Jens Lapidus - Easy Money

Sergio hollered, “You fuckin’ cunt!”

Mrado ignored him. Worked efficiently. Taped up the girl. Dragged her into another room. Fuck. The situation’d derailed. Messier/more dangerous than planned. He called Ratko, asked him to come upstairs.

Leaned over Sergio, “Well, wasn’t that really fucking unnecessary?”

“Pendejo.”

“You seem to have a limited vocabulary. Don’t you know any other bad words?”

Sergio kept his mouth shut.

“It’s simple. You just have to tell me where Jorge is. We won’t turn him in.”

No answer.

“I think you’ve pretty much figured out what kind of guy I am. I won’t leave until you’ve dished. Don’t be an idiot. Why make this such an unpleasant night? Why not just talk?”

Ratko came in through the front door. Locked it behind him. Looked with disapproval at the hall. Clothes and shoes littered everywhere. Both posters torn down. A stool was turned over. A duct-taped loco Latino in a pile on the floor.

Mrado slapped Sergio across the face. Immediate effect: the guy’s cheek turned red as a blood orange. He still kept his mouth shut. Mrado delivered another slap across the face. Told him to talk. The Latino bit it.

They played good Yugo/bad Yugo. Mrado delivered three, four slaps. Yelled at him to talk. Ratko said it wasn’t their intention to hurt Jorge, that they’d take the tape off Sergio, that he’d be compensated if he told them where his cuz was hiding.

No answer.

Mrado took Sergio’s hand in his-looked like a baby’s hand in a father’s palm.

Sergio was rigid. The tape tightened.

Mrado snapped his pinkie finger.

Sergio howled. Lost his cool. The attitude: broken.

He sobbed. Cried.

“I don’t even know where he is,” he whimpered. “I have no idea. I swear.”

Mrado shook his head. Grabbed onto Sergio’s ring finger. Bent it back.

Far.

About to snap.

Sergio cracked. It ran out of him. He told them almost everything. “Okay, Okay. You fucking cocks. I helped him a little. When he’d gotten out. He stayed at my aunt’s. For five days. Then he started wiggin’ out. Thought there were civvies in every car parked on the street. Totally freaked, yo. Made me drive him outta there. I lent him cash. Don’t know where he went. Jorge let me down. He owes me for all the help I gave. I haven’t seen a fuckin’ cent. He’s worth less than a bag o’ dog shit.”

“That’s it, there you go. You know where you drove him, don’t you?”

“Fuck, man. Yeah, I know. He crashed with this guy, Eddie. Then the cops called me in. That’s when he peaced. I swear on my father’s grave, I don’t know where he went. I swear.”

Mrado looked at Sergio. He wasn’t lying.

“Great. Now you’re gonna go call that Eddie. You’re gonna tell him that you need to know where Jorge is. Play it like all’s cool. Say you promised to help him with some stuff. And my friend here”-Mrado pointed at Ratko-“understands Spanish. So no tricks.”

Mrado pulled out Sergio’s cell phone. Told the Latino: “One peep from you about what happened and you can forget all about your left hand.”

No one picked up at the first number Sergio called. Mrado checked the contacts list. There were three numbers: “Eddie cell,” “Eddie home,” “Eddie work.” Sergio tried “Eddie home.” Someone picked up. Spoke in Spanish. Mrado tried to understand. Hoped his lie wouldn’t show. Ratko understood as much Spanish as Sergio understood Serbian. But he picked up a word here and there. The talk was going in the right direction. Sergio wrote something that Eddie said down on the back of an envelope. Ratko was sweating. Was he nervous? The girl stayed calm. The neighbors were chill. Time stood still.

Sergio hung up. His face was expressionless.

“He said Jorge disappeared from his place the same day I was called in for questioning. Said he didn’t know where he was going. That he was gonna sleep in parks or shelters and then get dough.”

“How can I be sure you’re not lying?”

Sergio shrugged. The attitude was back.

“If you want insurance, call a fuckin’ corporate boojie, fatso.”

Mrado grabbed his ring finger.

Snapped it.

“Don’t call me that. Give me something I can trust or I’ll break your whole hand.”

Sergio screamed. Wailed. Cried.

After a couple of minutes, he calmed down. Seemed apathetic. Spoke quietly, in starts. “Jorge gave Eddie a piece of paper. Coded. Jorge and me came up with the system. A couple of months ago. Eddie read it to me. You can check it with him. If you don’t believe me. Just don’t hurt me anymore. Please.”

Mrado nodded. Sergio showed the letters he’d written down on the back of the envelope: Pq vgpiq fqpfg kt. Bxgtoq gp nc ecnng. Sxg Fkqu og caxfg. Incomprehensible letter combinations. Some kind of code. Shouldn’t be impossible to crack, Sergio explained. It was simple. “Every letter is really the one two steps further up in the alphabet. It says: No tengo donde ir. Duermo en la calle. Que Dios me ayude. ” Mrado asked him to translate. Sergio glanced at Ratko.

Mrado said: “He doesn’t understand a word.”

The Latino translated, “I have nowhere to go. Sleep on the street. God help me.”

Mrado and Ratko were silent on the ride home. Mrado’d made a big-enough tear in the tape that Sergio’d be able to free himself in a couple of minutes.

Mrado said, “You thought that was unnecessary?”

Ratko’s answer was filled with irritation, “Is there rice in China?”

“Don’t worry. He won’t say anything. If he does, he’ll have to turn himself in.”

“Still, risky behavior. The neighbors might’ve heard.”

“They’re used to shit goin’ down around there.”

“Not like that. The blatte screamed worse than a Bosnian whore.”

“Ratko, can you do me a favor?”

“What?”

“Never second-guess me again.”

Mrado kept driving. Dropped Ratko off in Solna. Back with his girl. Mrado thought, Congrats, you’ve got a life.

New useful information: The Latino fugitive’d left. Planned to sleep outside or at a homeless shelter. But it was colder now. Jorge’d have to be stupid to sleep on the street this time of year. Odds were he stayed at shelters.

Mrado called information. Got the telephone number and address of three homeless shelters in Stockholm. Stadmissionen had two locations: the Night Owl and the Evening Cat. The third: KarismaCare near Fridhemsplan.

He drove to KarismaCare.

Rang the doorbell. Was buzzed in. A small waiting area. A large bulletin board across from the reception desk was covered with handouts published for Situation Stockholm, a newspaper whose proceeds went to the homeless: opportunities to sell newspapers. Information on community college courses: discounts for the homeless. Information packets about welfare. Pictures from soup kitchens. Ads for yoga classes in the city.

A thin, dark-haired woman was sitting behind the counter. She was dressed in a navy blouse and a cardigan.

“How can I help you?”

“I was wondering if you know if anyone named Jorge Salinas Barrio has slept here in the past four weeks,” Mrado said in a matter-of-fact voice.

“Unfortunately, I can’t answer that. We have a privacy policy.”

Mrado couldn’t even get pissed. The woman seemed too nice.

There was only one thing to do. He walked back to the car. Prepared to sleep. Folded down the backseat as far as it would go. He wanted to get the opportunity to talk to all the homeless guys, even the earliest birds, tomorrow morning when they left the shelter.

He slept better than at home. Dreamed he was walking on a beach and was denied entrance to a shelter that was built inside a set of monkey bars at the edge of a forest. Tried to throw sand up at the people in the monkey bars. They laughed. Bizarre.