Jens Lapidus - Easy Money

“A good analysis, Rado. As always. Allow me to offer some additional ideas. Want to hear them?”

“Absolutely. That’s also why we’re getting together now. What’re you thinking?”

“Patrik knows the drill. Knows our code. Rats catch cold. Only a couple days ago, he saw what happened to a dude at the gym who was acting up. And that was no little guy, either. The skinhead gets it. If he snitches, he won’t live long enough to make it to the joint’s unguarded urinals and back. Trust me, I know a lot of people who’ve been taken down in the Tidaholm pen. But that won’t happen, him snitching.”

Mrado’d been thinking. Loaded up on ideas. Helicopter perspective. Big-picture perspective. Future perspective. Possibility. Expansion flexibility. Radovan wanted to be king. He had potential. At the same time-Mrado wanted to bring up his cut of the coat-check business.

“We can’t lose the coat checks. Since we put it in high gear last year, that business has yielded around three hundred thousand per month in the winter season and just under one hundred fifty thousand per month in the summer. We’ve got about twenty places. The more places we can control, the more people’ll get used to paying a fee. Finally, every little shit pub in this city’ll be able to charge people something to check their stuff. The crux is what we do with the gold. The coat checks are perfect. We operate cash only. Big Brother doesn’t have a chance in hell to calculate our revenue. All salaries are under the table. The places themselves don’t declare a cent anyway.”

Radovan smiled. He loved cash talk. Squinted. Brought out paper and pen. Calculator. He already knew the numbers. He already knew the advantages. He already knew the money had to be laundered. But Mrado knew that Radovan liked to hear what Radovan already knew.

“It works well, Mrado. I agree, we’ve got laundry issues right now. We need to get rid of the money somewhere. Clara’s and Diamond can’t swallow the kind of sums the coat-check business brings in. We need more companies. In a way, it’s a luxury problem. Sign that business is booming.”

Mrado replied, “Video-rental stores would work, I think. Big Brother can never find out how many movies we actually rent out. We’ll inflate the returns as much as we want. I can do it. I’ve done it before. If it gets messy after all and the state starts getting suspicious, someone else’s head’ll fall. A straw man.”

“Right on. Who?”

“Someone with no folding history. Not a total tool, but someone who doesn’t have a lot to lose, either. I’ll get on it. But the fall guy doesn’t really protect if Big Bro wants the laundry money back. Mostly protects against bankruptcy if we get hit with fat tax debt or something. But you don’t want to get your name dirty with suspicious bankruptcies that’ll nix your trade license. This’ll be perfect.”

“You know this. Start tomorrow.”

Stefanovic knocked. Brought in chai tea and biscotti. Radovan leaned back. Dipped the biscotti in his tea. Like a Sven. Smacked his lips. They made some small talk about Radovan’s daughter. She was starting school. Private school, inner-city school, the suburban school-what was best? Mrado vented his own shit. That he saw Lovisa too seldom. The custody battle with the mother. Rado-style: asked if there was anything he could do. Mrado thought, Hell no. If Social Services finds out you’re in the picture, my custody battle is shot.

Two real Persian carpets on the floor. Radovan’d decorated this as his classicist room. The books on the shelves were mostly for show. On the shelves: encyclopedias and map books. Collected works by Serbian writers. Mrado didn’t even recognize the names: Jovan Jovanović Zmaj, Sima Milutinović Sarajlija, Kraljević Marko. Only one was familiar: the Nobel laureate Ivo Andrić.

Mrado thought about his teacher in Native Language Studies class, who’d gotten him to read Ivo Andrić. A year later, he was Södertälje’s toughest fist.

Radovan set down his glass of chai.

“The smokes business is going well. Goran’s good. But in the long run, we can’t rely on it. Society at large is against smoking these days. The ban on cigarettes at restaurants is catastrophic, the new pictures of black lungs are repulsive, and increased customs control with non-EU countries is devastating.”

“You’re right, but it’s important that we maintain our contacts with the teamsters. The logistics wouldn’t be easy to build back up from scratch. Soon all of the Balkans will open up with EU membership. Heroin is eight times cheaper there. Even if it rises somewhat, we’ve got to be prepared. The same truckers who drive smokes today can drive brown sugar tomorrow.”

They kept the discussion going. Went through all of Radovan’s businesses and projects: cigarette and booze smuggling, the debt collectors, drugs, the Jack Vegas gambling machine fakes, the apartment brothel, the call-service hookers.

And then the semilegal ones: Clara’s, the bar, and the Diamond, a nightclub. Laundromats.

The abstract read cash flow, rising dough, money that had to be taxed to come back clean. The bar and nightclub didn’t cut it. Radovan had to appear like a law-abiding, respectable citizen.

The conclusion: They definitely needed two video-rental stores. Maybe more.

All along, Mrado had wanted to get to the question of his cut of the coat checks.

Finally, he raised the tea glass to his lips and tried to drink from it, even though it was obviously empty. Hoped he’d softened Radovan up enough.

“Rado, I also want to talk about the economics of the coat checks.”

Radovan looked up from the number-covered papers that were spread out in front of him. “And what exactly do you mean by that?”

“Maybe I didn’t handle this whole Patrik thing too well. But I’m taking responsibility for it and I do a good job. We just went over the numbers. They point straight up. What’ll my cut be?”

Silence.

Mrado tried to push it. “Did you hear what I said?”

Concrete wall.

“Mrado, let me make one thing clear. You don’t make the rules here. No matter how fucking brilliant your business ideas are, they’re all mine. No matter how well you do your business, in the end it’s my cash. We’ll have a discussion about your piece of the pie when I feel like it. Let’s not ruin a good night with that kind of thing. I’m going to forget what you just asked me, okay?”

Mrado, speechless. How could he have made such a miscalculation? And he’d groveled like a fucking faggot begging to be reamed just to ask the question about his cut. Another thought took hold: One day, someone else will be king of the hill.

It was eight o’clock. They moved to the dining room. Radovan’s wife came home. Made small talk with Radovan and Mrado for half an hour. She was thin. Mrado thought she was the most beautiful Serbian woman he’d ever seen.

She ate in the kitchen with the daughter.

Radovan acted irreproachably. As though Mrado’s question’d never been asked.

The mood went back to normal.

They uncorked a Burgundy from 1994. Radovan tasted it. “I’m assuming you already know this, but Jorge Salinas Barrio fled the coop.”

“Ratko told me. I think some rag had a story on it last week, too. It didn’t say much, but apparently he hopped over the wall. Impressive.”

“It’s a bad thing he’s out. We wrapped him at the trial. He might be sitting on a whole mess of shit about our blow business. From what I’ve gathered, he’s pissed at us, and his life is pretty shitty right now. On the run, not a lot of friends. He might decide to do something stupid. I honestly don’t know how much he knows. Do you?”

“Not really. But I know what you mean. What should we do?”