Jens Lapidus - Easy Money

JW thanked him, moved on. Felt good that he and Carl were starting to become tight.

He walked out through the foyer, nodded to the bouncer, and took the stairs up.

The terrace looked like a forest of metal mushrooms-gas-powered heaters to soften the October chill. Carl didn’t take any risks-a third of the terrace was covered by a party tent. But there were no rain clouds tonight. The gas ’shrooms spurted heat and the girls felt good in their tiny tops and bling. JW was scanning the scene for Sophie. The crowd pushed from all sides. Enormous speakers blared Robyn’s latest hit.

A dozen or so girls stood in the middle of the crowd, trying to get the dance party going. Maybe it was too early; in an hour, the terrace would explode. People just needed more booze and a noseful of blow.

The buffet was stylish. Tiny portions on tablespoons: a crouton with fois gras, sour cream with fish roe and red onion, potato salad topped with Russian caviar. You just cleaned the spoon with one bite, tossed it in a bin on the table, and then chose a new gourmet spoon to your liking. Farther down were plates with wineglass holders attached. The buffet consisted of lime-marinated chicken kebobs, tabouleh, and sweet-and-sour chili sauce. The catering crew worked efficiently. The morsel-laden spoons were quickly replaced with new ones; the bucket was emptied in time with the filling of wineglasses.

Real New York vibe in the Stockholm night.

There were ads for Kharma posted everywhere. Jet Set Carl was no dummy-he’d write off this entire party as a company expense.

Sophie was standing at the far end of the terrace, where the party tent began. JW made his way to her. She was talking to a tall guy in a pinstriped blazer and skinny jeans. The guy had some sort of trendy image painted on the back of the blazer. He was unshaven, with hair as short as his stubble. JW recognized him. He was a famous ad guy with a cheesy smile permanently glued to his face. Named Sweden’s seventy-third-sexiest man by Elle a couple of years ago. Generally infamous cunt-catcher. A total tool.

He positioned himself near them, wanted to be introduced. Sophie dissed him majorly, kept talking to the trend tool. JW shoved his hands in his pockets, made a serious effort to nail the disinterested look again. His couldn’t-care-less chin hung.

She looked right through him.

He gave up, skipped her. Played the game and went downstairs to the living room.

A single word in his head: fuck.

Something was wrong with Sophie. JW worried. Did she see through him? Would she call his bluff? Predetermined tracks were hard to hide. A guy from Robertsfors just couldn’t make it with the Stureplan scene’s coolest chic.

A thought: What’s my yearning for Sophie about anyway? Maybe Sophie was like an incarnation of Camilla. A party girl with brains. Something’d happened to his sister, something he repressed. And still he was doing what she’d done. Moved to the city, partied, spent money. Was falling for girls who looked like her. Was faking Life, like she’d done. Camilla’d lived some kind of double life, definitely in front of his mom and dad, but also in front of JW. That had become apparent after he saw the pictures of her riding in the Ferrari, though she’d never told him about the car. She’d only hinted to JW once. Said, “I make more dough in two months than Mom does in a year.” Why? And how was it possible that she’d only had one friend at Komvux, Susanne? JW remembered her as Robertsfors’s number-one socialite.

The thoughts churned. He thought about what he’d found out three days ago from Jan Brunéus.

It was all so shady.

He had to know more.

The living room was more crowded than a late subway car on a Monday morning. In one corner, a stroboscope was spurting flashes of light. Six different-colored spotlights were moving and painting pictures on the opposite wall. There was a smoke machine on the floor, and gigantic speakers in the corners of the room ensured that everything vibrated. Two flat-screen TVs that were set up on top of the speakers were projecting video installations by the artist Ernst Billgren.

JW got it confirmed once again: People with money party better.

He was dancing wildly with some twenty-year-old silicone celeb from the Paradise Hotel when he saw the closed door from the living room. There was another bouncer positioned in front of the door. Older, subtler, slicker, with his hair gelled back. The revealing factor once again: his clothes. Black turtleneck, dark jeans, and a thin leather jacket-indoors. JW recognized him. He was the head bouncer from Stureplan’s biggest security guard company, Tom Schultzenberg.

He thought, That’s gotta be it.

The bouncer checked JW’s name off the list. He slid in.

He found himself in Jet Set Carl’s bedroom, remade as a Lebanese café-super- privé. The bed’d been carried out; in its place were brass hookahs filled with fruit-flavored tobacco on the floor. Purple-and-red fabrics hung on the walls. A thick carpet and tasseled pillows with gold embroidery swallowed the sound in the room. Still, an amped aura: elated, active, sexy. JW clocked right away. In the middle of the room was a glass-topped table. In the middle of the table was a pile of snow.

Magnificent.

Six people were sitting on pillows around the table. Two of them were snorting lines. Two others were preparing theirs. All the people in the room were sniffling, wiping powder with the backs of their hands, sneezing, and babbling about the glory of existence.

JW regarded his work, his delivery. VIP room without borders. What an event, what class.

He sat down on a red pillow. Reached for a razor blade and started to cut a line. A girl across from him was staring him down, sucking him off with her eyes. JW smiled back, snorted the cocaine. The straw was made of glass.

Four hours later. JW was a little too sweaty for comfort. He’d danced, mingled, tried to make out with the girl from the cocaine room in front of Sophie. She kept up her don’t-give-a-shit act. They’d talked for a total of only seventeen minutes. He pulled out all the charm cards he had in his deck. Thought, If I can’t get her tonight, I’ll never fucking get her. He chatted with Jet Set Carl, his friends Fredrik and Nippe, snorted with them, snorted with the silicone bimbo from the Paradise Hotel. Chatted with celebs and silver-spoon babies. He sold himself in.

JW’s message was simple: I’m hot as hell and I’m your local cocaine dealer. Buy from me.

He didn’t see her coming. Suddenly, Sophie was there, took his hand, looked at him. This time, she wanted something more than to chat. He could feel it.

JW was already on a rush. He couldn’t distinguish between the heat in his pants, the heat in his nose, and the heat in his heart. They pushed their way through the party people. It was four o’clock and the party’d peaked. It was still crowded, but not as crowded as before. JW found his jacket on the floor of the foyer. Sophie’s was dangling on a hanger. They pushed the button for the elevator. Giggled together. JW squeezed Sophie’s hand. Still no other bodily contact. In the midst of the spell he was under, JW felt unease. Was it really all set?

On the way down, Sophie said, “What happens now?”

JW looked at her. Grinned. Pulled a cliché. “Can I come up for a cup of tea?”

She smiled. JW got even more nervous, tried not to let it show.

Out on the street, they could hear the music from the party pounding several stories up.

JW said, “Weird that no one’s complaining. Did Carl put the entire neighborhood up at the Grand?”

Sophie, with a Mona Lisa smile: “Maybe they like the music?”

They started walking. JW was unsure of the direction. He thought, Is she playing with me? Is it a joke? She’d done a 180-first ignoring him, as if he were no better than chopped liver, and now taking him home with her.