Jens Lapidus - Easy Money

Radovan sat silently. Refilled his glass of Lagavulin. Took a sip.

“He knows a lot about us. But not that much. He can’t make me dance like some kinda monkey with the shit he knows. This is his big chance to get me to help him. Of course I could get him a new passport. Cash. A new life in some warm country. The only problem is, he’s gotten me all wrong. No one forces me to do anything. Anyway, what’s to say he’ll stop there? You know how the fucking Croats were back in the homeland. They wouldn’t settle for ninety-nine percent of the coastline, they wanted it all. It’s the same with this guy. One day I get him a new identity, and the next day he’ll be back asking for money. Or asking for plane fare. Or asking for any fucking thing-stake in Radovan’s empire.”

Mrado laughed. Rado: the gangster king who talked about himself in the third person. Mrado relaxed. Better mood than last time he’d been here. Felt the whiskey warm his body. Soften his shoulders. Caress his insides.

“His trump card is what he knows, or maybe knows. I’m not really sure that he actually has enough info to hurt us, but he’s a threat. Our trump card is that we can send him right back to jail, without passing Go. The disadvantage of our advantage is that there’s a risk he’ll lose hope if we send him back in. If he doesn’t have anything to live for anymore besides building biceps at a supermax, that canary’ll sing quicker than you can say blow. I can guarantee you that.”

“Excuse me, Radovan. But why not just pop the fucker?”

“That’s not how we do. Too dangerous. You heard him. It’ll leak. We don’t know who else he’s told. Jorge Salinas Barrio’s no idiot. If we rub him out, I promise he’ll have made sure the info we don’t want seeing the light’ll be up and out with the fucking dawn. He’s probably already leaked to someone who’ll tell all if we so much as pluck a hair on his nappy head. But, you know, he could do anything. Lock papers in some safety deposit box. If he bites it, no one’ll be there to keep paying the fee, the box’ll be opened, someone’ll see all the papers he put in there, including detailed accounts of our business. Or else he’s written some e-mail that’s programmed to be sent to the cops after a certain date unless he stops it. You know where this is going-point is, we can’t off him. He’s too smart for that. But there are ways. Classic methods, you know, Mrado. You find him, or get in touch with him in some other way. Do your thing. Explain to him that he can forget about his ugly blackmail attempts ever making Radovan quiver. And then, once you’re sure he knows who sent the greeting, crush him. You ever stabbed someone in the stomach?”

“Yes, bayonet, Srebrenica, 1995.”

“Then you know it bleeds like a bitch, will fold anyone. So many soft parts to hit and so much to injure. That’s the way to approach Jorge-break him right away, fast and easy. Like stabbing with a knife.”

“I’m following. Do I have carte blanche?”

“Yes and no. You can’t finish him. No knife. That was just to paint the picture. Let me put it this way: You have to use soft brass knuckles.”

Radovan laughed at his own joke.

“I understand. Do you know anything else about where I might find him?”

“Not really. But he’s from the Sollentuna area. Ask Ratko or Ratko’s brother. They’re from there. One more thing. You can’t fuck the blatte fag up so much he has to go to the hospital. Then he’ll be sent back to prison, and we’ll be back in the risky territory I just mentioned. In the slammer without hope, he’ll screw everyone. Turn into a rodent in no time.”

“Trust me. Not a single bone will be broken in the body of that little pussy. Still, he’ll wish he was back in his mother’s.”

Mrado’s vulgarity made Radovan smile. He whisked the whiskey around in his glass. Took a sip. Leaned back in the armchair. Mrado, pumped. Wanted out, on the street. Away from Radovan. To the gym. Talk to the guys. Find leads. Crack the code. Crush Jorge.

They talked about other stuff: horses and cars. No business. Nothing about Mrado’s demanding a bigger cut of the coat checks last time. After fifteen minutes, Radovan excused himself. “I’ve got some things to attend to. And Mrado, considering the fiasco at Kvarnen, I want Jorge now. Know what? I want him yesterday already.”

Mrado went to the gym. Talked to the guys working the desk. Interrupted their discussion about the latest muscle medicine. Asked questions. Did they know anyone doing time at Österåker? Did they know anyone working as a guard at Österåker? Did they know anything about that slick break that’d gone down five weeks ago?

One of them said, “You seem interested. Are you on your way in and want to know how to get out?” Grinned at his own joke.

Mrado, indulgent. Refrained from biting back. Joked along instead. “Preparation’s a shortcut, right?”

The guy leaned over the desk: “That escape was totally SUPERior. I mean, honestly, the dude that stepped over the wall must’ve been Sergej Bubka himself. Twenty-three feet, Mrado. How the hell do you jump that without a pole? Is he Spider-Man, or what?”

“Do you know anyone doing time there?”

“I don’t know anyone doing time there. I’m a refined person, don’t you know. Don’t know any guards, either. Ask Mahmud, maybe. You know, Arabs are always a little criminal. Half the race is, like, behind bars. Check the showers, I think he just did his morning sesh.”

Mrado went downstairs. Into the locker room. Mahmud wasn’t there. A couple other guys were getting dressed. Mrado said hi. Walked back up. Looked around the room on the right. The Eurotechno blared. No Mahmud. Looked around the room on the left. Saw Mahmud kneeling on a red mat. Stretching his back. Looked like a grotesque ballerina mid-pose.

Mrado knelt down next to him.

“Yo, twiggy. How’s your sesh? What d’you do?”

Mahmud didn’t look up. Kept stretching his back. “I don’t know who you’re calling twiggy, twiggy. The sesh was good. I’ve worked the crap out of my lower back and shoulders today. Is fine. They’re far from each other. How’re things with you?”

“Rollin’. I need help with something. That cool?”

“Course. Mahmud never leaves you hangin’; you know that.”

“Cool. Do you know anyone doing time at Österåker?”

“Yeah. My sister’s husband’s there. She visits a lot. They get a room to themselves, have a little fun.” Mahmud changed positions. Stood up. Arms between his legs. Hunched his back. The sound of joints cracking.

“When’s the next time she’s gonna visit?”

“Don’t know. Want me to ask?”

“Yeah. Would you call when you’re done here? I need to know as soon as possible.”

Mahmud nodded. They were silent. The Arab did a few more stretches. Mrado waited. Chatted with two other guys in the room. They walked down to the locker room. Mahmud called his sister. Spoke in Arabic. His sis was going there on Thursday.

They met up at a place on the south side. Supercheap-greasy kabobs and falafel in pita bread for twenty kronor a pop. Mrado ordered three. Scoped out the place. Pictures of the Al-Aqsa Mosque in Jerusalem and Arabic texts on the walls. Genuine or for show? Who cared when the kabobs were so good, they’d melt in your mouth.

Mrado’s take on Mahmud’s sister: tacky blatte. Clothes a little too tight. Skirt a little too short. Makeup a little too much. The Louis Vuitton accessories? A little too fake. Much too much ghetto Swedish. Tone it down, habibti.

She was amenable. Nema problema. He instructed her on what to ask: If Jorge’d had an unusual amount of contact with another inmate the days before the escape. With a CO? How’d he gotten over the wall? Had he belonged to a gang? Did people know who’d helped him on the outside? Who were his friends on the inside?