Jens Lapidus - Easy Money

Radovan ought to be home. They knew their former boss. Every other Thursday night, the old guy played poker with his gambler gang: Goran, Berra K., and a couple of other silver-haired spenders. Mrado thought, I’ve never been invited.

The game was usually over by half past twelve. Rado always went home after.

He should be inside the house now.

Mrado and Nenad walked up the gravel path toward the front door. A spotlight came on automatically.

Before they had time to ring the bell, the door slid open.

Stefanovic stood in the opening, with one hand inside his jacket.

He spoke slowly, clear emphasis in the Serbian, “What are you doing here at this time of night?”

Mrado replied, “We’re here to see Rado. He’s usually home about now. It’s important.”

Stefanovic, electrified. In front of him: the two men Rado’d decided to demote. Lethal. One: assassin, debt collector, human murder machine. The other: cocaine magnate, smuggler, pimp king with a penchant for violence.

The air was thick with explosive energy. One spark and everything could go off.

“I think Radovan’s gone to bed. I’m sorry. How about you call tomorrow?”

“No. He will see us now.”

Stefanovic closed the door. Mrado and Nenad remained outside. Looked for movements in the windows.

Three minutes passed.

They understood that Rado understood. He would never dare let them into his house. How could he know that they hadn’t come to pop him?

Stefanovic came back out.

“He has agreed to meet with you. Please follow me.”

Stefanovic guided them in front of him toward the garage-smart. He saw them, but they had to twist their necks to see him. He opened the garage door. Mrado looked in. It was dark in there. Mrado glimpsed a Saab and Rado’s Lexus, as well as a Jaguar, a motorcycle, and the Range Rover that’d picked Mrado up for the meeting in the ski-jump tower three months ago.

Stefanovic asked them to wait. Possibly, he’d have time to shoot one of them, but not both.

“Stay here. I’ll get Radovan.”

They remained standing in the garage. The door was still open. Mrado heard a sound and knew what it was-Nenad’d pulled his gun out of his inner pocket.

Mrado followed suit.

He heard the door to the house open and slam shut.

They couldn’t see anyone, only heard Stefanovic’s voice. “Okay, we want you to put your weapons away. Cross your arms in front of your chests. We’ll come out soon. Thought it’d be best you have your little chat with Radovan in the garage. You know, his daughter is sleeping in the house and we don’t want to disturb her.”

Mrado kept his grip on his gun. “Forget about it. Nothing’s gonna go down unconditionally anymore. Radovan needs to have his arms visible at his sides when he comes out of the shadows. It’s simple. The mug on the one whose arms aren’t by his side is gonna look like it’s been in a colander.”

Mrado heard Radovan laugh from the shadows. At least the old guy had his humor intact.

He emerged. Arms hanging. Brave.

Radovan face-to-face with his rebellious ex-minions.

Mrado followed suit.

Stefanovic appeared. Arms straight down.

Nenad did the same.

Four men in a luxury garage. Staring at one another.

Radovan said, “Okay, so, what do you two want at this ungodly hour?”

“Haven’t you understood by now? We just wanted to do it eye-to-eye.”

Radovan smiled. “I had a feeling it would come. Mrado, you’ve never been good at dealing when things don’t go your way. Which is just one more reason why you can’t stay at the top. And Nenad, you’ve got to learn humility. You two can’t just desert me as soon as your duties change. Right?”

Mrado chose not to respond to Rado’s provocation. “It’s over now. We got ten years together. For Jokso, under Arkan, for Serbia. But it’s over now. You don’t know what gratitude is, Radovan. You don’t know what honor is, or what justice is. That makes you weak. And it makes you a loser.”

He caught his breath. Continued, “Things could’ve been different. You could’ve built this on the same foundation as Jokso. On respect for your men, and on humility. But you chose to demote us. Did you think we would take your shit? Who the fuck do you think I am? Some Sven who’ll bow and grovel and take it up the dirty? Rado, your time is over.”

Mrado and Nenad walked out of the garage. If Radovan answered, they didn’t stick around to hear it.

Successful blackmail tactic in review. Three months’d passed since Jorge got the five photos of the captains of industry. He thanked Richard, the computer geek, with all his heart. Surprised that the dude hadn’t demanded he be let in on the action. Rocking the blackmail gig with J-boy was never even up for discussion.

Jorge’d had the photos printed on photo paper. The quality still wasn’t super, but it was easier to see who was pictured and what they were doing.

He wrote a letter to go along with the pictures, labored over the words.

“The attached picture was taken of you at Sven Bolinder’s party in March. It will be sent to your wife within ten days. In order to prevent this from happening, deposit fifty thousand kronor at account number 5215-5964354 at SEB one week from today at the latest.”

Jorge’d been in touch with an old junkie. Had the guy open the account at SEB. He pocketed the debit card and the password himself. Was gonna withdraw the deposited money as soon as possible.

Worked wonders.

The four silver daddies, one of whom appeared in two photos, deposited the dough, no questions asked. Jorge couldn’t pressure them all at the same time, since the debit card had a withdrawal limit. Knocked one off the list every other week.

After two months-J-boy’d be 200,000 richer.

Easiest gig in town.

Poor suckers, they knew he’d be back for more.

He hoped Radovan would find out that someone was fucking with them. That someone knew what he was up to.

Abdulkarim kept applying pressure. “You gotta rig your squad. Get more retailers. There’s a George Jung-class shipment coming soon.”

Jorge’d finally gotten info about the shipment from Abdul. It was blow, of course. A lotta pounds, over two hundred, according to the Arab. Could it be true? If so, it was the single biggest imported load Jorge’d ever heard of. His old homeboys in Österåker would faint if they knew.

The buzz about the double brothel homicide’d died down. Other rumors were festering. War within the Yugo Mafia. Revolt against Radovan. Defectors from the organization. What did that mean for Jorge’s hate project?

A few days later, Fahdi told him which Yugos’d left the organization: Mrado and Nenad. Fate’s fantastic feats. Those were the very men who were number two and three on his hate list, after their former boss, Radovan. Mrado for the pain. Nenad for Nadja.

The computer geek called in the middle of June. The dude’d dragged out on time. Blamed a CS championship. Jorge thought: Counter-Strike -who gives? You should’ve called earlier.

Jorge’d tried to put a fire under his ass. Was only supposed to take a few weeks; had taken two months. But he hadn’t been able to do much about it.

At least now the time’d come.

He picked up the computer at the computer geek’s place that very day.

Jorge was keyed up on the way over. Maybe there was stuff on the laptop that would lead to even more cash.

He walked up Lundagatan.

Rang Richard’s doorbell.

Stepped inside.

“Hey, man, I don’t know you and don’t know anything about whatever it is you’re up to. Just so you know.”

Jorge thought the comment was strange. “What do you mean?”