Jens Lapidus - Easy Money

JW finished his soup. Abdulkarim settled the bill.

They walked out. It was chilly outside.

JW started thinking. This could be big. This could be a little conglomerate all on its own.

He was going to track down that Chilean.

He walked home. Had trouble studying. Couldn’t concentrate. His mind kept wandering. He stretched out on the bed and tried to read the last issue of GQ.

His cell phone rang. JW realized he’d forgotten to keep his promise to Abdulkarim about getting a new one.

Jet Set Carl’s voice on the other end of the line.

What the hell? What could he want?

After saying hi, Carl said, “JW, Lövhälla Manor was such a great fucking time. Totally insane.”

“Ridiculous. We’ve gotta do that again sometime.”

“For sure. Really damn sweet that you could help bring the party. I really think everyone appreciated it.”

“Nice to hear. I tend to be able to find a way to bring some fun, so to speak.”

“Did you know I jumped the shit out of a couch? Totally busted it.”

JW gauged his tone-no problem, okay to laugh.

Carl scoffed.

“It was a real piece, too. Designer.”

“You’re kidding? What’d Gunn say?”

More laughter. I mean, Gunn? Please.

They chatted about the awesome dinner, Nippe’s game, that Jet Set Carl’d paid fifteen big ones to fix the couch, that Gunn must’ve wondered why everyone was sneezing up a storm the morning after.

In JW’s mind, the same question kept coming back to him: Why is Jet Set Carl calling me?

He didn’t have to wait long for an answer. “It’s my birthday and I’m having a big party at my house. Think you could bring some fun?”

JW was used to the slang and the roundabout way of saying things. Even so, it took him a sec to catch on. “You mean C? Of course. How much do you need?”

“Hundred and fifty grams.”

JW: brain freeze.

Jesus.

He tried to sound unperturbed, “That’s a lot, but I think I can get it. Just have to check the amount first, make sure it’s cool.”

“I don’t want to be a drag, but I have to know pretty soon. I’ll call you back in an hour. If you don’t know, I’ll ask someone else. What’s your price?”

JW did some rapid mental arithmetic. It was dizzying-if he could get a hold of the amount, that is. Maybe he’d be able to push the purchase price down to five hundred. Could charge Carl at least a thousand. Left for him: at least seventy-five grand.

Jesus Christ Superstar.

“I’ll do my very best, Calle. I’ll call you as soon as I know.”

Jet Set Carl thanked him. He sounded like he was in a good mood.

They hung up.

JW sat on the bed-with the stiffest hard-on in northern Europe.

Dagens Nyheter, daily

October

TONIGHT, THE STOCKHOLM POLICE BEGAN A MAJOR OFFENSIVE AGAINST ORGANIZED crime. The goal is to eradicate at least one-third of the 150 specifically targeted persons from the criminal underworld-and to deter young people from taking up a life of violent crime.

The offensive, classified as “Nova,” was actually supposed to begin over six months ago. The planned action had to be postponed because resources were allocated to a number of other recent highly publicized investigations.

But the first hit took place tonight. Hundreds of police officers from various divisions, including special operations from the gang unit, took part in a number of crackdowns in different parts of the city and the surrounding boroughs. The result of the work is not yet known and the district police have not answered any of Dagens Nyheter’ s questions.

Through Nova, the district police hope to combat the networks of more or less career criminals who are behind violent crime, protection racketeering, drug trafficking, human trafficking, prostitution, and cigarette smuggling. The project’s action plan states that violent crime is on the rise in the Stockholm area and that the likelihood of criminals bearing arms has increased.

The strategy is to first and foremost strike out against the leaders of these criminal networks. In connection with the offensive, 150 known criminals across the region have been pinpointed as being of special interest. The goal is that at least fifty of these will, “by means of distraction or force of law,” be “made to refrain from criminal activity in the long term.” None of these persons is currently serving time or is charged with crimes that can lead to more than two years in prison.

The goal is to be reached within two years, at the latest.

On his way to Radovan. Serbian music on the stereo: Zdravko Colic. Mrado, pissed-that faggot Jorge’d been uppity. Threatened Radovan. Indirectly threatened Mrado. Tried to blackmail. Tried to be smart. Tried to play with fire.

Jorge had info on the cocaine business. Knew of storage spots, import routes, smuggling methods, dealers, buyers, labs, bulking techniques. Most of all, the blatte knew who ran the show. Mr. R. himself risked being in the danger zone. Gospodin Bog -the blatte fucker was the one should be in the danger zone.

That cocksucker. Mrado would find Jorge, tape him up, cut him to pieces. Eat him up. Shit him out. Lap up. Shit out again.

Mrado’d called Radovan right after he got off the phone with the blatte. Radovan sounded calmer than Mrado. But Mrado sensed the vibes under the surface: Radovan even more pissed than he was.

Jorge, prepare for revenge of the Yugos.

The good thing about the Latino’s provocation: The incident diverted Radovan’s irritation from Mrado. Last time they’d gotten together, the mood’d hit an all-time low. Radovan’d gone too far.

Twenty minutes later, he arrived in Näsbypark. The leafy suburb. Gaudy paradise of the straitlaced and square. Cunts. He parked his car and lit a cigarette. Held it between thumb and pointer finger-Slavic-style. Took deep drags. Had to calm down before his meeting with Radovan the Great. Phlegmy cough. Thought about Radovan’s paintings. Total value? Couldn’t be measured in money.

He stubbed out his cigarette. Walked up to the house.

Rang the doorbell.

Stefanovic opened the door. Didn’t say a word, just led Mrado to the library. Radovan was seated in the same chair as last time. The leather on the armrests was worn and faded. A bottle of whiskey on the coffee table: sixteen-year-old Lagavulin.

“Have a seat, Mrado. Thanks for calling right away. We could’ve done this over the phone, but I wanted to look you in the eyes to see that you’re not too rabid. You’ve got to take it easy. We’ve got to take it easy. Solve this one step at a time. It’s not a huge deal. Others have tried. Only difference now is that he actually might know something. Tell me what he said. From the beginning, please. Full transcript.”

Mrado told him everything. Tried to keep it short without leaving out the most important part-the blatte ’s attitude.

“Jorge Salinas Barrio’s on the run. You know more than me about that story; you were the one who informed me. According to what I’ve heard, the guy’s some sort of hero at Österåker. Even the heavy hitters at federal joints like Kumla and Hall admire his style and finesse. Disappeared into thin air like some fucking magic trick. Broke out, Houdini-style. I should’ve dealt with him right away. That fuckin’ fag.”

“Houdini-I like the comparison. But don’t tell me you should’ve taken him down right away. We don’t know what could’ve happened then. Just keep talking.”

Mrado told him about his conversation with Jorge. That Jorge’d sounded stressed-out, that the blatte ’d probably called from a pay phone, that he wanted a passport and a hundred G’s, that he’d said a lot of shit would be leaked if anything happened to him.