Jens Lapidus - Easy Money

Gustaf welcomed them. JW made the same analysis of the guy as the last time they’d met: He was the essence of a backslick brat. Dressed in a tweed jacket, white chinos, red cravat, checked shirt with double cuffs, and Marc Jacobs loafers. Slicked hair stiff as a helmet-lion mane of lion manes.

The main house was over 21,000 square feet. Two massive crystal chandeliers dangled between the pillars in the hall, and paintings of snow-covered landscapes hung on the walls. A curved staircase led upstairs. Gustaf introduced them to Gunn, “the housemother,” as he put it.

“She’s the one who looks after me when Mom and Dad are gone.”

JW retorted, “I guess that’ll be needed tonight.”

Gunn laughed. JW chortled. Nippe giggled. Gustaf guffawed, loudest of them all.

Definite good vibes. Gustaf seemed to like him.

Nippe and JW were led away by Gunn, who got them settled in a guest room in one of the wings of the house.

JW fingered the manila envelope in his pocket. Fourteen grams, just to be on the safe side.

Dinner was served at seven-thirty. Beforehand, Sophie and JW played tennis doubles against Nippe and Anna. Seven-five. Six-four. Four-six. Seven-five. Spirits soared among the winners. Nippe was a bad loser, threw his racket on the ground. Anna stayed calm. JW hadn’t really played tennis while growing up and thanked his natural athleticism for his ability to impress-made it look like he’d been playing all his life.

They showered. JW napped for half an hour. Nippe took a shit.

They changed into tuxes. JW had a secondhand Cerruti that he said had cost twelve grand. The actual damage was 2,500. Nippe wondered if JW’d brought some gear. “Seems like you’re reliable these days.”

JW didn’t know if the comment was good or bad. Had he moved too quickly?

He laughed. “Sure, I’ve got some. You want a taste?”

They split thirty milligrams, enough for a mild rush.

The coke hit right away.

They were slammed unexpectedly fast with a fit of giggles.

They walked down the stairs to the cocktail party in the salon. JW felt like the world’s most intelligent human being.

The fourteen other guests waited with champagne glasses in hand. JW scanned the crowd.

The guys: JW, Fredrik, Nippe, Jet Set Carl, Gustaf, and three other dudes.

The girls: Sophie, Anna, Lollo, and five chicks JW hadn’t met before. They were all upper-crust creamers. Girls with good genes. Rich dads equaled hot moms, or the other way around. They knew how to make themselves up. How to apply the right rouge, the best eye shadow, smooth foundation. Above all, they knew how to rock self-tanner for a sun-kissed look. They knew how to dress themselves, how to cover up the flaws: a somewhat saggy belly, a thick waist, too-small breasts, too-flat back. They highlighted their strengths: nice neck, full lips, long legs. Fit, slim girls. Odds were, they all had luxury gym memberships.

Gustaf was selective with his invites. It was an honor to be invited, especially since he’d met the evening’s host only three times before.

Everyone sipped, made small talk, chilled. JW had to try to contain himself; he was soaring. Felt like every word coming out of his mouth was brilliant, like he was the life of this party. Nippe winked at him-you and me, JW, flyin’ in the C sky.

They sat down for dinner.

JW was seated between Anna, whom he often sold to these days, and a girl named Carro. Worked well; both were easy to chat up.

The appetizer was already on the table. JW could see right away that it was not of this world. A piece of toasted bread topped with Kalix roe, sour cream, and finely chopped red onion. The basic idea wasn’t too original, but it was the large glass bowl in the middle of the table that made it so ridiculous-at least eleven pounds of extra roe. An orgy of excess. JW piled at least four hundred kronor’s worth on his plate.

Gunn brought the main course: venison with a sauce of wild chanterelles, and oven-roasted potatoes. JW loved game. They drank a Bordeaux. Anna told him about her parents’ wine cellar. Sorbet with blackberries and raspberries for dessert. JW promised himself: Within ten years, he’d have his own Gunn. Gorgeously good gastronomical miracles.

The mood grew lighter in time with the bottles of wine that Gunn kept bringing. After dessert, Gustaf walked around with a frosty bottle of Grey Goose and poured out brimming shots. The heat intensified.

The girls eyed Jet Set Carl and Nippe. Always Nippe.

JW checked out Sophie.

She didn’t give him the time of day.

The room wasn’t a room. The right word would probably be salon. Or maybe hall. Huge, incredibly high ceilings, tremendously grand decorating job. Two chandeliers with real candles burning in them were suspended from the ceiling. Two-toned dark red wallpaper with wide stripes. Modernist art on the walls. A few were possibly very valuable.

JW’d gone to the Museum of Modern Art with Sophie that week. He wasn’t exactly a fine-art kind of guy, but Sophie said she liked powerful color combinations and therefore was more a fan of modern art. JW’d read up on what was on display in the museum a couple of days beforehand. He wanted to make an impression. Without realizing it, he’d gotten a feel for a couple of artists. Maybe one of the paintings here was a Kandinsky. An enormous one with three muted fields of color that matched the wallpaper might be a Mark Rothko.

The table was set with style and panache. White linen tablecloth, pressed green linen napkins, and silver napkin holders. Antique coasters for the wine bottles. Gleaming silver cutlery and crystal stemware-only appropriate.

JW ate it all up.

They kept chatting. The guys liked the sound of their own voices. Jet Set Carl bragged, Nippe made lame jokes, and Fredrik spewed business plans. Same old.

Anna told him about her latest trip to Saint Moritz. Reapplied lip gloss between every other sentence. She and a girlfriend’d become friendly with a polo team that traveled down every year to play on the frozen alpine lake. Normally, they were bankers in London; polo was just a little weekend fancy. JW dove right in, told her about his trip to Chamonix last year. Made up most of it, added and exaggerated. The only time he’d been to the Alps for real was on a budget trip during spring break five years ago, when fifteen guys from up north, from Umeå and Robertsfors, had crowded, slept, and farted on a bus for twenty-six hours.

Anna was pretty and nice. But boring. No spark. He listened to her, laughed at her jokes, and asked follow-up questions. She kept talking, seemed to like his company. JW only had thoughts for Sophie.

The dinner rolled on. People were lit but still mellow. Gunn kept serving and clearing the table. Everyone seemed expectant.

Fredrik gave a speech of thanks to the host.

They rose from the table and went into a kind of barroom. Wide couches piled with pillows stood along two walls. A long table was placed in front of each couch. Gunn had put iittala glass candlesticks in four different colors on the table. In one of the corners of the room was a bar, built with classical wood paneling. Behind the bar: martini glasses, highball glasses, tumblers, beer steins, and wineglasses in a built-in glass display case. An insane number of bottles lined up on shelves.

Gustaf positioned himself behind the bar. Hollered that he was the bartender for the night and that it was time to place their orders. Someone put on music. Beyoncé. Badonkadonk beats.

They boozed. Drank apple martinis, G and Ts, beer. Gustaf’s dad had a blender. They made fruity drinks: strawberry daiquiris, piña coladas.

JW drank a beer. Eyed his friends.

Nippe hit on Carro. Jet Set Carl was at the bar, talking to Gustaf. The rest of the guests sat on the couches, chatting.