Jens Lapidus - Easy Money

Third photo: the back of a man making out with a girl against the wall. No face. Fuck.

Fourth: same man against the wall. His face peeked out from behind the girl’s shoulder. Broad smile.

Last one: a fourth man next to an armchair. A girl on her knees in the armchair, one hand over the man’s pants, over his cock. He was smiling.

All the photos: terrible quality. Looked like Jorge’d photographed fuzzy ghosts.

Richard zoomed in on the pictures. “What the hell is this?”

Jorge wasn’t sure-did the computer geek mean he couldn’t tell what the pictures were of, or was he shocked because he did see what the pictures were of?

“Pictures that I need to make clearer. I guess I’m the only one who can see what’s going on in them now, huh?”

“Jorge. What’re you doing, exactly?” Richard’s eyes were wide.

“Relax. I’m no private eye, if that’s what you think. I don’t even know who these old guys are. It’s nothing bad. Just help me out.”

Richard muttered. Turned back to the screen. Started clicking on the program’s icons and the images.

He fiddled. Changed the exposure. Tested different resolutions, pixel qualities, rendering, contrasts. Enlarged the pictures, changed the color tone, retouched blurred bits.

Worked keenly.

An hour passed.

Jorge wondered how long it would take.

Richard didn’t seem to understand. “This? This’ll take all night. Once I’ve started, I don’t stop.”

Jorge got the hint. Thanked him, excused himself.

They were gonna be in touch the next day at lunchtime.

He left.

Walked down Lundagatan.

In the subway on the way home: thoughts. The nasty, fancy gold guys weren’t satisfied with their lives. Had to fuck teenage whores to feel good. Sven hypocrisy demasked. The blatte world was more honest. Immigrant Sweden was better. That night, for some reason, he slept okay.

The next day at twelve-thirty, the computer geek called.

“Did you fix the photos?”

“Hell yeah. Looks like they were taken with a three-megapixel camera with flash, at least.”

“And.”

“I’ve run the pictures though some databases. Thought you might like that.”

“Databases?”

“Yup. Don’t you wanna know who the old guys are?”

More than Jorge’d expected. He felt goose bumps rise on his skin.

This was big.

Richard went on: “The guy with the chick in his lap, that’s Sven Bolinder, the chairman of the board and CEO of one of Sweden’s biggest publicly traded companies. The guy kissing, that’s the heir to a company. Don’t think you’d know it, but it’s huge. The oldie against the wall with that nerdy-ass smile is buds with the king and a real high roller. Finally, the guy getting his dick massaged, he was the easiest. That’s a Wallström.”

Jorge had no idea about the companies Richard’d listed. Big business wasn’t his specialty, at least not the legal kind.

But he clocked the basics-they were big-timers.

He and Richard made arrangements. Jorge was gonna go there and pick up the photos in altered form.

He threw himself out of the apartment. Ran toward the commuter rail station.

J-boy: like he’d always said-king of kings. Finance men/brokers/CEOs-beware. Jorgelito: blatte of blattes you’ll wish you’d never met.

Some sort of victory was within reach.

Two months later.

Svensk Damtidning

The Princess’s Birthday-Glamour Party for the Young Crème de la Crème

By: Britt Bonde

Photography by: Henrik Olsson

Princess Madeleine’s birthday celebration at the Solliden Palace on June 10 was the natural early-summer high point for the city’s glamorous set. The party was, of course, arranged by Stureplan’s new favorite, Carl Malmer, known to his friends as “Jet Set Carl,” party planner and personal friend of the princess. Dad, the king, and Mom, the queen, were there, as well as the young crème de la crème of Stockholm’s high society. The guests enjoyed champagne and an Italian buffet, after which they danced up a storm to E-Type, who played a special birthday concert. The princess was radiant in her early-summer and perpetually even “Saint-Tropez tan,” with boyfriend Jonas at her side. Crown Princess Victoria offered congratulations and bestowed her gift upon little sis-a custom-embossed doghouse, model Mini One, designed by artist Ernst Billgren. All the princess’s friends spent a long night together, and at the stroke of midnight a snack was served, the classic national specialty, Jansson’s Temptation. After that, the baby princess and her entourage continued to have fun all night long!

The princess’s friends Sophie Pihl and Anna Rosensvärd were, as always, in high party spirits.

Carl Malmer, Jet Set Carl, was accompanied by (girl?)friend Charlotta “Lollo” Nordlander. Carl planned the party.

The boyz club, Baron Fredrik Gyllenbielke, Niklas “Nippe” Creutz, and Johan “JW” Westlund, threw down on the dance floor.

The birthday girl, Princess Madeleine, was embraced by her Jonas.

JW lived Life. And all the while, Nenad kept in touch regularly. Almost three months’d passed since JW’d made up his mind-he wanted to play in the big leagues, with the big boys. Didn’t really understand why the equation demanded his participation, but apparently it was important to Nenad. He’d get his cut of the pie. After some bartering back and forth, they’d landed on 15 percent. If all went well, if the whole shipment made it safely into the country, if sales went off without a hitch at good prices, it would be more than six million. Jesus.

The money-laundering system was the great problem solver. Everything’d fallen into place a little over three months ago. The companies and accounts on the Isle of Man, the companies in Sweden, the invoices, the promissory notes, and the hiring contract. Damn nicely done.

JW dug the system he’d engineered for himself-the placement when JW’s C cash was transferred as payment for fantasy marketing costs in England. He designed the invoices for the made-up English advertising and marketing companies himself. They all had the same account number-his own company’s account with the Central Union Bank. Nothing strange about that-on paper, his fake business was dealing British antiques. His two point persons at the Swedish banks loved him. Every time they saw each other, JW doled out compliments, made them laugh and listen to his stories about leather armchairs or glass tables with marble legs. Top-shelf trust. Phase one of moving the money-transforming the cash into electronic records-went smoothly. The next phase-concealment-consisted of transferring the money to JW’s island company. The company’d acquired a name, C Solutions, Ltd. He liked the catchy C in the name. The money was protected, hidden, secure. No one but JW had the right to know how much and where it was.

The last phase-the actual washing-was genius. C Solutions, Ltd., loaned money to JW’s third Swedish company, JW Consulting, Ltd. Promissory notes had been drawn up by JW’s own banker, who, in turn, documented the transactions. Interest and payments were regulated. Advanced legal clauses were in place: Event of Default, Governing Law, Termination-everything according to the Isle of Man’s legislation. From the perspective of the Swedish authorities, JW’s Swedish company got loans from a foreign company. Nothing shady about that. The contracts were completely in order. Carefully calculated circuit: JW paid invoices to his own company, which, in turn, loaned out the money; then he paid himself interest. JW Consulting, Ltd., was stocking up; there was already half a million kronor in the bank, totally legit. If anyone wondered what the company was using the money for, the answer was a given: It was to cover the initial start-up costs, like a company car and cell phone for JW. In addition, there was the possibility of fake-investing the money and earning profits that would become the company’s own capital. Best of all, the interest being paid back to the island company was tax-deductible.