Jens Lapidus - Easy Money

After the wave of escapes in 2004 when, among others, Tony Olsson, convicted of the murder of a police officer in Malexander, succeeded in escaping on two separate occasions during the same year, the control and security at the country’s penitentiaries have been improved. After yesterday’s incident, the Criminal Investigation Department has given word that an eventual investigation will be implemented to further heighten the level of security at penitentiaries of this kind.

Jorge smiled. So, they’d thought his training was exaggerated. Wonder what they’d thought about his studies at the city library? Had they even connected the dots?

There was nothing in the papers on day two. He was disappointed. At the same time, relieved-the less attention the better.

He missed running. Disliked the silence. Was scared his endurance and his fit body would break down.

Time slower than a Prius without a plug-in. He tried to plan. Jacked off. Peered between the blinds. Got nervous. Practiced the new Jorge over and over again. Listened for suspicious sounds on the street or in the stairwell. Fantasized about his success abroad.

Boredom: ten times worse than in the slammer.

He slept poorly. Woke up. Listened. Raised the blinds. Stared through the peephole in the door.

Paced. Looked himself in the mirror. Who would he become?

Jorge’s dilemma: The blow biz was all he knew. But how could he get back into it without disclosing his identity? As Jorge, he was respected. Not as whatever his name would be now. It was a tough scene to break into solo. Impossible without support.

He needed a personal identification number and an address in order to hide behind a temporary identity. Besides, he wanted to jump stiles. If you got collared, you could always give someone else’s digits and address to placate the subway controllers.

What’s more, he had to find a tanning bed so he could cut the self-tanner. Needed contacts with a darker brown tint than his natural eye color. Needed more threads than the dingy tracksuit Sergio’d given him. Needed a cell phone. Needed to get in touch with certain people. Most of all, J-boy needed cash. He missed Paola. Wanted to call but knew he shouldn’t. It’d have to wait. After five days, he started wigging out. Thought every single car that stopped on the street was the 5-0. Sergio came that night; they talked the situation over. The cops hadn’t visited Sergio yet. Everything seemed cool. Jorge, still buggin’. Wanted out.

Sergio picked him up at 6:00 a.m. the next day. Jorge was totally spent. Hadn’t slept a wink. Had crawled around the apartment with a sponge, wiping every piece of hair and other possible traces of himself off the floor.

They drove to Kallhäll. Jorge asked Sergio to make a few extra loops to lose any eventual tails.

Sergio shook his head, “You tweakin’ out, primo. ”

The next place for Jorge to sleep: a room at Sergio’s best bud’s place, Eddie’s. The advantage: If the cops were on his heels, they’d definitely lose the trail now. The downside: The circle of trust widened.

Really, the optimal thing would be to stay with people who didn’t know who he was, or who wouldn’t recognize him. You couldn’t fool Eddie. Laughed when he saw Jorge. El negrito. He was introduced to Eddie’s wife and two kids. Didn’t know squat about Jorge’s story. Not perfect, but okay.

Jorge lay on a bed for days on end. Listened to the kids crying. Studied the patterns on the ceiling. Thought about what it must’ve been like when his mom came to Sweden big with him. From the dictatorship. Alone with the memories. He was ashamed that he knew so little. Hadn’t asked enough.

The room was small. Belonged to one of the kids. Legos all over the floor. Kid posters on the walls. Some teen idols Jorge didn’t even recognize. Flowery curtains over the windows. He read comics. Wished he could play Eddie’s Xbox but didn’t dare leave the room. Yearned to be back in the old lady’s crib, but still knew he was safer where he was. Yearned for real freedom. Yearned to be out.

A few days later. Eddie knocked on the door at around 2:00 p.m. He should have been at work. Jorge knew right away: Something was wrong. Eddie was sweaty. His shoes were still on. His kids were screaming in the background.

“Jorge, you gotta go. They’ve picked Sergio up for questioning.”

“When? How do you know?”

“They called this morning and told him he had to show up before one p.m. He called me right away and said I had to tell you but that I couldn’t call.”

“Good. I’m the one that told him no calls. They can tap ’em, and God knows what else they can do. You weren’t followed?”

Eddie: not the world’s sharpest Latino. But he’d been around the block. Knew to keep a lookout.

Jorge started getting dressed. Besides the tracksuit, he’d borrowed a jacket from Sergio. Not much to pack: a tube of Piz Buin, the curlers, a toothbrush, two pairs of boxers, and an extra pair of socks. It’d all come from Sergio, along with five grand he’d borrowed.

Shoved the stuff into a plastic bag. Kissed Eddie on the cheeks. Waved to the screaming kids. Thanked the oldest niño for the use of his room. Hoped Eddie hadn’t told his wife his name or who he was.

He’d been on the run for ten days. Was it already going to hell?

Wrote a note in Spanish for Sergio, coded according to their agreement. Gave it to Eddie.

Stepped out of the apartment. Thought he heard a siren outside.

Opened the door to the street.

Looked around. No cars on the street. No people. Coast clear. Paranoid Latino on the run.

What the fuck was he gonna do now?

The air was getting chillier. September ninth. Jorge walked around the city all day. Downtown: Drottninggatan, Gamla Brogatan, Hötorget, Kungsgatan, Stureplan. Ate at McDonald’s. Window-shopped. Tried to check out chicas.

Couldn’t enjoy. Only stress. Whichever it was-OCD or rational security measures-he kept looking around like every hombre on the street was an undercover on the LO.

Get to know broken Jorge: El Jorgelito -a scared little shit. He wanted to call his sister. He wanted to talk to his mama. He almost wanted to go back to prison.

This wouldn’t fly; he had to wise up. Stop thinking about his mama and sister all the time. What the fuck was wrong with him anyway? Family’s everything, sure. That was rule número uno. But if you didn’t have a real family, if you had to take care of yourself, then other rules applied. He focused on the important stuff.

Nowhere to sleep and no bros/co-dees he could trust right now.

Five grand in his pocket. He could pay some old blow buddy to put him up for a few nights. But the risk was too big; they’d rat for anything, just show them the cheese.

He couldn’t stay at a motel. Probably too expensive. Besides, they’d want to see some kind of ID.

He could get in touch with his mama or his sister, but they were probably under surveillance by the cops and it was unnecessary to put them through that kind of crap.

Mierda.

During the days on the bed in the kid’s room, an idea had started to take shape: Go to a homeless shelter. Would solve the problem of needing a bed, but his need for cash remained. There was another, bigger idea, too. Dangerous. Dicey. He tried to push it away, since it involved Radovan.

Jorge asked some junkies downtown where he could sleep. They told him about two places: Stadsmissionen’s place by Slussen, Night Owl, and KarismaCare by Fridhemsplan.

He walked down to the Hötorget subway stop. It was eight o’clock at night. The turnstiles didn’t look like how he remembered them before he was locked up. Harder to jump. High Plexiglas barriers that slid open and closed like doors when you swiped your pass at the front of the turnstile. He didn’t want to waste money. He didn’t want to walk to Slussen. Risk analysis. The turnstiles were too high to jump. He glanced toward the guard in his booth: He was reading the paper. Seemed to care less about his job. He watched the flow of the crowd. Not a lot of people. He made loops. Navigated. Speculated. Calculated. Finally, a group of youngsters approached. He walked into their group. Slid along. Close behind a guy in his early twenties. There was a beep from the turnstile when it sensed that he’d slipped through behind someone. The guard didn’t give a fuck.