Jens Lapidus - Easy Money

He woke up. It was 6:00 a.m. He bought coffee and a pastry at a 7-Eleven. Stayed awake from then on. Listened to the radio. The seven o’clock news: anti-U.S. demonstrations in the Middle East. So? Guaranteed they got less beat up by the Americans in Iraq than by their own leaders. Europe didn’t get it, as usual. But the Serbs knew. Despite that, all Yankee critique was good. The swine’d bombed the shit out of Yugoslavia.

No movement on the street. Mrado was about to fall asleep again.

Ten minutes past seven: The first homeless guy stepped out. Mrado opened the car door and called out to him. The guy, wearing several layers of jackets and old snow boots, his face covered with gray stubble, seemed uneasy at first. Mrado sugared his tone. Showed the guy pictures of Jorge. Explained that he’d probably changed hair color or something else about his appearance. Explained that the Latino’d stayed at the shelter at some point over the past four weeks. Explained that he’d be served grilled cheese if he said something good. The homeless guy knew nil. Seemed to try hard, especially when he heard about the cheddar.

Mrado waited. After ten minutes, two other homeless guys came out. He pulled the same move on them as on the first one. They didn’t recognize J-boy.

He continued. Counted off twelve people. It was now eight thirty. KarismaCare closed in half an hour. No one knew shit, and the worst was that they didn’t seem to be lying.

Finally, a middle-aged man stepped out. Shitty teeth. Otherwise, relatively well-kempt appearance. Coat, black pants, gloves. Mrado called out to him. Same routine: explained, exhibited, enticed. Offered one grand. He could see the man was thinking. He knew something.

“I recognize that thug.”

Mrado pulled out two five-hundred-kronor bills. Rubbed them together.

The man continued, glanced at the bills. “I’ve seen that clown at least three times up at KarismaCare. You know, I noticed him; he was always on the floor doing sit-ups. Then he’d shower and smear himself with lotion. Self-tanner. What a damn hustler.”

“So he was tanner than in the picture?”

“You know, blacks wanna be white, like that player Mikey Jackson. Whites, like, wanna be brown. That hustler in your picture, he was also kinda coffee-colored, so it was strange. By the way, his hair is curlier in real life. A beard, too. I tried to talk to the guy once. Not much of a conversation. But he knew about other shelters in the city, so maybe you’ll find him there.”

“How do you know?”

“How do I know? He used to whine so damn much. Claimed the standard was better at other places, like the Night Owl. What an ass. You can’t complain when you get a bed, breakfast, and dinner for two hundred. There’re a lotta whiners out there, ya know. Don’t know what gratitude is.”

Mrado thanked the old-timer. Felt genuinely happy. Gave him the two bills. Told him to spread the word: Anyone who knows anything about the nappy, dark thug can report to Mrado and cash in.

The first thing Jorge wanted to do was eat.

McDonald’s in the Sollentuna Mall: Big Mac, cheeseburgers, extra fries, and ketchup poured into the small white cups. Jorge: in heaven. At the same time: anxiety masiva -he was out of money and there were two days left before he had to call Mrado. The word CASH pulsed through his body like blood.

He’d left the cottage. Brought a handle of whiskey from the cupboard. Fell asleep on the bus. So fuckin’ nice- one of the safest spots in town. Golden relaxation. Went straight to Sollentuna. Hadn’t dared be in touch with Sergio or Eddie. 5-0 might have eyes there. He’d called some homeboys from way back instead, Vadim and Ashur. Co-dees he used to push powder with in the good old days.

He shouldn’t have done it but couldn’t resist-thought he’d get the shakes, his withdrawal from actual human contact was so bad.

They welcomed him like a king. J-boy: the legendary fugitive. The blow myth. The lucky Latino. Lent him paper for McDonald’s. Reminded him of happier times, asphalt jungle bros, Sollentuna hos.

So ill.

Vadim and Ashur: international friends. Vadim’d come to Sweden from Russia in 1992. Ashur: Syrian from Turkey.

According to Jorge, Vadim could’ve gone far. The guy was driven, smart, and had a flush family-they ran computer stores outta every single mall in the area. But gangsta dreams got him. Thought dealing a little blow would make him king of the streets. Okay, the clocker’d made out all right, only been in for shorter stints, not like Jorge. But damn, look at the guy today. Worn down like a fuckin’ Sven with barrel fever. Tragic. Homeboy should curb his habits.

Ashur: always with a big silver cross around his neck. Stayed straight. Worked as a hairdresser. Kept his eye on the chicks in the area. Highlighting by day, riding by night. Charmed the bitches 110 percent with his talk of bangs and toning.

Jorge should be safe. After all, his appearance was pretty altered. Vadim hadn’t even recognized him at first.

After the burgers, they went home to Vadim’s. Dude lived in a dump on Malmvägen. Cigarette butts, snort straws, beer cans, and Rizla papers covered the floor. Lighters, pizza boxes, empty booze bottles, and burned spoons on the coffee table. What vice didn’t Vadim have?

They popped the whiskey. Drank it with lukewarm water like connoisseurs. Plus beer. Later, they built a spliff fat like whoa. Maxed Beenie Man on the stereo. Jorge loved the camaraderie. This was freedom.

They got sloshed. Stoned. Speeded. Vadim spewed fast-cash schemes: We should be pimps. We should build a website and sell mail-order weed. We should sprinkle cocaine in middle schoolers’ lunch boxes so they get hooked early. Exchange their Tootsie Rolls for C paste. Jorge joined in. Riled. Get dough. Bake it out. Bake it out.

Vadim looked mischievous, pulled out a matchbox. Unrolled a homemade bag made of plastic wrap. Poured out two grams of blow on a mirror. “Jorge, man, this is to celebrate your homecoming,” Vadim said as he cut three lines.

What a party.

Jorge hadn’t even dreamed of tasting snow tonight.

Maybe not the most luxurious snort straw-the guys each got a straw that Vadim tore off three juice boxes.

Rapid inhale. First a tickling sensation at the root of the nose. A second later: a tickling sensation in the entire body. Grew into a rush. Felt on top of the world. Everything crystal-clear. Jorge the king. Long live the king. The world was his to conquer.

Ashur buzzed about bitches. He’d arranged to meet up down at the Mingel Room Bar in the Sollentuna Mall with two girls whose hair he usually cut. Good girls. He hollered, “One of ’em, man, you gotta see the back on that female. Beyoncé look-alike. Queen-bee bitch. I gonna promise her free stylin’ if one of us get a piece of it tonight.”

Course they were gonna get bitches. Course they were gonna go out.

Jorge, stiff, thinking of giving it to the Beyoncé look-alike.

They filled up, more whiskey and another nose each.

The cocaine pounded out the beat of the music.

They went down to Ashur’s car.

Mingel Room Bar: Sollentuna’s Kharma. But still not. Check Jorgelito out front. Jacked on blow, whiskey, and beer. He didn’t feel the chill in the air. Only felt himself. Only felt his party-mood rocket. They eyed the line. Twenty people max, sheepishly cued up. Eyed the chicks approaching the line from the commuter train. Ashur dissed them, “Fuckin’ Sweden, man. In this country, chicks don’t know howtta walk. Only the guys got it. You should see my home country. Smooth like cats.”

Jorge checked them out. Ashur was right: The chicks walked like bros. Straight, with purpose. Without swish, without ass swing, without sex in their steps. He didn’t give a fuck. If that Beyoncé broad was inside, he’d butter her into a back bend.