Jens Lapidus - Easy Money

It was eight o’clock. Mrado was sitting in his car outside the shoot club, Pancrease, on Odengatan. Called Rolf. Was careful not to be explicit with his own name, Rolf’s name, or other details. Kept it brief, as usual.

“What’s up? It’s me.”

“Everything cool?”

“Yep. And you?”

“Sure, sure, but I’ve had a tough day. Sat hunched in the driver’s seat of a car all day. My back’s giving out.”

“You should work out more. Go running sometimes and do fifty back-ups every night and I’ll bet you’ll feel better. Whattya got for me?”

“I’ve checked up on what we talked about. The northern precinct brought a guy in for questioning a month ago. Sergio Salinas Morena, a troublemaker from Sollentuna. He’s cousins with your guy. Didn’t lead to anything, but apparently he was suspected of aiding.”

“Nice. I bow in thanks. Will check it out. That all?”

“That’s all. Later.”

Mrado started up the car. Drove to the intersection of Sveavägen/Odengatan. Turned up toward Norrtull. There wouldn’t be any working out at the club tonight. He called Ratko-needed his contacts in Sollentuna. Ratko was with his girl in Solna. Didn’t seem too hot on joining the hunt. Despite that: agreed to be picked up at Råsundavägen. What could Ratko do? The bottom line: When Mrado asks, you deliver.

They drove on the E4 highway toward Sollentuna. Ratko didn’t know anyone named Sergio Salinas Morena. Called Bobban. He recognized the name. Thought the guy still lived in the Sollentuna area. Didn’t know more than that.

The road was poorly lit. Ratko made calls to old friends from Märsta and Sollentuna, asked about Sergio. Mrado was strangely unfocused. Didn’t have the energy to listen to Ratko’s phone buzz. He was tired. Thought about Lovisa. His preparatory hearing in family court was coming up. Annika didn’t even want him to see his daughter every other week. So fuckin’ low.

They tore down the highway. Mrado’d busted the speed limit more times than he could count. He remembered one time in particular: when Lovisa was born. Immediate cesarean. He’d been at Solvalla with some buds. Gotten a call from Annika that the contractions’d started but that the water hadn’t broken. She called the hospital. They said, “Take it easy until the contractions come more frequently.” Mrado stayed at Solvalla. Why go home if it wasn’t time? When he was leaving, he called home. No answer. Worry. Had she gone without calling him? There was a note on the kitchen table. Went to Huddinge. Had to hurry. Mrado ran back out to the car. Gunned it. Drove 110 to Huddinge Hospital. Took the turns on two wheels. Worried more than he’d ever done in his entire life. Ran the entire way to the hospital’s main entrance. When he arrived, drenched in sweat, Lovisa’d already been plucked out. Her heart rate’d started to plummet-there’d been no time to spare. Before Annika went under, she heard the surgeon tell the rest of the team they had only five minutes of game time. From emergency to catastrophe. Mrado’d been late to his own daughter’s birth. He would never forgive himself for that. But the following two hours had been some of the best in his life-in an adjoining room with Lovisa, 6.9 pounds, lying on his chest. She folded her head in under his chin. Grazed his neck with her tiny mouth. Seemed to become calm. Annika was still not awake after the cut. Just Mrado and Lovisa-the way it should be, always. Maybe the way it could be if he threw in the towel. Stopped with this shit.

Ratko shoved him, “Hey, are you listening?”

Someone’d bitten the bait. Sergio Salinas Morena: worked as a courier driver, lived on Allévägen in Rotebro.

Mrado slammed his foot on the gas. They drove past Sollentuna. Continued on E4 north. Took a left by Staketvägen. His pulse was rising. The tension was soaring. Mrado was in the mood.

Salinas Morena lived on the fourth floor. They looked up at the windows. Six out of nine were lit on the fourth floor. Three apartments on that level. At least one window in each apartment was lit. Hopefully, people home in each of them. The house looked run-down. The sky was darkening, but the crap graffiti was still visible. The paint on the outer walls was peeling.

Ratko positioned himself down in the foyer. Mrado went up. Covered the peephole with his finger as he rang the doorbell.

