure out which road he’d taken. Out on the highway. Past Åkersberga. Exit. Into the woods. That’s where he’d met Sergio. Sergio’d jacked the car that he’d left waiting for Jorge three days earlier. They dumped it. A tank of gas in the trunk. Torched it. Not worth waiting around to watch the flames.

That’s where the trail ended: deep in Hansel and Gretel land.

If the 5-0 even got that far.

He’d arrived at the apartment at two-thirty in the morning. They’d waited all night in the car until the coast was clear—wanted to avoid neighbors seeing Jorge go in. They ate falafel, drank Coke and coffee. Listened to Hit FM. Chatted. Stayed awake. Jorge chillin’, coming down off the adrenaline high.

The following days: Jorge could live in the empty apartment. It belonged to Sergio’s aunt. The old lady’d been in a retirement home since seven weeks back.

The deal: Jorge could stay for ten days tops. Jorge couldn’t so much as wiggle a foot out the door. Jorge had to lay subterranean low. After that, he could do what he liked, but he had to pay Sergio back for everything—he’d sworn his life on it.

Jorge was grateful. Sergio was an angel. Had already done more than anyone. Sacrificed. Gambled. Taken risks. Like family oughta do for one other, but what no one’d ever done for him. He was planning on staying no more than a week.

Shut in the apartment. Heavy—he was supposed to be free. Now this, caged again. The only difference between this and the cell at Österåker was a few additional square feet. He had to prepare for his new life on the run.

Jorge let his beard grow. Cut his hair. Dyed it blacker.

He asked Sergio to buy small curlers and perm solution: thio balance perm. Read the instructions over and over, all the fine print. Stood over the bathtub. Rinsed his hair under the water. Carefully rolled his hair on the curlers. Good thing no one was watching. Felt like a real fairy.

Practiced a new walk. Tried to disguise his voice as much as possible.

Jorge knew: People instinctively recognize you by your body language, the way you walk, talk, run your hand through your hair, and smile. Your unconscious tics. The way you use certain expressions. Rodriguez’s only good deed, according to Jorge: The dude’d recorded home videos of him and Paola when they were kids. Two completely different people: a boy and a girl, sinewy and graceful, angular and round. And still, their body language was almost identical. Jorge remembered. Codes of character more dangerous than looks.

Change that kind of stuff, Jorge-boy—fast as fuck.

The apartment was rough. He wanted out. Took down the mirror from the hall and propped it up against the wall in the living room. Walked around from 10:00 a.m. to 7:00 p.m. that first day with Marge Simpson hair and rehearsed new moves. Practiced new tics. Practiced new lingo.

After twelve hours, his new hair—curly. It wasn’t as kinky as he’d hoped, even though he’d kept the rollers in double the instructed time.

He smeared himself with self-tanner: Piz Buin, the darkest kind. According to the directions on the back of the tube, the color would last for three days. Should work.

Finally, the total effect: he looked like a
zambo
—
el zambo macanudo.
A lip and nose job and his own mother wouldn’t even know him.

Amazing.

Blinds shut. A constant pale gray light in the room.

The apartment was small—two rooms and a kitchen. There was a narrow bed with no sheets in the bedroom. Jorge thought they’d have that kind of stuff in the retirement home, but they seemed to have emptied every drawer when they picked up the old lady. The living room had a couch, a TV, a rug, and a dark wood coffee table in it. There was a yellow glass lamp suspended from the ceiling. The bookshelves were filled with family photos, postcards from Chile, and books. Mostly in Spanish. He caught himself wondering if she’d had a family. Tried to check out the postcards. Read a few. Got bored after a while. The Asics shoes hadn’t cut it. His foot still hurt. It might be sprained.

Midday, he rang the doorbells of the neighbors over, under, and next to him. Hid in the stairwell in case they opened. No one was home. He could watch TV.

Lowered the volume anyway. There was no cable. Listened to the news. Nothing about him. He watched reruns, matinee movies, and shopping shows. Got nervous.

Kept practicing his new walk. Nail the rhythm. Swing your arms. His right leg made an extra little swerve with each step. Nigga with attitude. Walk with soul. Movements with flow. Don’t overdo it; make it seem real. Felt as if he’d moved like this all his life. Had it in his blood. From birth.

He read the evening papers that Sergio’d brought with him. They hadn’t written much about the escape. Just a short article in
Expressen
on the first day after and a small notice in
Aftonbladet.

According to
Expressen:

Jorge smiled. So, they’d thought his training was exaggerated. Wonder what they’d thought about his studies at the city library? Had they even connected the dots?

There was nothing in the papers on day two. He was disappointed. At the same time, relieved—the less attention the better.

He missed running. Disliked the silence. Was scared his endurance and his fit body would break down.

Time slower than a Prius without a plug-in. He tried to plan. Jacked off. Peered between the blinds. Got nervous. Practiced the new Jorge over and over again. Listened for suspicious sounds on the street or in the stairwell. Fantasized about his success abroad.

Boredom: ten times worse than in the slammer.

He slept poorly. Woke up. Listened. Raised the blinds. Stared through the peephole in the door.

Paced. Looked himself in the mirror. Who would he become?

