Jens Lapidus - Easy Money

Vadim claimed to know the bouncer. Stepped up. They exchanged Russian pleasantries. Smooth sailing.

Jorge, Vadim, and Ashur were about to glide into the joint, when the bouncer put his hand up. Vadim’s questioning look was ignored. The bouncer gazed out toward the road. The line came to a halt. Grew silent. People turned around.

Blue lights.

A cop car parked along the curb.

Mierda.

Two cops got out. Walked toward the line.

Jorge’s brain made coke-clear assessments: What were they looking for? Should he book it or have faith in his new look? One thing was certain: If he ran, they’d chase him, ’cause it was shady to dash.

He remained standing. How could he be so stupid that he’d gone out and partied?

Vadim shut his eyes. Looked like his lips were moving, but no sound came out.

Jorge felt stiffer than a substitute on the first day of class in his junior high must’ve. Didn’t move. Didn’t think. Did like Vadim-shut his eyes.

Squinted toward the line. Brass with flashlights.

Pointed them in each person’s face. The chicks in the way back giggled.

The dudes next to them tried to play cool. One told the cop with the flashlight, “If you don’t have a VIP card, you’re not getting in.”

The cop replied, “Take it easy, buddy.”

Cunt attitude.

They continued down the line. People wondered what’d happened. The cops mumbled something unintelligible. They turned the light on Ashur. He cracked a smile. Pointed to the cop with the flashlight. “Hi, I run Scissor Central down in the mall. I think you’d look great with some frosted tips.”

The cop actually smiled.

They continued.

Turned the light on Vadim. For a long time. His wasted face attracted the cop’s attention.

“Hey there, Vadim,” said the guy with the flashlight. “What’s up with you?”

“Nothin’. Fancy-free.”

“Everything cool?”

“Sure. Like always.”

“Yeah, right. Like always.” Cop irony.

Jorge stared straight ahead. Felt like it was all a twisted dream. He couldn’t concentrate. Time stood still.

What the FUCK was he supposed to do?

Paralyzed.

They came up to him. Shone the torch in his face. He tried to relax. Smile suitably.

JW with morning-after angst. He felt like a baked potato with a lead hat on his head. He’d woken up at nine-thirty. Crawled home from Sophie’s place. Sat on the floor beside the bed and felt nauseous for twenty minutes. Then drank four cups of water in a desperate attempt to curb the hangover. After the water, he puked in the toilet. Felt considerably better. Fell asleep.

Now he was awake again, after only two hours of sleep. Had gotten what he deserved. Couldn’t fall back asleep. He was racked with angst. Things’d gotten weird with Sophie. Felt like the definition of humiliation. On the other hand, he’d done his biggest C delivery ever. So, the night still had to be counted as somewhat of a success.

Promised himself to stick with coke in the future. No booze.

Promised himself to set things right with S.

He stayed in bed even though he couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t get up.

Promised himself for the six thousandth time: Only coke in the future.

JW woke up again. Remembered why he wasn’t allowed to sleep in. There were two projects he had to deal with today. First, he had to make sure the Jan Brunéus story checked out. Then he had to find that Jorge dude. He’d slacked off a little too much on that front. Abdulkarim’s expansion plans demanded action.

He skipped a morning lecture at the university. Returned to the Sveaplan high school instead. Went up to the reception desk. The receptionist recognized him and greeted him cheerfully. She was sporting the same pleated skirt as the first time he’d seen her.

JW said, “I have a question for you, ma’am. It may be somewhat unusual.”

The woman smiled. JW’d done a good job buttering her up with his manners last time.

“I’d like to see the transcripts for someone who studied here four years ago, Camilla Westlund.”

The woman kept smiling but made one of her faces: squeezed her eyes shut, twisted her neck, squinted at JW from the side. Meaning: Aren’t you going a little too far now?

“Sorry, we don’t release that kind of paperwork.”

JW’d spoken with the city agency in charge of academic transcripts. Had expected a reluctant response from Komvux. He was prepared. Had read up, sharpened his arguments. Felt confident. Brought out the heavy artillery right away. No point in mollycoddling the old hag.

“The transcripts are public documents that are to be released unless they are deemed classified for some reason. If you can’t prove that they are classified and provide me with the reason for that, they should be considered public and immediately be made available to me. If you refuse to release them, you will be committing a breach of duty, which may be punishable.”

The woman made another face but kept that same smile on her lips. Her eyes were staring down to the left. Insecurity.

JW continued as though he were reciting from memory. “Other documents that you draw up here at Komvux are also public and most probably unrestricted. According to the Public Records Act, you have no right to withhold the documents. So, if I may trouble you to please produce Camilla Westlund’s grades for all the classes she took here. Thank you.”

The woman turned on her heel. Went into an adjoining room. JW heard her speak to someone.

Michael Moore-you can hit the showers.

The receptionist returned.

New expression: The smile on her lips was even phonier than before. Her eyes were glittering in a servile grimace.

“I have to go get them in the archives. Would you mind waiting?” She didn’t say a word about being wrong.

It didn’t matter. The score was still JW: 1, Grimace lady: 0.

The receptionist disappeared.

She was gone for twenty minutes.

JW got nervous. Sent texts, checked his calendar on his cell. His thoughts flitted from cocaine-selling strategies to Abdulkarim’s platitudes, Camilla’s Ferrari trips, and the Chilean he still had to track down. Everything hit him at once. No order to the chaos.

The woman returned. She was holding a plastic folder in her hand. She handed it to him.

JW scanned the documents: transcripts. Stockholm’s City Continuing Education Program. Sveaplan Gymnasium. Grades for Camilla Westlund. The grades were filled in by hand.

Language Arts: Levels 1 and 2: A

English: Levels 1 and 2: A

Math: Level 1: C

History: Levels 1 and 2: F

Social Studies: Level 1: A

French: Levels 1 and 2: C

JW remained standing by the reception desk. His gaze was glued to the grades. Something was wrong. He tried to get a grip on what. Camilla’d had Jan Brunéus in language arts, English, and social studies. She’d aced them all, just like he’d said she had. She’d only got a C in two other subjects, and failed one. Question was: How come she’d aced Jan’s courses?

JW had to know.

He called for the receptionist again. Asked her to get other documents on Camilla.

Less of a wait this time. She knew where to look.

The receptionist came back after five minutes with a similar plastic folder in her hands-other documents.

They addressed Camilla Westlund’s attendance record. The same subjects as were listed on the transcript. She had less than a 60 percent rate of attendance. His head was spinning. The Komvux reception area was contorting around him, threatening to swallow him up. He felt hot. Camilla’s attendance rate for language arts, English, and social studies-under 30 percent. Something was really fuckin’ wrong. No one could ace anything with that kind of attendance. Why had Jan Brunéus lied?