Jens Lapidus - Easy Money

Thirty grams of his own ice, on credit from the Arab, were packaged in ten mini zip baggies-Red Line brand. He had six grams in his pockets right now. The rest was stashed behind a radiator in Mrs. Reuterskiöld’s foyer.

The boyz strutted down the street. JW kicked his feet widely with each step. Thought about the Men in Black sound track.

The line wasn’t a line-it was an organism made up of human bodies. People screamed, waved, jammed, pushed, hurled, cried, flirted. The bouncers tried to keep things under wraps. Drove people like cattle into a number of lines behind the roped-off area. The line for you with Kharma Cards. The line for you with VIP Kharma Cards. The line for you with VIP VIP cards. The rest needn’t bother. We’re at capacity. Only regulars tonight. Don’t you get it? We’re AT CAPACITY.

Oversized ghetto kids threatened to beat them up. Banker boys pressed crumpled bills into their hands. Girls offered blow jobs. They were denied, one bouncer at a time. The air was thick with one word that no one said but everyone who wasn’t ushered in through the velvet rope felt: humiliation.

It took five minutes just to push through the crowd and up to the bouncers. Some got the drift and let the boyz through. Others thought the world was a fair place, tried to keep them back. Sharpened their elbows and jabbed.

Nippe nodded to one of the bouncers.

The never-flagging confidence that JW was doing his utmost to copy worked its magic. They floated past the crowd. Humiliation was reserved for other people. The feeling: better than sex.

At the cash register, they were welcomed by a tall blond guy with clean features: Carl. The guy was 100 percent jet set. Hence his nickname: “Jet Set Carl.” He and a partner owned the place. Kharma: premier hub of the riches-royales. Brat central. Backslick bay.

Nippe threw open his arms. “What’s up, Calle? Things going well, as usual, I see. Incredible amount of people out tonight. Awesome.”

“Yes, we’re pleased. Af Drangler is running the club tonight, really sweet crowd. You guys have a table?”

“Of course, always.”

“Great. We’ll have to chat more later. Have a good night, boys.” Jet Set Carl turned and walked in toward the venue.

For a brief moment, Nippe looked like he was fumbling. Cut off with his mouth full of brownnosing shit. JW thought, It worked, so who cares?

The girl at the register recognized Nippe. She waved them past without asking them to pay.

Inside, the place was half-empty.

Nippe and JW looked at each other. Laughed. They could hear the bouncers yelling outside: “We’re at capacity. Only regulars with cards tonight.”

An hour later, Nippe was on his knees in the bathroom, bent over the toilet seat, with paper napkins spread out on the floor.

Putte took the opportunity to sneak a Marlboro Light. Hummed along to the Eurotechno streaming in from the dance floor. “Why is this kind of music so popular at Kharma? Why not music with some more song to it, like R ’n’ B or hip-hop. Or why not some honest-to-goodness pop, like Melody Club. But no, they basically just play really fucking boring, watered-down, mainstream, party Eurotechno. A load of crap.”

JW sometimes tired of Putte’s know-it-all attitude when it came to music. The guy had over eight thousand MP3s at home in his hard drive and was always complaining about other people’s taste.

JW said, “Come on, do you have to whine? This place has amazing fuckin’ pull tonight.”

Nippe put a mirror down on the closed toilet seat lid. The place wasn’t exactly spick-and-span. There were brown burn marks on the lid and the top of the toilet from people sneaking cigarettes and putting them down while doing other stuff. Such as cutting lines, the way the guys were doing now, talking on cell phones, pissing, being sucked off. If JW squinted, it looked as though there were raisins spread out on the lid.

JW pulled out a baggie and carefully poured out about one-third of the contents in three piles on the mirror.

Nippe looked surprised. “You bought again this week?”

“Sure. But from another guy.”

“Okay. Better price than the towelhead?”

JW lied. “Not much, but nicer guy. I didn’t like that blatte. Thought he was trouble. I brought a lot tonight. If you know anyone who wants any, let me know.” He grinned, “Preferably ladies, of course.”

Nippe shaped the powder into three lines. “This is so ill. I’m getting horny just looking at these lines. I’m gonna fucking beat my own record tonight. At least three girls.”

JW looked at him. “Dude, no way. You’re insane. I thought it was pretty good when you got blown by two girls in the same night.”

“Sure, but tonight I’m on it. I can feel it in my cock. After this little dose of mirror magic, I’ll be scoring a hat trick. At least three girls are gonna taste the pinecone.”

“You’re ridiculous, man. Where do you go? In here?” Putte stubbed his cigarette against the toilet. Another raisin.

“Yes, my love. Here, or the ladies’ room. And now that it’s almost summertime, Humlegården Park is prime real estate.”

JW wanted to be like him, Nippe, Stureplan’s uncrowned prince of BJs. With a profound self-assurance that always showed-no matter the situation, he radiated confidence. But sometimes JW wondered how deep it really ran. Like, did Nippe really think he was God’s gift to women, or was he just such a damn good actor that he even convinced himself? Whichever it was, it made him someone with edge, the guy everyone talked about. Someone JW wanted to be. And still, he didn’t want to be him-the guy could be such a tool.

Nippe pulled a bill out of his back pocket. Rolled it Hollywood-style, leaned over, and vacuumed the mirror.

JW and Putte followed suit.

The powder hit right away. White dynamite.

Life glowed.

He lost the boyz out on the dance floor. The music pounded. Bob Sinclair in autotune: “Love Generation.” A smoke machine hummed in the corner. Strobe lights flashed. The world in movie snippets. Scene one: the chicks, top of the line. Cut: A chick swings her arm over her head. Cut: The same chick’s cleavage is pressed up against JW’s face.

Kharma was a class-A meat market-for the crème de la crème.

He got lit, hot. Felt like he was running on 98-octane gas. JW wanted to dance, touch, grope, hump. Most of all, he wanted to explode. He got an erection so rock-hard, a cat could’ve sharpened its claws on him.

He kicked ten times more than usual with his legs. Strutted.

The feeling was so crisp: He was the best, horniest, smartest. Coolest. They’d see.

Another girl came toward him. Kissed him on the cheek. Yelled in his ear, “Hey, JW! What’s up? Did you guys have a good time the other weekend?”

JW pulled his head back. Clicked into focus. “Sophie. You look so pretty tonight. Are you here with the rest of the girls?”

“Yes, everyone except Louise. She’s in Denmark. Come to our table and say hi.”

They held hands. He was pulled along.

His gaze swept over the people at the table. Four insanely hot girls were seated in a row, dressed in tops that revealed more than they covered. The dominating colors: pink, purple, turquoise. All with push-up bras or boob jobs, tight blue jeans or short skirts.

Straighten up now, JW-fucking focus.

Nippe was already sitting at the table, had his arm around one of the girls. Buttering her up, joking, gazing deep into her eyes. JW thought, Which number was she in line? Damn it, could he have scored one already ?

JW sat down. On the table was a “banker tray”: an ice bucket with a handle of vodka and smaller bottles of Schweppes tonic, ginger ale, soda water. JW got one of the basic rules confirmed: You drink hard stuff or bubbles. No beer.