A girl’s voice yelled something in Spanish inside the apartment.

Nothing happened. Mrado rang the bell again.

A guy opened. Mrado assessed him. Around twenty-five years old. Dressed in a black T-shirt with large white Gothic lettering: Vatos Locos. Faded jeans. Dark hair. Cocky look. Did he think he was a Los Angeleno, or what?

Sergio looked skeptically at Mrado. Didn’t say anything. Raised an eyebrow. Meaning: Who the fuck are you?

Mrado looked beyond Sergio, into the apartment. A hallway with three doors. TV sounds emanating from somewhere. No sign of the woman he’d heard through the door. Generally shabby and ugly. Bare linoleum on the floor. A couple of posters on the walls. Lined up and spread out in the hall: enough sneakers to fill a fucking sporting goods store.

“Are you Sergio? Can I come in?”

“Ey, WHO are you?”

Mrado thought, Kids, no respect these days.

“We can talk about that inside. Can I come in?” No chance in hell he’d repeat the question one more time.

Sergio remained standing. Staring.

Neither one looked away. The guy had to get that Mrado wasn’t a cop. But did he pick up that Mrado was one of the most feared men in the Stockholm underworld? Unclear.

Finally, Sergio threw open his arms, gesticulated. “Whaddya want with me?”

“Are you Sergio?”

The guy took a step back. Let Mrado in. The apartment smelled of burned onion.

“Sure. And who’re you?”

Mrado thought, What a stubborn motherfucker. Doesn’t quit gabbing.

“Let’s put it this way: You don’t need to know who I am. I don’t need to know more about you than that you’re Sergio. I only want the answer to one question; then I’ll go. Where is Jorge?”

The guy’s left hand moved involuntarily. His neck muscles tensed.

The guy knew something.

“What Jorge?”

“Don’t play dumber than you are. You know where he is. You’ll tell me, whether you want to or not.”

“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talkin’ about.”

“Exactly which words didn’t you understand?”

“ Pendejo, you think you can come here, to my house, and talk a lotta basura ?”

Mrado, silent. Just stared. The guy was crazy. Might be king of his anthill, but a nobody in the real world. Clocked nada.

Sergio started yelling in Spanish. A girl came out of the TV room, wearing sweatpants and a black tank top. Sergio was freaking out. Mrado was standing calmly. Sergio raised his arms. Got into boxer pose with white-knuckled fists. One arm was out, the other guarding his face. The girl moved toward Sergio. Said something in Spanish. Seemed to be trying to calm him down. Looked at Mrado, her face twisted into a question mark.

Sergio yelled, “Come on, you fat Croat!”

Mrado took another step forward. Sergio struck with his left. His fist’d twitched a heartbeat earlier. Enough for Mrado-he blocked the punch. Put Sergio’s arm in a lock. Pressed Sergio’s hand up against the arm, his wrist at an unnatural angle. Forced the entire arm back. Sergio howled. Tried to strike with his free hand. Hit Mrado’s shoulder. Lost his balance. Fell. The girl screamed. Mrado, on top of him. Continued to force his wrist back.

“Sergio, listen. Tell your bitch to shut up.”

The girl kept shrieking. Mrado got up, grabbed hold of her arms. Pushed her down to the floor. She sat down with her back to the wall. Tried to get back up. Sergio, who was still on the floor, tried to kick Mrado’s leg. It hurt. Their mistake: to make Mrado lose it. The girl came at him. He slapped her. She fell down again. Hit her head against the wall. Sounded like someone’d bounced a tennis ball on wood. She lay still. The guy started to get up. Fucking mayhem. Mrado punched him in the stomach. The guy doubled over, mouth wide open. Gasped for breath. The girl cried. Mrado pulled a roll of duct tape from his jacket pocket. Had hoped it wouldn’t come to this. Gripped Sergio’s left hand, pinched between his thumb and index finger. Should hurt like hell. Bent his arm back. Taped his two arms together. Sergio kicked wildly. Mrado tackled him carefully, like it was a training session at Pancrease-but in slow motion. Taped his feet together.