Jens Lapidus - Easy Money

“Nothing yet. But if he tries anything, we gotta stop him. Remind him who’s boss. Rough him up. Right, Mrado, the way we deal with troublemakers?”

Mrado stared down at his wineglass. Was that last statement referring to how Rado was going to treat him if he kept making demands? Either way, the Jorge thug should get it right now. The Latino was a threat to the Yugos.

Mrado had other things to think about. Deal with the coat checks after the Kvarnen fiasco, find a front man to build up the money-laundering biz, fight for his daughter. The Latino’d have to wait.

What’s more: no point in overstepping Radovan’s bounds, taking things into his own hands. Their relationship already felt strained enough.

He’d wait for a green light before he went after that Jorge fucker.

And their strained relationship-he had to think about that.

Jorge the man, rey de los bandidos, blew the popo outta the water. The 5-0 could drag their bloodhounds around. Forget it-they weren’t finding Jorge-boy.

He was out. He was loose. He was the city’s slickest slumdog.

He thought about how the gab must be rolling. The man who ran faster than Ben Johnson. The man who screwed the screws up the ass with his smarts. The man who caged out of Österåker with the help of a couple of bedsheets and a hook from a basketball hoop. Slam dunk. Gracias y adiós.

The man. The myth. The legend.

And they didn’t have a fuckin’ clue.

Jorge’s plans before the break had been well oiled. His plan now: stay alive, and stay free. Get cash. Bust the border. In other words: not much of a plan.

Santo Sergio’d delivered the ladder at the right place. Hauled ass to his car and driven outta the woods before Jorge’d even gotten halfway over the clearing. He’d parked the other car perfectly.

Fugitivo fantástico. A Latino with balls.

Jorge’d driven like a maniac down the forest road. Like a back-road racer. The COs missed his curveball, didn’t see him get in the car. Thought he was still booking it on foot. He’d planned it that way. The road forked three times. By the time the screws realized he was on wheels, it’d probably take them an hour to figure out which road he’d taken. Out on the highway. Past Åkersberga. Exit. Into the woods. That’s where he’d met Sergio. Sergio’d jacked the car that he’d left waiting for Jorge three days earlier. They dumped it. A tank of gas in the trunk. Torched it. Not worth waiting around to watch the flames.

That’s where the trail ended: deep in Hansel and Gretel land.

If the 5-0 even got that far.

He’d arrived at the apartment at two-thirty in the morning. They’d waited all night in the car until the coast was clear-wanted to avoid neighbors seeing Jorge go in. They ate falafel, drank Coke and coffee. Listened to Hit FM. Chatted. Stayed awake. Jorge chillin’, coming down off the adrenaline high.

The following days: Jorge could live in the empty apartment. It belonged to Sergio’s aunt. The old lady’d been in a retirement home since seven weeks back.

The deal: Jorge could stay for ten days tops. Jorge couldn’t so much as wiggle a foot out the door. Jorge had to lay subterranean low. After that, he could do what he liked, but he had to pay Sergio back for everything-he’d sworn his life on it.

Jorge was grateful. Sergio was an angel. Had already done more than anyone. Sacrificed. Gambled. Taken risks. Like family oughta do for one other, but what no one’d ever done for him. He was planning on staying no more than a week.

Shut in the apartment. Heavy-he was supposed to be free. Now this, caged again. The only difference between this and the cell at Österåker was a few additional square feet. He had to prepare for his new life on the run.

Jorge let his beard grow. Cut his hair. Dyed it blacker.

He asked Sergio to buy small curlers and perm solution: thio balance perm. Read the instructions over and over, all the fine print. Stood over the bathtub. Rinsed his hair under the water. Carefully rolled his hair on the curlers. Good thing no one was watching. Felt like a real fairy.

Practiced a new walk. Tried to disguise his voice as much as possible.

Jorge knew: People instinctively recognize you by your body language, the way you walk, talk, run your hand through your hair, and smile. Your unconscious tics. The way you use certain expressions. Rodriguez’s only good deed, according to Jorge: The dude’d recorded home videos of him and Paola when they were kids. Two completely different people: a boy and a girl, sinewy and graceful, angular and round. And still, their body language was almost identical. Jorge remembered. Codes of character more dangerous than looks.

Change that kind of stuff, Jorge-boy-fast as fuck.

The apartment was rough. He wanted out. Took down the mirror from the hall and propped it up against the wall in the living room. Walked around from 10:00 a.m. to 7:00 p.m. that first day with Marge Simpson hair and rehearsed new moves. Practiced new tics. Practiced new lingo.

After twelve hours, his new hair-curly. It wasn’t as kinky as he’d hoped, even though he’d kept the rollers in double the instructed time.

He smeared himself with self-tanner: Piz Buin, the darkest kind. According to the directions on the back of the tube, the color would last for three days. Should work.

Finally, the total effect: he looked like a zambo - el zambo macanudo. A lip and nose job and his own mother wouldn’t even know him.

Amazing.

Blinds shut. A constant pale gray light in the room.

The apartment was small-two rooms and a kitchen. There was a narrow bed with no sheets in the bedroom. Jorge thought they’d have that kind of stuff in the retirement home, but they seemed to have emptied every drawer when they picked up the old lady. The living room had a couch, a TV, a rug, and a dark wood coffee table in it. There was a yellow glass lamp suspended from the ceiling. The bookshelves were filled with family photos, postcards from Chile, and books. Mostly in Spanish. He caught himself wondering if she’d had a family. Tried to check out the postcards. Read a few. Got bored after a while. The Asics shoes hadn’t cut it. His foot still hurt. It might be sprained.

Midday, he rang the doorbells of the neighbors over, under, and next to him. Hid in the stairwell in case they opened. No one was home. He could watch TV.

Lowered the volume anyway. There was no cable. Listened to the news. Nothing about him. He watched reruns, matinee movies, and shopping shows. Got nervous.

Kept practicing his new walk. Nail the rhythm. Swing your arms. His right leg made an extra little swerve with each step. Nigga with attitude. Walk with soul. Movements with flow. Don’t overdo it; make it seem real. Felt as if he’d moved like this all his life. Had it in his blood. From birth.

He read the evening papers that Sergio’d brought with him. They hadn’t written much about the escape. Just a short article in Expressen on the first day after and a small notice in Aftonbladet.

According to Expressen:

A man convicted of possession with intent escaped from the Österåker Penitentiary on Thursday afternoon under spectacular circumstances. One of the correctional officers told Expressen that the fugitive, Jorge Salinas Barrio, was not a troublemaker and that the staff did not suspect that he was planning an escape. According to a source at the facility, Jorge Salinas Barrio climbed over the exterior wall with help from the outside. Then he is said to have run toward the woods, where it is probable that a car was waiting for him. The same source stated that the fugitive had been training long-distance running in what is described as a “manic” way for months before the incident. The prison administration has expressed self-criticism over what has happened, though they are pleased that the incident involved very little violence.