Jens Lapidus - Easy Money

“Shut up.”

JW looked straight ahead. Turned his eyes away from Jorge. The Chilean was smarter than he’d thought. But what did it matter now? In a couple of minutes, Nenad and his man would be gone. JW would break free and maybe help Jorge with the tape, then disappear. Jorge, Abdulkarim, and Fahdi, if he was alive, would have to make it on their own-sorry, boys, that’s life.

There was one case of cabbage left. The Yugos worked quickly. JW closed his eyes and waited for them to skip out.

Jorge hissed again, “Listen to me, JW.”

JW ignored him.

“Fuck, man, listen. You workin’ with those hustlers? You know who they are? You know what they done to your sister?”

Experienced, efficient, evil. They cleaned the Arab out. And the best part of it: By extension, they were sinking Radovan.

Mrado and Nenad, the dynamic duo, didn’t take shit. Pinched the blow bags till it stung the old toad.

Abdulkarim used to work for Nenad and was now directly under R. He couldn’t have suspected Nenad knew shit about the C deal, since the Yugo boss’d shut him out. Dumbass.

Despite all the planning and JW’s information, Mrado was still slammed with some surprises: One of the Arab’s helpers was the Latino he’d beaten up eight months ago in the woods north of Åkersberga. What was he doing in Västberga Cold Storage? JW’d said that a Latino was working alongside him on this gig, but he’d never mentioned his name.

It was a bizarre collaboration. Mrado thought, Either the Jorge dude’s hired help for this one gig or else he’s been working for Abdulkarim the whole time. In that case, he’s been working indirectly under Nenad the whole time, and, even more indirectly, under Rado.

Ironic but not impossible. The Latino knew a lot about C. Wasn’t strange that Abdulkarim’d wanted to recruit the guy. Not strange that Nenad didn’t keep track of every clocker who worked for the Arab, either. And if Nenad’d known, it wasn’t strange that he hadn’t mentioned it to him: Nenad couldn’t know that he’d taught the Latino a lesson he deserved.

Mrado thought, The Latino only has himself to blame. Humiliated by me a second time. And now by sitting with his hands tied and watching his Arab employer snot all over the floor. What a joke.

They had less than one crate left to unload. Mrado stood by the suitcases, Nenad by the packing crates. Lifting out cabbages. Making incisions with a knife, carefully, precisely. Unnecessary to cut anything that shouldn’t be. Mrado picked up the bags. Filled the last suitcase.

The ski mask was uncomfortable.

Abdulkarim spat on the floor. Refused to stay calm. Yelled curses in Arabic. Mrado guessed, it was something like: I’m gonna fuck your mother/sister/daughter. The pool of blood around the gorilla on the floor grew big. JW and Jorge sat with their arms taped, each with his back against a packing crate. They were staying calm.

Everything’d gone according to plan. JW’d done a good job. The kid could be trusted. Like Nenad said: The guy wanted up. Would do anything for cash. He’d informed Nenad and Mrado exactly where, when, and how the Arab and his crew would receive the blow. Said all they had to do was drive there, cut down that one lookout, and step right in.

Almost too easy.

In three or four minutes, they’d be done. Mrado and Nenad in one car. Bobban in the other. If shit went down, they had an extra escape car parked safely on the other side of the cold-storage facility. Ready to roll instead of the others cars if the situation blew up.

Within six months, when the whole load’d been sold off, they’d be 100 million richer.

Fresh as fuck.

That’s when he was hit with the day’s second surprise. The JW guy got up. His hands were obviously untied. Mrado’d cut the guy’s tape so it’d be possible to break free. Unnecessary, he realized now.

Why had he gotten up?

Abdulkarim’d understand that something was off. That JW’d collaborated with Nenad.

He said something.

Mrado glanced over. Nenad looked up, interrupted what he was doing. Held a head of cabbage in one hand, the knife in the other.

JW was holding a Glock in both hands. Pointed at Nenad at only four yards’ distance.

Jaw clenched. Eyes like slits.

The guy hollered something inaudibly slurred.

What the fuck was the brat up to?

Mrado listened closer.

“Nenad, you pig. If you move, I’ll shoot you. In the head. Promise. Goes for you, too. If you move, Nenad dies.”

Nenad dropped the cabbage. Tried to look relaxed. It rolled away over the floor. He said to JW, “What’s the deal? Sit down.”

JW remained standing as he was, arms raised.

Mrado made some high-speed calculations: Was JW losing it, or was the kid sharper than they’d thought? Did he plan on raking in the whole load himself? And if so, how good was he with a gun? Would Mrado have time to pull his S & W before this loon fired off a shot at Nenad’s head or chest? Conclusions: Whatever the JW guy was up to, it was a sticky situation-not a good idea to make any sudden moves. The distance was too short; JW seemed too steady with the gun.

Mrado stood still.

“Answer one question, Nenad. Very simple.”

Nenad nodded. His eyes could be glimpsed under the ski mask. He didn’t look away from the barrel for an instant.

“What’s the color of your Ferrari?”

Nenad was silent.

Mrado slowly moved his hand inside his jacket to pull his gun.

JW said again, “If you don’t tell me what color your Ferrari is, I’ll shoot.”

Nenad stood still. He seemed to consider.

The gun in JW’s hand, his finger on the trigger. Game time.

Nenad said, “I used to have a Ferrari. What do you care? But it wasn’t really mine. It was leased.”

JW raised his head slightly.

“It was yellow, if you’re wondering.”

JW’s eyes changed. Furious. Wild. Unpredictable.

“Tell me what you did to my sister.”

Nenad giggled. “You’re messed up.”

JW clicked off the safety.

“I’ll count to three; then you’ll talk. Or else you’re dead. One.”

Mrado gripped the gun inside his jacket.

Nenad said, “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

JW counted: “Two.”

Mrado didn’t have time to act before Nenad started talking.

“Oh, now I know who I thought you looked like the first time I saw you in London. Couldn’t think of who. I guess I just couldn’t imagine you were the brother of a whore.”

Mrado thought, Why is Nenad even talking to the guy? Insanity.

“She was fine, your sis. Made good money. I even hung out with her for a few months. She was the freshest call girl we had. I promise.”

A pause for effect.

Silence in the cold-storage facility. Even the Arab was completely still.

“She was a little too cocky, though. When she started with us, she was still a student and knew her place. Apparently, it was her teacher, an old regular of ours, who tipped her off about our way of making dough. But after a while, she got uppity. Tried to pull some funny biz. We couldn’t tolerate that. As you must understand.”

JW stood still. Arms straight out. Gun in a firm grip.

“How’d you find out, by the way?”

“Fuck that. Pig.”

Mrado tore out his gun. Raised it toward JW.

He didn’t care if Nenad was making some sort of confession to JW. The situation had to end. Time for him to do some yelling.

“JW, put down your gun.”

Pointed his gun at the brat.

JW’s gaze skipped. Probably saw Mrado out of the corner of his eye.

Deadlock. Triangle drama. Mexican standoff.

If JW shot Nenad, he would fall, as well.

Did the guy understand the situation?