Jens Lapidus - Easy Money

The gypsy cab gig was easy. He borrowed a car from Abdulkarim Haij, an Arab he’d met at a bar over a year ago. He picked it up with a full tank and returned it with a full tank. The other city drivers accepted him-they knew he was driving for the Arab. The price was set ad hoc at each pickup. JW would write the info down on a pad: time of pickup, destination, price. Forty percent went straight to Abdulkarim.

The Arab would occasionally do tests. Like, one of his men would pretend to be a customer and take a ride with JW. Afterward, the Arab would compare what his controller’d paid with what JW wrote in his log. JW was honest. He didn’t want to lose the extra cash he made on the job. It was his lifeline, his salvation in the race to score points with the boyz. JW only had one road rule. He didn’t do any pickups at Stureplan. The risk of exposure was too evident on his own turf.

JW was driving off the books tonight. He picked the car up in Huddinge with Abdulkarim, a Ford Escort from 1994 that’d once been painted a pure white. The interior was crappy. There was no CD player and the seats were frayed. He smiled at the Arab’s attempts to spruce it up-Abdul’d hung three Wunder-Baum air fresheners in the rearview mirror.

JW drove home. A cool August night-perfect for the taxi business. As usual, finding a parking spot in Ö-malm was tough. The SUVs hogged the streets. Driving by the latest beauty from Porsche made him drool: Cayman S. A 911 combined with a Boxter-hotness incarnate. He finally found a spot-the Ford wasn’t exactly a big machine.

He went up to his room at Mrs. Reuterskiöld’s. It was nine o’clock. No point in driving the cab before midnight. He settled down with his schoolbooks. Had a midterm in four days.

The apartment was located near Tessin Park. Lower Gärdet was okay for JW. Upper Gärdet wouldn’t cut it-too far off the grid, too bitter. The room was 216 square feet, with a separate entrance, toilet, and a big window overlooking the park. Peaceful and calm, just like the old lady wanted it. The problem was that he had to be so damn quiet when he managed to get a girl home.

The room was furnished with a full bed, a red armchair, and a desk from IKEA, where he put his laptop. He’d swiped it from some oblivious sucker at school. Piece of cake. He’d waited till the owner went to the bathroom. Most people took their computers along with them, but others chanced it. JW’d seen the opportunity-just slid it into his shoulder bag and walked out.

The lamp from his childhood room was screwed into the desk. It still had glue marks from old cartoon stickers. Embarrassing, like whoa. Important to turn it off when he had a girl over-home game.

Clothes were strewn everywhere. There was one poster on the wall: Schumacher in a Formula 1 uniform, spraying champagne from the prize podium.

There really wasn’t much to the room. Sparse. He preferred to go home with the chicks to their places instead-away game.

JW didn’t mind studying. He liked writing his own papers instead of copying stuff off the Internet. He participated actively in class discussions when he was prepared. Always tried to make time to do the practice sets after. Tried his best to be ambitious.

He cracked the books. The Financial Analysis course had the hardest exam. He needed more time.

Turned the sets over in his mind, counted, fed numbers into the calculator. His thoughts returned to the discussion he’d had with the boyz the night before. How much did the blatte really make selling coke? How much did he pull in a month? What were his margins? Risk versus possible income. He should be able to calculate that.

JW went through the list of his life goals. One: to not reveal his double life. Two: to buy a car. Three: to become loaded. Finally: to find out what happened to Camilla. A step toward getting over it-if that was possible.

Principles of Corporate Finance -he got through seven pages. The difference between financing a company through stocks or through loans. How does the value of the company change? Preference shares, beta value, rates of return, obligations, et cetera. He took notes on a pad of paper and underlined in the textbook with a neon yellow highlighter. Almost fell asleep over the pages covered in graphs and equations.

When he nodded off for a second, he dropped his pen. That woke him. He thought, No point to keep going at this hour.

Time to drive home the money.

He was on his way to Medborgarplatsen, on the south side of the city. It was quarter past eleven. He was driving Sibyllegatan down to Strandvägen, past Berzelii Park. Dangerous area, way too close to the boyz’ stomping grounds.

JW kept mulling over his thoughts. What did he really know about his sister’s life in Stockholm anyway? The texts, calls, and e-mails he’d gotten were often without substance. Camilla’d had a part-time job at Café Ogo on Odengatan and gone to continuing-education classes at Komvux to get better high school grades in literary arts, math, and English. She’d had a boyfriend. JW didn’t even know his name. He knew only one point of interest: The guy’d driven a yellow Ferrari. There were photos of Camilla in the car at home in Robertsfors. In them, she was glowing, smiling and waving through a rolled-down window. You couldn’t make out the guy’s face in the pictures. Who was he?

JW drove past the Foreign Ministry at Gustav Adolf’s Square. There were a lot of people out and about. Everyone was back from vacation and wanted to make up for what they’d missed by vegging out at country houses and on sailboats. He drove through the tunnel at Slussen toward Medborgarplatsen.

He parked the car outside the Scandic Hotel and got out. Positioned himself outside Snaps. There was always someone there who needed a ride home or downtown.

Three chicks stumbled out. Possible good pickup. He cocked his head to the side, pulled an irresistible JW. “Hey, ladies. Need a ride?”

One of the girls, a blonde, looked at her friends. They knew what was up, nodded. She said, “Sure. How much to Stureplan?”

Damn it. Gotta play this. Coax, smile. He said, “There’s so much traffic there. I know it sounds like a drag, but would it be okay if I drop you off by Norrmalmstorg?” Charm attack. Added, in a fake blatte accent, “Special price for you only.”

Giggles. The blond girl said, “Only ’cause you’re cute. But then you have to give us a good deal.”

It was settled: 150 kronor.

JW drove toward Norrmalmstorg. The chicks chirped in the back. They were going to Kharma. It had been so nice at Caroline’s. Amazing food, crazy atmosphere, sweet drinks. They were soooooo drunk. JW shut them out. Couldn’t get interested in anything but driving tonight. He smiled, looked mysterious.

The girls babbled. Did he wanna come? JW felt the vibe, it would be so easy to score. But there was a major hurdle: These weren’t the kind of girls he wanted to meet. Svens.

Before he dropped them off, he said, “Ladies, I have to ask you something.”

They thought he was going to make a move.

“Have you ever met a girl out named Camilla Westlund? Tall, pretty, from the north. Like, four years ago?”

The babblebrauds looked like they were thinking, hard.

“I’m not too great with names, but none of us recognize Camilla Westlund,” one said.

JW thought, Maybe they are too young. Maybe they weren’t partying at the right places back then.

They got out by the bus stops at Norrmalmstorg. He gave the chicks his cell phone number. “Call whenever you need a ride.”

Time for more driving.

He parked by Kungsträdgården Park. Couldn’t stop thinking. It was the first time he’d asked anyone about Camilla. Why not, anyway? Maybe someone would remember.