Jens Lapidus - Easy Money

She wrote the questions down and promised to memorize them before her next visit to the penitentiary. Wanted two thousand cash for her time.

Mrado knew Jorge’s type; they never shut up. Bragged, showed off, said too much.

He felt certain: With a contact at Österåker, the Latino’d soon be found.

The hunt could begin.

Spanish dreams. “Jorgelito, I’ll sit here till you fall asleep. Jorgelito, wait here and I’ll get the storybook. Jorgelito, have I told you you’re my prince? Paola’s my princess. You’re my own royal family.”

Jorge woke up.

It was light outside. Hot in the room. Sweet dreams were over. He lay on a mattress that he’d pulled off a bed. Reduced the risk that someone would see him from the outside. Double safety measures-tall bushes outside the window blocked the view.

He’d spent a total of six days in the cottage. Bored. Soon time to call that Yugo. He thought about Rodriguez. One day, Jorge-boy’d be back. Redecorate his face. Make him crawl. Lick mom’s feet. Beg. Creep. Cry.

Maybe he’d been stupid. Careless. For instance, he’d run out of food the day before. He’d walked out to the road. Followed it until he reached a bigger road. Kept going. Saw water. Boats that people were taking out of the water. Haloed autumn panorama. About an hour and a half later: a grocery store, ICA Nygrens. He went in.

Never felt as dark as there, in the Aryan Swedish national store. The blatte stood out, sharp contrast. No one said anything. No one seemed to care. But Jorge, el negrito, thought he was gonna be lynched, dipped in poisonous boat paint and rolled in granola.

He bought spaghetti, chips, bread, sandwich meat, eggs, butter, and beer. Laundry detergent and hair dye. Paid cash. Didn’t say thank you to the lady working the cash register. Just nodded. Thought everyone was eyeing him. Hating him. Planning to turn him over to the cops.

Already on his way out of the store, he felt like an idiot. Tried to walk through the woods on his way home. Didn’t fly. Kept hitting private property, houses. Got scared that people might be home. Get suspicious. Get pissed off. Report the nigger to the police. Walked back out to the main road. Hoped no one would take note of him, el fugitivo.

Jorge fried two eggs. Buttered five pieces of bread. Added sandwich meat. Drank water. A tower of plates and silverware balanced precariously in the sink. Why bother doing dishes? The house’s rightful owner could take care of that later.

He sat down at the kitchen table. Ate the sandwiches quickly. Ran his fingers over the tabletop. It looked old. He wondered if poor people owned the cottage, or if they’d chosen an old table on purpose.

Then: a sound outside. Jorge’s ears perked up.

A voice.

He hunched down.

Slid off the chair, onto the floor.

Lay flat on his stomach.

Crawled toward the window. If someone was on the way in, he could be cooked. If it was the cops outside, he was definitely cooked.

Goddamn it, why hadn’t he prepared better? Nothing packed. His clothes, hair dye, food, toiletries-everything was spread out in the room where he slept. Fucking idiot. If he had to run now, he wouldn’t manage to take a fucking thing.

He tried to look out the window. Didn’t see anyone outside. Just the tranquil garden, surrounded by trimmed hawthorn bushes and two maple trees. Again: the voice. Sounded like it came from the little road leading up to the house. Folded in half, he slunk over to the other window. Through the hall. The broad wooden planks in the floor creaked. Fuck. Didn’t dare look out the window. They might be able to see him from the outside. Listened first. Heard another voice, closer now, but not right outside. At least two people talking to each other. Was it the 5-0 or someone else?

Listened again. One of the voices had a slight foreign accent.

He peeked cautiously. No parked car. Couldn’t see the people. Looked up the road that continued past the house toward a dark red barn behind the garden. There. Three people were walking toward the house.

Jorge fast-forwarded through his options. Weighed the advantages and the risks. The cottage was good. Warm, relatively shielded from view, far from the city and the cops’ searching. He could bunker down here until all his money ran out. On the other hand, the people on the road from the barn. He couldn’t really make out who they were.

They could be the owners of the house. Maybe it wasn’t their house but they were just curious. Took a look-see through the windows. Saw the mountain of dishes, saw the mattress on the floor, saw the mess.

It could be the cops.

The risk was too big. Better to pack up his things and clear out before they got here. There were other houses. Other warm beds.

Jorge shoved his stuff into two bags, food in one and clothes and toiletries in the other. He went to the door. The upper half was made of painted glass. He looked out. Didn’t see the people. Opened the door. Walked quickly to the left. Not the gravel path out to the little road. Pushed through an opening in the bushes instead. Got caught on thorns.

Thought the voices sounded closer.

Fuck.

He ran without looking back.

JW: on his way to the top. Jet Set Carl’s offer-a golden opportunity. Abdulkarim: overjoyed. Babbled on about their expansion plans. “If you just find that Jorge dude,” he reminded JW, “we’ll own this city.”

JW didn’t break any unnecessary sweat looking for the Chilean. He’d put out some hooks here and there. Had dinner with peeps from the Sollentuna area and offered them money for information that could lead to zeroing in on the fugitive. It’d work out.

Today, he had another project.

JW’d called the Komvux teacher, Jan Brunéus, a couple of days ago. The teacher remembered Camilla well but really didn’t want to talk about her. When JW’d insisted, he’d hung up on him.

JW hadn’t been able to deal with his reaction at the time. Hadn’t bothered to call him again. Tried not to think about the whole thing.

But today it was time. He had to.

He put on jeans, shirt, coat.

Walked toward Sveaplan Gymnasium, the high school below the Wenner-Gren Center where the continuing-education center, Komvux, was located. Wanted to meet Jan Brunéus face-to-face.

Valhallavägen was louder than usual, either due to the heavy traffic or due to his headache. Probably due to both.

He spotted the school building at the end of Sveavägen.

It was 11:30 a.m. Lunch break. JW suspected that the reception desk would close during lunch. He didn’t want to have to wait till after, ignored the arrows and signs and just asked someone for directions. A woman with a Fjällräven Kånken backpack who seemed on her way out gave him a good explanation of how to get there: Take the main entrance, up the stairs, then to the right.

JW ran against the current. Mostly young people his own age on their way out to lunch. The washed-up middle class-didn’t realize there were faster ways to Life.

He took the stairs three at a time. Got short of breath.

Reached the reception area.

A woman in a pleated skirt and an old-fashioned blouse was on her way out the door with purposeful movements that said, I’m closing now.

Typical.

He said, “Hello, ma’am. May I please ask a question before you close for lunch?”

JW’d become the prince of politesse-calling the receptionist “ma’am.” He’d learned well from his Stockholm crowd.

The lady was mollified and let him in. She got back behind the counter.

“I need to speak with one of your teachers, Jan Brunéus. Does he have classes this week, and if so, where might I find him?”