Jens Lapidus - Easy Money

“Easy, Jorge. If you hurt us, we’ll make sure you’re sent right back to where you came from. But a little deal isn’t a bad idea. What’d you have in mind?”

“Simple. Radovan gets me a passport and a hundred G’s, cash. I’ll jump ship and you’ll never hear from me again.”

“I’ll convey your request to Radovan. But I don’t think he’s gonna like it. Blackmail isn’t his thing. Nothing he lets himself get subjected to. How can I reach you?”

“You think I’m a fuckin’ idiot? I’ll call you on this number in ten days. If he’s not in on my deal by then, I’ll fuck him up.”

“It’s lucky for you Radovan didn’t hear that. Call me in two weeks. Good passports can’t just be bought on the street.”

“No, ten days. Can’t you fuckin’ order passports from Thailand, or somethin’? And yo, one more thing. If anythin’ happens to me, some accident or somethin’, you catch my drift, what I know’ll leak on the spot.”

“I follow. Make it two weeks.”

Mrado hung up. Fucking chesty Yugo fuck. Jorge was the one setting the rules, wasn’t he? But now all he could do was accept. Two weeks. That was still better than expected-could be kale at the end of this. Was he back on track?

Jorge kept standing where he was. People kept streaming past.

Jorge-boy: the world’s loneliest homeboy. Solo y abandonado.

Jorge’d been thinking about a possibility-seemed served on a plate. Svens shut up their summer homes during the off-season. New housing market for him. Maybe that would at least solve one problem.

He was screwed when it came to cash. Had one G left of the five Sergio’d given him.

His expenses had been too big so far. A total of three thousand kronor for the shelter. Every session at the tanning booth: sixty-five kronor. Vending machine grub for lunch. A new pair of pants, gloves, two T-shirts, a knit sweater, underwear, socks, and a winter jacket from a thrift store: 450 kronor. In preparation for a cold autumn.

He took a last trip to the tanning bed. He was dark now. Had nailed the walk. The right rhythm. Now he wanted to get away for a while. Wait for Radovan’s answer.

He took the subway to the Royal Technical Academy station. Didn’t really know where he was going. Just that he wanted to head north. Somewhere deserted. He nixed the express bus to Norrtälje. Got on bus number 620 instead, also headed north to Norrtälje, but with a more roundabout route.

He dozed.

The bus drove past Åkersberga. There were hicks on the bus. A lady with two wiener dogs stared at him.

He got off at a stop that looked nice, called Wira Bruk. The plastic bag with his clothes in it was twisted around his wrist. He let it get tangled.

Not his kind of turf. Jorge’d been to the country once in his life, on a school field trip when he was thirteen. Ended with his being sent home. You weren’t allowed to set the forest on fire.

To his right was a stone church. The clock tower stood separately, built of gray wood. A couple of gravestones in the grass around the main building. To the left, the land slanted upward. To the woods. One road kept going straight, and one took off to the left. Fields farther up. The crops had been harvested.

The sky was gray.

He started walking.

Toward the fork in the road. Looked down the road that veered to the left. A couple of houses and parked cars. He walked closer. Saw a sign: WIRA BRUK-OLD HOMESTEAD MUSEUM. He walked across the parking lot. Nine cars total. Toyed with the thought of boosting one, then scrapped it. Walked down toward the houses.

A stream to his left. Picturesque. A little bridge. Leafy trees. Gravel road. Red kiosk. Seemed boarded up for the fall, but they’d forgotten the ice-cream cardboard cutout outside. Farther down, three larger houses. A gravel square between them. Signs on the houses. An old school. An old parish hall. An old county sheriff’s house. A middle-aged couple entered the school. He was seriously off. There were no vacation homes here. It was a fucking museum.

Out on the main road again.

He kept walking. For fifteen minutes. No houses in sight.

Fifteen more minutes.

Saw houses farther up between the trees.

Got closer.

The first seemed lived in. There was a Volvo V70 parked outside.

He went on to the next one. Woods all around.

Jorge wondered if it’d been the right move to come up here. Unknown territory. Away game. Simple fact about J-boy: He wasn’t exactly the type who’d been raised a Boy Scout, field biologist, or explorer. Limited exposure to a world without asphalt and McDonald’s.

The house was about three hundred yards farther up. Couldn’t be seen from the first house. No car parked outside. It was big. Two glassed-in porches. Faded red paint. White trim. Green paint around the windows. The bottom porch was hardly visible behind all the wild trees and bushes. Jorge walked up the path. The gravel crunched. The door to the house faced the yard, at the back of the house if you stood on the road. Perfect. Looked in through all the windows. No one home. Knocked on the door. No answer. Yelled “Hello.” No one came out. Walked back out on the road. No other people or houses in sight. Went back. Tried to locate an alarm system. Nada. Put his gloves on. Broke a window. Carefully reached his hand in. Didn’t want to cut himself. Unhooked the window latch. No problem. Opened the window. Pulled himself up. Jumped in.

Listened. No alarm. He yelled again. No answer. Qué lindo.

After two days in the house, he felt right at home.

He made a room with a window facing the hedge his bedroom. Avoided the other windows. Cleaned all the grub out of the cupboards. Found pasta, rice, canned goods, beer, herring. Old condiments. No favorite foods, but it’d have to do.

During the day, he did push-ups and jumped rope on one foot. More training: sit-ups, back exercises, stretching. Wanted to stay in shape. Make up for what he’d missed during the time in the shelters.

Nervous. Ears perked. He listened for the sound of cars. Crunching on the gravel. Voices outside. He took an old beer can and put it on the handle of the front door-if someone came, it’d fall on the floor and make enough noise to wake him up.

It was peaceful. Tranquil. Quiet. Damn dull.

He was supposed to call Mrado in ten days.

He couldn’t sleep that night, his thoughts distracted. What would he do if Radovan refused to give up? How would he make cash? Maybe he’d have to be in touch with someone in the C business after all. Flip a few grams. Deal for dosh. Back to the old routine.

What’d happened to Sergio? Eddie? His sister? His mama? He should really give them a call. Show he cared.

He thought about Sångvägen, the street where he’d grown up. His first pair of soccer cleats. The grass field down by Frihetsvägen. The hangout room in Tureberg’s School. The basement of his house. His first joint.

Man, he wanted one.

Got up. Looked out the window. The sky was starting to glow. Fog rose off the ground. Sappy flick. Cue the music. Dig the paradox: him, Jorge, progeny of the asphalt jungle, sucking up the bumpkin paradise and enjoying it. It was so beautiful outside.

In that moment, he didn’t give a shit if anyone saw him.

JW was soon a real hot ticket. The rings spread on the water after the party at Lövhälla Manor. The talk about the rager went on for weeks: how crazy Nippe’d been, how funny Jet Set Carl’d looked when he’d run riot, the killer jokes Lollo’d made, how randy Nippe was all the time. The gossip exaggerated the drinking, the dancing, the scandals, and the rush, to JW’s advantage.

He made good money in the weeks that followed. Abdulkarim loved him. He painted their brilliant plans for the future, fantasized-they were going to own this town. JW didn’t know if he should take Abdul seriously or if he was kidding around. The Arab talked so damn much.