Jens Lapidus - Easy Money

Mrado wanted to get at the latter group. A different type from the guys at the gym. Older. Prestige-free. Saw the world through the bottom of a bottle. Were done striving. Had seen better days.

Mrado on the line with Goran. Even made himself believe he liked the guy. In Serbian: “Goran, my friend. It’s me.”

“Mrado, I hear. Since when did we become friends?”

Goran: a dick to everyone and anyone except il Padre, Mr. R. Mrado bit his lip. Let it slide-his mission was more important.

“We work for the same man. We’re countrymen. We’ve gotten shit-faced together. Aren’t we friends? We’re more than friends.”

“You’d do best to remember that we’re not friends, and we’re not family. I’m a businessman. I’ve never really understood what the hell it is you do. Beat the crap out of poor coat-check people. Do you steal their jackets, too?”

“What’re you talkin’ about?”

“Last weekend, I lost my jacket at Café Opera. The faggots in the coat check didn’t have a clue. Someone pointed to it and claimed he’d lost his tag.”

“Shit happens.”

“Is that the kind of shit that happens at your coat checks?”

“No idea.”

“You should check up on that.”

“Goran, it’s not often that I ask for help. And that’s not what I’m doing now, either. I’m going to reward you; that’s not what I call help.”

“Stop speaking in riddles. Something good can come of this talk. I can feel it. My only question is, What? You started this off so nicely. Calling me a friend.”

If it’d been anyone else, Mrado would’ve hung up. Hunted the person down. Ended said person. But first, preferably, snipped off one finger at a time with a ratchet lopper.

“Witty as usual, Goran. I need someone who’s got the DL on the teamsters. A trusty old-timer. If you hook me up with a good contact, I’ll let you in on five percent of the profits.”

“What’ll that be for me per month?”

“Honestly, I don’t really know yet, but it’s a supertight Rado gig I’ve got going. I’m supposed to set up two companies for him. I’d guess we’re talking at least five grand a month and up. Clean.”

“Five thousand and up, for a name? Per month? What hole are you fucking me in, exactly?”

“I’m not fucking you. It’s just really important to me that this works out. That’s why I’m ready to pay.”

“What the hell. Shoot. What can I lose? What exactly do you need?”

Mrado explained without saying too much.

Goran said, “I’ve got a guy. Christer Lindberg. I’ll text you his number. That cool?”

“Sure. Thanks. I’ll call you this week to let you know how it goes. Maybe you’re a good guy after all.”

“‘Good’? Good is just my middle name. Remember that.”

Mrado hung up. Wondered if he’d been smart or a total dipshit.

Fall was coming. Jorge’d managed to get a bed at a homeless shelter fourteen out of the past twenty-four nights. Bought personal identification digits from a junkie in the Sollentuna Mall for three grand. Good till the end of the month. The shelters sent their invoices to the junkie’s social welfare officer. The mainliner lost his welfare check-he wanted cash for heroine/amphetamine instead.

Jorge didn’t get why there were mostly Svens at the shelters, when he knew immigrants were the real dirt-poor suckers- blattes with nada. Did the blizzardheads have no pride?

Life in the shelter was sweet. Well-cooked meals were included for breakfast and dinner. Jorge watched TV. Read newspapers. They weren’t writing shit about his escape.

Chatted a little with the others. Kept it bare bones.

He tried to do push-ups, sit-ups, or jump rope when no one was around. He couldn’t run; his foot was still busted from the jump off the wall.

It wasn’t working in the long run. Couldn’t keep his hair curly without people wondering. Couldn’t smear himself with self-tanner without them looking. There was the risk that one of the bums would recognize him. What’s more: After fourteen days, the shelter started charging five hundred kronor a night instead of two hundred. There was no fairness in this world. The junkie’s money could run out. The Social Service rep could get suspicious.

He hadn’t been able to pay his cousin, Sergio, or his screw fixer, Walter, back. Shameful.

Everything sucked.

Gray, frightened thoughts. Psychological low point.

Zero ability to run. Shitty stamina. Physical low point.

This wasn’t what he’d gone AWOL for.

He had to score money.

Out one month. Not bad, if you thought about it. Better than many others. But no big success. What’d he been expecting? That plastic surgery, a passport, and a field of clover’d just materialize, for free? That he’d find a few pounds of blow under his pillow at the Night Owl homeless shelter? That his sister’d call and tell him she’d bought tickets to Barcelona and borrowed her BF’s passport? Fat chance.

Sergio’d taken a lot of risks. Jorge hadn’t heard from him since the day before he left Eddie’s. Didn’t dare get in touch with him. His bad conscience burned. He should pay Sergio back. But what could he do?

What the FUCK could he do?

He didn’t think the cops had a red alert out on him. In their eyes, he was a harmless small-time druggie. Armored-car robbers, rapists, and other violent criminals were much higher up on their list. That was his luck: He hadn’t used any violence during the break. Still: Life on the lam was no cakewalk. Cash was the solution.

The thought of Radovan. The ace up his sleeve.

He didn’t want to use it. Had been lying at night in the shelters, thinking. Tossed. Turned. Sweated. Reminded him of the nights before the break. But worse, somehow. Then, it could either fly or not fly at all. Now, it could either get fucked up or even more fucked up. Still, he had hope. Maybe it’d work.

The idea: Jorge’d worked for Radovan’s organization. Knew stuff they didn’t want leaked. Above all, they didn’t know exactly how much he knew. He could scare them. Had learned the game on the inside; snitches are bitches and silence is golden. The Yugos should be willing to cough it up.

R. was difficult to get in touch with. No one could or wanted to disclose his home or cell number.

Impossible to reach the Yugo boss.

Radovan’s underling, the rat who’d wrapped him in his witness testimony, Mrado, would work fine. Jorge tracked him down instead.

He finally got Mrado’s cell phone number from an old dealer in Märsta. Mrado wasn’t Radovan, but he was as close as Jorge was gonna get. It’d have to do.

He made the call from a pay phone near Östermalmstorg’s subway station.

His fingers shook as he dialed.

He immediately recognized Mrado’s voice. Deep. Dangerous. Damning.

Almost shat a brick. Straightened up. “Yo, Mrado. It’s Jorge. Jorge Salinas Barrio.”

Silence for a short moment. Mrado cleared his throat. “Jorge. Nice to hear your voice. How’s life on the outside?”

“Cut the crap. You guys fucked me two years ago. The game you pulled at the trial was bullshit. Still, I’m willing to make a deal now.”

“Wow, talk about cutting to the chase. What’s this deal about?”

Jorge didn’t let himself get provoked. “You know what it’s about, Mrado. I had your back, yours and Radovan’s both. And you let me sink. Fucking deep. You owe me.”

“Ah, I see.” Mrado sounded sarcastic. “I guess we’d better see to it that you’re happy right away.”

“Sure, you can choose to fuck me. But I’ll talk, fast. You know I know too much about Radovan’s business. I got slammed with three fuckin’ years for your sake.”