Jorge’s dilemma: The blow biz was all he knew. But how could he get back into it without disclosing his identity? As Jorge, he was respected. Not as whatever his name would be now. It was a tough scene to break into solo. Impossible without support.

He needed a personal identification number and an address in order to hide behind a temporary identity. Besides, he wanted to jump stiles. If you got collared, you could always give someone else’s digits and address to placate the subway controllers.

What’s more, he had to find a tanning bed so he could cut the self-tanner. Needed contacts with a darker brown tint than his natural eye color. Needed more threads than the dingy tracksuit Sergio’d given him. Needed a cell phone. Needed to get in touch with certain people. Most of all, J-boy needed cash. He missed Paola. Wanted to call but knew he shouldn’t. It’d have to wait. After five days, he started wigging out. Thought every single car that stopped on the street was the 5-0. Sergio came that night; they talked the situation over. The cops hadn’t visited Sergio yet. Everything seemed cool. Jorge, still buggin’. Wanted out.

Sergio picked him up at 6:00 a.m. the next day. Jorge was totally spent. Hadn’t slept a wink. Had crawled around the apartment with a sponge, wiping every piece of hair and other possible traces of himself off the floor.

They drove to Kallhäll. Jorge asked Sergio to make a few extra loops to lose any eventual tails.

Sergio shook his head, “You tweakin’ out,
primo.
”

The next place for Jorge to sleep: a room at Sergio’s best bud’s place, Eddie’s. The advantage: If the cops were on his heels, they’d definitely lose the trail now. The downside: The circle of trust widened.

Really, the optimal thing would be to stay with people who didn’t know who he was, or who wouldn’t recognize him. You couldn’t fool Eddie. Laughed when he saw Jorge.
El negrito.
He was introduced to Eddie’s wife and two kids. Didn’t know squat about Jorge’s story. Not perfect, but okay.

Jorge lay on a bed for days on end. Listened to the kids crying. Studied the patterns on the ceiling. Thought about what it must’ve been like when his mom came to Sweden big with him. From the dictatorship. Alone with the memories. He was ashamed that he knew so little. Hadn’t asked enough.

The room was small. Belonged to one of the kids. Legos all over the floor. Kid posters on the walls. Some teen idols Jorge didn’t even recognize. Flowery curtains over the windows. He read comics. Wished he could play Eddie’s Xbox but didn’t dare leave the room. Yearned to be back in the old lady’s crib, but still knew he was safer where he was. Yearned for real freedom. Yearned to be out.

A few days later. Eddie knocked on the door at around 2:00 p.m. He should have been at work. Jorge knew right away: Something was wrong. Eddie was sweaty. His shoes were still on. His kids were screaming in the background.

“Jorge, you gotta go. They’ve picked Sergio up for questioning.”

“When? How do you know?”

“They called this morning and told him he had to show up before one p.m. He called me right away and said I had to tell you but that I couldn’t call.”

“Good. I’m the one that told him no calls. They can tap ’em, and God knows what else they can do. You weren’t followed?”

Eddie: not the world’s sharpest Latino. But he’d been around the block. Knew to keep a lookout.

Jorge started getting dressed. Besides the tracksuit, he’d borrowed a jacket from Sergio. Not much to pack: a tube of Piz Buin, the curlers, a toothbrush, two pairs of boxers, and an extra pair of socks. It’d all come from Sergio, along with five grand he’d borrowed.

Shoved the stuff into a plastic bag. Kissed Eddie on the cheeks. Waved to the screaming kids. Thanked the oldest
niño
for the use of his room. Hoped Eddie hadn’t told his wife his name or who he was.

He’d been on the run for ten days. Was it already going to hell?

Wrote a note in Spanish for Sergio, coded according to their agreement. Gave it to Eddie.

Stepped out of the apartment. Thought he heard a siren outside.

Opened the door to the street.

Looked around. No cars on the street. No people. Coast clear. Paranoid Latino on the run.

What the fuck was he gonna do now?

The air was getting chillier. September ninth. Jorge walked around the city all day. Downtown: Drottninggatan, Gamla Brogatan, Hötorget, Kungsgatan, Stureplan. Ate at McDonald’s. Window-shopped. Tried to check out
chicas.

Couldn’t enjoy. Only stress. Whichever it was—OCD or rational security measures—he kept looking around like every
hombre
on the street was an undercover on the LO.

Get to know broken Jorge:
El Jorgelito
—a scared little shit. He wanted to call his sister. He wanted to talk to his mama. He almost wanted to go back to prison.

This wouldn’t fly; he had to wise up. Stop thinking about his mama and sister all the time. What the fuck was wrong with him anyway? Family’s everything, sure. That was rule
número uno.
But if you didn’t have a real family, if you had to take care of yourself, then other rules applied. He focused on the important stuff.

Nowhere to sleep and no bros/co-dees he could trust right now.

Five grand in his pocket. He could pay some old blow buddy to put him up for a few nights. But the risk was too big; they’d rat for anything, just show them the cheese.

He couldn’t stay at a motel. Probably too expensive. Besides, they’d want to see some kind of ID.

He could get in touch with his mama or his sister, but they were probably under surveillance by the cops and it was unnecessary to put them through that kind of crap.

Mierda.