Jens Lapidus - Easy Money

Mrado stepped up, laid his hand on Patrik’s shoulder. Calmed him. Turned to the front man, “Okay, we’ll go in. We’ll have a seat and wait for you. Come in when you have time to talk.”

Shit was tense.

Mrado tugged at Patrik. Ratko did the same.

Patrik caved. Went in.

Anticlimax.

The bouncers won.

Mrado ordered beer. They sat down at a table.

The volume in the beer hall was on high.

Patrik leaned toward Mrado, “What the fuck was that? We can’t tolerate that kind of shit. Why’d you pull me away?”

“Patrik, chill out. I’m with you. We’ll talk to him, but not in front of all the guests. Not in front of the other bouncers. That’d be trouble. Listen. We’ll sit here, relax. Maybe he’ll come to us. Maybe not. But we don’t forget, we wait, and when that cunt has to go to the bathroom or is on his way home or whatever, then we’ll have a little chat with him. Tell him what’s up.”

Patrik calmed down. Looked more relaxed. Ratko cracked his knuckles.

They chilled. Mrado drank light beer. Checked out the chicks. Checked out the place. Checked out the bouncers on the sly. He was sitting so he could see straight into the coat check. But he didn’t make any obvious eyes in that direction. Easy does it.

They talked about Ratko’s upper body again. Went over different steroids. Mrado told a few Radovan secrets even though he shouldn’t. Patrik told them how he’d shot a Magnum last weekend: the recoil, the pressure, the bullet holes.

Patrik got personal. Asked Mrado, “How many’ve you killed?”

Mrado, dead serious: “I was down in Yugoslavia in 1995. Draw your own conclusions.”

“Right, but what about here in Sweden?”

“I don’t talk about that. I do what needs to be done for business to run smoothly. That’s one thing I can teach you, Patrik. Loyalty to R. and business is everything. Sometimes you just gotta roll with the punches. Can’t sit and think about and regret the shit you’ve done. I’m not proud of everything.”

Patrik pushed him, “Like what?”

“Learn one more thing: We do more than we talk. Sometimes you’ve got to do stuff that ain’t pretty. What can I say? Like, for example, I’ve had to take care of friends who weren’t reliable, or women, hookers, who messed around. That kind of thing, I wouldn’t say it’s what I’d put at the top of my résumé.”

Patrik fell silent. Understood. There are some things you just don’t discuss.

They jabbered on about other things.

An hour went by.

The general party mood in the beer hall was on the rise.

The bouncer guy was still standing in his spot. It was quarter past two. The place closed at four. They waited. The party people were shit-faced. Mrado drank a seltzer. Patrik ordered his sixth beer. Was getting really tanked. Ratko drank coffee. Patrik returned to their treatment at the door. Stoked the fire. The bouncer fags would be schooled. The bouncer fags would cry. Crawl. Beg. Groan. Concuss.

Mrado calmed him down. Glanced at the coat check. The bouncers couldn’t have cared less about them. Were they stupid? Didn’t they get who they were dealing with?

Another hour went by.

They waited. Jabbered on.

At one point, the head bouncer left his position.

Patrik drained his glass. Got up. Mrado saw he was okay, not too trashed. Mrado got up, right by Patrik. Face-to-face.

Patrik was wide-eyed. His breath reeked. Put a lighter in front of his mouth and the place would explode worse than a gas station.

Mrado took his face in his hands. The noise in the hall was deafening. He yelled, “You okay?”

Patrik nodded. Pointed toward the bathrooms. Probably had to piss after all that beer.

He walked in that direction.

Mrado sat back down. Ratko looked at him, leaned across the table. Asked, “Where he goin’?”

“Bathroom.”

Like a bolt of lightning through Mrado’s head. Fuck, how could he be so dense. The bouncer’d probably gone to the bathroom and Patrik was following him there-without Mrado or Ratko.

Mrado got up. Waved at Ratko. “Follow me. Now.”

They hurried after Patrik.

Stepped into the bathroom.

White tiles and large metal sinks. One wall covered by a mirror. Five urinals on the opposite wall. Stalls farther in. Leaking toilets. Piss on the floor.

Contact.

The head bouncer was standing at one of the urinals. At the sinks, three guys were talking. Looked like losers: unbuttoned shirts over T-shirts. Farther in, two kids were queuing at the toilet stalls.

Patrik on his way to the guy.

The bouncer turned around, cock still in hand.

Patrik stood only inches away from him. “Remember me? You dissed me, straight out. Totally wrote off our services. You think I’d let that go unpunished?”

The bouncer understood. Mumbled something. Tried to calm Patrik down. The guy’d been around the block. Started fumbling for his earpiece with his free hand.

Patrik took another step, unclear if he’d registered that Mrado and Ratko’d followed him into the bathroom.

He head-butted the bouncer guy on the nose. The blood appeared even redder against the white tiles as it sprayed the wall. The bouncer yelled for his colleagues. Tried to shove Patrik aside. The bouncer, strong. Big. But Patrick, amped. The losers at the sink started hollering. The boys by the stalls ran forward to break it up. Mrado stepped between them. Pushed them away. Not exactly tough guys. Ratko positioned himself by the exit. Blocked. Patrik grabbed hold of the bouncer’s short hair. Pounded his head against the urinal. Teeth went flying. Pounded again. More teeth. His nose broke in x number of places. The urinal looked like a butcher’s sink. Patrik pounded the bouncer’s head again. It sounded hollow. He let go. The bouncer guy collapsed on the floor. Unconscious. His face, unrecognizable. The losers by the sinks were crying. The kids by the toilet stalls were screaming.

Two bouncer colleagues rushed past Ratko. Patrik shoved one of them aside. Ratko got out of there. Mrado reached for one of the bouncer’s knees. Grabbed hold. Did a lock. Twisted. The guy crumpled like a marionette with cut strings. Mrado grabbed the guy’s foot in another lock. Twisted. Patrik ran amuck, yelled, swore. Mrado said in a measured voice, “Leave, Patrik. Now.”

The ex-skin walked out. Mrado was the only one left. Saw Ratko and Patrik outside the bathroom. Twisted the foot in his grip a little more. The bloody bouncer under the urinal shook. The bouncer in Mrado’s grip whimpered. One bouncer left standing. Hesitated. Looked like he was calculating the odds. Two bouncers on the floor. Immediate knockout. Left in the ring: him, alone, against a huge Yugo. And two more guys out there. Where was backup?

Tumult outside.

Quiet inside.

Mrado said, “Guys. You made a little mistake tonight. You messed with the wrong people. We’ll be in touch regarding our business with you. One more thing, don’t make a big deal outta this. I think you can figure out why.”

Mrado released his grip and walked out of the bathroom. Three bouncers left in there. Like fools.

Mrado, Ratko, and Patrik pushed their way through the crowd. Outside Kvarnen, the cop cars’ blue lights lit up the night. They jumped into a taxi. Patrik with blood on his jacket and T-shirt. Bad.

The place was crawling with cops.

It was almost time.

Jorge sat still in the chow hall. Concentrated. He didn’t give a damn about the clatter, the crunching and munching. Today was the day.

Rolando called after him when he stood up. “Jorge, you gonna come blaze later?” Rolando was being ironic. The only one who knew.

Jorge said, “Don’t holler like that. The screw over there can hear you.”