Jens Lapidus - Easy Money

Jorge stubbed out his cigarette in the sand. Enjoyed the heat. The sun gave him a real tan. Nice not to have to deal with the nasty smell of the self-tanner. Except for that, his appearance was back to normal. Straight hair, trim body, no beard. Only his broken nose reminded him of Jorge Nuevo.

Safe.

At the same time, he had to keep moving.

The cash wouldn’t last forever.

Maybe worth going home soon. Get more kronor.

Meet Jorgelito.

The sound of a key scraping in the lock. The double doors opened.

Margareta began to cry. Bengt looked strained; his eyes were glued on the floor.

The CO closed the door behind them.

Margareta’s face had the same color as Österåker’s walls: bone white.

JW sat on the other side of the wooden table. Margareta and Bengt sat down. Margareta’s hands reached across the table and met JW’s. Held them tightly.

“How are things, Johan?”

“It’s cool. Much better than jail. I can study here.”

Bengt kept staring down at the tabletop. “And what kinds of jobs did you have in mind?”

JW thought, He will never forgive. Bengt: the honest Swede in a nutshell. And, yet, he came. Maybe Mom made him.

“I’ll get a job.”

Bengt didn’t reply.

They talked more about other stuff-the food in the prison, the lawyer’s visit, and JW’s schoolwork.

They discussed the final days of the trial. The prosecutor’d tried to get JW convicted for attempted murder. He’d told his parents about the drugs. But the bullet to Nenad-never. Wished he’d been better with a gun-he’d only hit Nenad in the shoulder. The court’d believed his explanation, that he’d been scared when the cops stormed in, scared by Mrado’s threats, by Fahdi’s death, that he’d let a shot slip. Without the intent to kill or even harm.

The court bought that stuff. JW confessed to his involvement with the cocaine. His line throughout was that he’d been there only to help boost the gear. They lowered the sentence a few years on account of that and of his age. Still, he’d have time to rot, to decompose ten times over, before he was let out.

The boyz’d turned their backs on him. Pretended like they never knew him. That was to be expected. Those who wade through shit would rather not look down-too nasty. But he’d set his hopes on Sophie. Without success.

There was only one thing left to do-create an okay existence for himself on the inside. He could always sell his money-laundering scheme to other inmates. Do business as usual.

His parents didn’t mention Camilla. And JW refrained from telling them. The cops wouldn’t get much out of Jan Brunéus. He probably hadn’t done anything illegal. JW carried the burden alone. Spared Margareta and Bengt from the truth. That made him sleep a little less badly.

Margareta said, “We got a postcard last week that was alarming, I think.”

JW’s interest started churning. “From who?”

“Didn’t say from who. But it was signed ‘El Negrito.’ ”

“So, what’d it say?”

“Not much. That the person was having a nice time in Southeast Asia, the beaches were beautiful, that there was coral. And then he said he sent three hundred thousand kaley hugs from his island to yours.”

JW looked indifferent. “Huh.”

“Johan, is there something strange about that?”

“No, just a friend of mine who’s having a nice time. He doesn’t even know I’m in prison. When I get out of here, I’m going to head to the sun, too.”

Bengt opened his mouth. Closed it again.

Margareta turned to him. “What, Dad? Were you going to say something?”

Bengt looked at JW for the first time today. JW stared back and thought, Maybe this is the first time ever that my dad’s really looked at me.

“When you get out, you’re not going to the sun. You’re going to get a real job. Far from Stockholm.”

Bengt lowered his eyes to the table again. He didn’t say anything else.

The silence was heavy in the room.

“Johan, can’t you describe what a day is like in here?”

JW let his mouth run. In his head, he let go of Bengt. Gave Jorge eternal thanks. Three hundred thousand deposited into his account on the Isle of Man. The Chilean was a good person. Didn’t forget who’d picked him up in the woods, even though JW’d betrayed them all, gone behind Abudlkarim’s back, sold his soul to the Yugos. Jorge must’ve understood that JW’d double-gamed them, but he’d also understood that JW didn’t know whom he’d been dealing with. That he’d been naïve.

Visiting hours were over.

The CO led his parents out.

Margareta cried again.

JW remained seated at the table in the visiting room.

Knew what he was going to do with the money.

Didn’t know what he was going to do with his daddy issues.

The rec yard at Kumla, a maximum-security prison: close-cut grass, no trees. Cement blocks with a polished surface and relatively fresh metal rods-the outdoor gym. Mrado and the other Serbs were pumping iron.

A silent agreement governed. The morning was for the Serbs. The Arabs bulked postlunch.

Life on the inside was better for him than for many others. In the joint, he was someone. His reputation protected him. Still, the climate was harsher than he remembered it from his last turn. Understood his own and Stefanovic’s lectures in a hands-on way. The gangs ruled. The mobs governed. Either you were with them or you were fucked.

What ruined everything: He was gonna lose Lovisa. Annika’d made the case right after the dope sentence’d fallen against Mrado. Demanded sole custody and visitation for one hour once a month for Mrado in a shitty little visiting room with a chaperone present. Strangled him psychologically. Killed him slowly.

Mrado’s luck was that Bobban’d ended up in the same place. Someone to talk to. Someone who had his back.

How could the Nenad fucker’ve been dumb enough not to see the resemblance between the JW guy and that whore he’d been pumping a few years back? Everything’d been so perfect. They would’ve ruled. Spat Rado in the face. Sold blow for millions.

And now: Radovan continued to maneuver Stockholm’s most powerful network, to control the coat checks in the city, to sell C, to push smuggled booze, to sit in his worn leather armchair in Näsbypark, to drink whiskey and just smile.

Fuck.

This wasn’t Serbian justice. One day, Mrado would have his time with Rado. Rub out his smile. Slowly.

A half hour left till lunch. The other Yugos went inside. Mrado and Bobban lingered.

Bobban sat down on a cement block that served as a bench press.

“Mrado, I heard this morning. They’ve put a price on your head.”

Mrado’d known that it would come. Rado didn’t forget. Had to uphold the code.

“Who told you?”

“Some dude on my hall. Sven. Doing time for armed robbery and assault. He heard it from some Latino hustlers.”

Mrado sat down next to Bobban.

“Latinos?”

“Yeah, it’s weird. High price, too. Three hundred grand.”

A Note About the Author

Jens Lapidus is a criminal defense lawyer who represents some of Sweden’s most notorious underworld criminals. He lives in Stockholm with his wife.

A Note About the Translator

Astri von Arbin Ahlander is a writer and translator from Stockholm, Sweden. She cofounded the popular interview project The Days of Yore (www.thedaysofyore.com), which features interviews with successful artists about the time before their breakthroughs. Easy Money is her first novel translation.

THANKS TO:

Hedda, for putting up with me, for all the help and inspiration. Love.