Jens Lapidus - Easy Money

How she let herself be fooled by a six-foot Yugoslav, he couldn’t even begin to imagine.

To D 327. Eyed signs again. Found the room.

Same deal as with the TA. Some dude opened. Mrado asked him to get Paola.

Mrado closed the door of the seminar room behind her. Paola understood immediately that something wasn’t right. Jerked her head around. Took a step back, averted her face. Mrado had time to see her eyes. If unease had a face, it would look like hers.

Not what Mrado had expected from a lit major. She was wearing a light blue blouse with wide cuffs. Dark, tight blue jeans. Straitlaced style. Black hair, pulled back in a ponytail. It gleamed. Innocent look. Something sparked within Mrado.

He waved toward a bathroom. They walked in that direction. Paola: stiff movements. Mrado: focused. They stepped into the bathroom. Mrado closed the door.

The bathroom was covered in graffiti. Mostly written in pencil and ballpoint pen. Mrado, surprised. College students weren’t supposed to do that kind of thing, were they?

He told Paola to sit down on the toilet. Her face flushed.

“Calm down. I don’t want to hurt you, but there’s no point in screaming. I prefer not to use violence on girls. I’m not that kinda guy. Just need to know a few things.”

Paola spoke perfect Swedish. No trace of an accent. “It’s about Jorge, isn’t it? Is it about Jorge?” Near tears.

“You got it, babe. It’s about your bro. You know where he is?”

“No. I don’t have a clue. I don’t know. He hasn’t been in touch. Not with Mama, either. We’ve just read about him in the papers.”

“Cut it. I’m sure he cares about you. Of course he’s been in touch. Where is he?”

She sobbed. “I told you-I don’t know. I really don’t. He hasn’t even called.”

Mrado kept pushing it. “Don’t lie. You seem like a good girl. I can make your life a living hell. I can make your bro’s life good. Just tell me where he is.”

She kept denying it, point-blank.

“Listen carefully, little lady. Stop pouting. This bathroom looks like shit, don’t you agree? Walls totally scratched up. You’re leaving this kind of shit behind. You want to get out with your fancy education. Up in life. Your brother can get a good life, too.”

She stared straight into his eyes. Her pupils big, glossy. He saw his reflection in them. She’d stopped crying. The mascara painted black lines down her cheeks.

“I really don’t know.”

Mrado analyzed. There are people who can lie. Dupe. Fool anyone. Stand up against cops, prosecutors, and lawyers in interrogation after interrogation. Even stand up against guys like Mrado. Maybe they believe their own stories. Maybe they’re just extremely good actors. Other people try to lie and it shows right away. Their eyes shoot up to the left, a sign that they’re making things up. They blush. Sweat. Contradict themselves. Miss details. Or the opposite: try to be calm. Pretend it’s raining. Speak slowly. But it shows. They’re too confident. Their stories are too sweeping, too big picture. They sit abnormally still. Seem too secure in their statements.

He knew them all. Paola didn’t belong to any of these. Mrado’d been in the protection-racket business long enough. Had squeezed juice out of people. Forced them to show him where the cash was stashed, how much blow they’d dealt, where they were delivering their moonshine, how many johns they’d had. Held his gun to people’s temples, in their mouths, against their cocks. Asked for answers. Appraised their answers. Forced answers. He was an expert at answers.

Mrado checked her hands. Not her face. He knew people control their mugs, but not their bodies. Hands speak the truth.

Paola wasn’t lying.

She really didn’t know where the Jorge fucker was.

Damn it.

He left her sitting on the toilet. Paralyzed.

Jogged down to the parking lot. Jumped in the car. Pulled the door shut hard behind him. Drove off to meet Mahmud’s sis.

Mrado felt stressed-out. He saw her right away. She was sitting with a Pepsi in front of her. The Arab joint was packed. Two veiled women with at least 140 ankle biters occupied the back half of the place. In the front were a couple of Svens lapping up multicultural Sweden. Mahmud’s sister held out her hand. Meaning: I want my two thousand cash. The chick’d been compliant last time. Now: considerable attitude problem.

Mrado sighed. Thought something that surprised him: Too many people who are downright losers rock an attitude. He’d experienced it a lot. Unemployed Sven boozehounds, uneducated bouncers, and cocky project blattes played tough guy. Did that protect them? Did it keep them from feeling like the dregs they were? This chick was an obvious loser. Why did she even try?

He sat down.

“Okay, babe, let’s hold off on the money. You’ll get it soon. First, tell me what he said.”

Before she’d even said a word, he knew the answer.

“My man, he know nothin’.”

“What do you mean? He knew about Jorge, didn’t he?”

“No, I mean, like, they hung never, or whatever.”

Got irritated. The chick couldn’t fucking speak straight. Someone should return her to the store. Reclaim the warranty.

“Come on. Of course he knew who Jorge was. Think. What’d he say?”

“What’s your deal? Don’t think I remember, huh? Me, comin’ from there now. I just said-they hung never.”

“You want your dough or what? Did he know who the Latino was or not?”

“He knew. Said tightest break he’d ever heard.”

“You mean the escape? Did he see the escape?”

“Shit, you nag. My man not there. Not on motivation.”

“Girl, if you want the dough, you have to fuckin’ talk so I understand you.” Mrado was about to snap. Pushed back his chair. Signal: Wise up or I’ll leave.

“He, like, in not same block. Not motivation. He somewhere else. You know?”

Mrado knew. Bummed. Mahmud’s sis was a dud. There were two units at Österåker. One for inmates who wanted to get their lives back on track, where they got motivation to get off drugs. Learn society’s rules. Pedagogical programs, workshops, bullshit psychology and chat therapy. Of course that’s where Jorge’d been, the so-called motivation unit. Then it was true what she’d said: Her tired-ass man didn’t know zilch.

He moved on to another cottage. Stayed there two days. And now he was gonna switch it up again. Had to keep moving.

He walked for over three hours. Wanted to get away from the area where he’d just stayed-watchful neighbors equaled foes. His nigger look a threat. One family has a break-in and suddenly every unknown individual with dark hair in the area’s a suspect. A miracle that no one’d stopped by the side of the road yet to ask him who he was and what he was doing there.

A cold wind. The middle of October wasn’t his favorite time of year. But Jorge-boy’d planned ahead. The knit sweater and the winter jacket warmed. Thanked the thrift store for that.

He turned off the main road. Read a sign that said DYVIK, 2 MILES. Smaller road. No houses yet. Pine trees all around. He kept trotting along. Hungry. Tired. Refused to lose heart. J-boy: still on the way up. Out. Onward. Toward success. Radovan would yield to him. Give him a passport. Kale. Opportunities. He’d head to Denmark. Maybe invest a few grand in blow. Deal. Make cash. Move on. Maybe to Spain. Maybe Italy. He’d buy a real identity. Start all over. Play drug kingpin with hard-core connections in Viking territory. Hook his old homeys up. Everyone except Radovan would bathe in his glory. The Yugo faggot would have to beg to get in on deals belonging to Jorge, King of Blow.

The road sloped downward. The forest opened up. He saw houses. To his left, a barn with two run-down green tractors out front. Farther down, horses. Not good. Someone lived on the place. He kept going. Found another house. Broke in.