Jens Lapidus - Easy Money

He turned to the receptionist and said, “Do you know where Jan Brunéus usually spends the breaks between classes?” JW made an effort to smile.

“He’s probably in the teachers’ lounge,” she said, and pointed.

JW turned. Booked it down the corridor.

The door to the teachers’ lounge was open. He didn’t bother to knock. Just walked right in.

Looked around. Seven people were sitting around a large table of pale wood. Eating Danishes and drinking coffee.

None of them was Jan Brunéus.

JW straightened up. “Hi, pardon me for intruding. I was wondering if you know where Jan Brunéus might be?”

One of the people around the table said, “He’s left for the day.”

JW let it drop. Walked out.

His cell vibrated on the way home from Komvux. At first, JW was going to ignore it-he had enough to think about. Then he realized it might be Abdul. He fished the phone out of his pocket. Too late.

The missed call was from José (cell).

José was one of the guys whose name JW’d gotten from Abdulkarim in the search for Jorge. The guy was a bartender at a place in the Sollentuna area, Mingel Room Bar. JW’d met him two days earlier and taken him to dinner at Primo Ciao Ciao-a moneymaking pizza joint. JW’d offered him two grand in exchange for info on Jorge. José was a perfect hit. Knew who Jorge was, worshiped him like a hero. He’d hung with the same crowd as the Chilean in the early ’00s. JW’d told him the truth, more or less: He didn’t wish Jorge any harm, wanted to offer the fugitive opportunities, wanted to help Jorge get back on his feet in his new and wonderful life on the outside. Like Jesus, Jr. But José hadn’t known anything about Mr. AWOL at the time.

JW waited fifteen minutes to call him back. Walked along Valhallavägen and thought through what he wanted to know and what he had the energy to do right now. Thoughts of Jan Brunéus got in the way. He had to concentrate. The Camilla thing couldn’t suck all the energy out of his coke gig right now.

JW said to himself, Focus. Drop the sis angst. It’s more exciting to play detective regarding a Chilean on the run than regarding Camilla. The Jorge dude on the run-JW’s chance to be part of something big.

He called José.

As soon as the guy picked up, JW knew José had superimportant act-fast-as-fuck kind of info. Someone who looked like Jorge’d been spotted in Sollentuna last night. The blatte ’d partied hard together with two other Sollentuna gangsters: Vadim and Ashur. Infamous in northwest Stockholm. The Jorge dude’d left the bar at closing, 3:00 a.m. José’d gone out to the entrance, where the stragglers were still hanging. They were juiced up. Blabbered on about the close call they’d had with the 5-0. José asked Vadim if it really was Jorge he’d seen. The hero’d curled his hair, looked darker, more facial hair. Vadim just grinned. He didn’t reveal anything directly, but what he did say was enough: “He a new bad boy, yo. Gonna spend the night at my crib ’cause the Five-Oh be chasin’ him all the time. Tonight, too.” José read him.

JW asked two questions before hanging up: “Where does Vadim live? What time is it?”

José knew the address: Malmvägen 32. Near the Sollentuna Mall. It was 1:00 p.m.

JW stopped short. Tried to hail a cab.

He waited. Not a lot of cabs around at this time.

Thought about the Chilean he had to get hold of. What would he say to him?

Six minutes passed. Where were all the cabs?

Restlessness overtook him once again. Nothing worse than waiting for a taxi.

He waved at a cab that looked empty.

It drove past him.

Hailed another one.

It stopped.

JW got in. The driver said something in unintelligible Swedish.

JW said, “Take me to Malmvägen thirty-two, please.”

They drove toward Nortull.

Out on the E4 expressway. Felt like they were crawling.

JW evaluated: There were worse things in the world than waiting for a cab-such as sitting in a cab and waiting for the traffic to move.

Soon he’d have his talk with the Chilean.

Mrado’d just completed his weekend training. Murder-machine meeting place par excellence. His guilty conscience-he was there too seldom. Pancrease Gym: Krav Maga, shootfighting, thai boxing, combat tae kwon do. The basement venue consisted of a large room with padded flooring. Four seventeen-pound sandbags suspended by chains along one of the walls. A broad metal locker with sweaty gloves, pads, and safety vests in one corner. A boxing ring in another.

The head instructor was Omar Elalbaoui. Professional shootfighter, fourth dan, Japan. Fastest left hook in town. Middleweight champion in Pride Grand Prix MMA-mixed martial arts, all styles. Swedish-Moroccan prize-podium hunter. Poet of violence. Feared full-contact prophet.

Broken noses, busted knees, dislocated shoulders-legion. And the question: What does fear mean? Omar Elalbaoui’s philosophy: “Fear is your worst enemy. Everyone is afraid of something. You’re not afraid to get hurt. You’re afraid to do poorly, to fight a bad match, to lose. That is the only thing to fear. Never become a loser.”

MMA: everything allowed-kicks, punches, knees, elbows, throws, choke slams, grips. No pussy helmets or huge gloves. The only protection: finger gloves, mouth guards, and jockstraps. Sport of sports. Raw strength, agility, and speed were important factors, but above all: strategy and intelligence.

It was the ultimate thing: no props, no complex courses or plans, no complicated rules. Just fighting. The one who gave up first or was knocked out lost. As easy as that.

Mrado’s advantages: size, weight, the power behind his punches. Range. But the guys at Pancrease were good. Took punches. Avoided kicks. Blocked tackles. Mrado often got his ass kicked. Once, four years ago, he’d had to be rushed to the hospital. His nose was broken in two places. But the thing was, Mrado liked getting beaten. Made him feel alive. Made him practice not being afraid. To keep feeding jabs even though his head was going numb. To never give up.

Competitions were mostly held in Solnahallen, a large venue in Solna. The organizers easily sidestepped the national ban on boxing. Sometimes they fought in cages, Brazilian vale tudo. Mrado knew the guys; a lot of them trained or had trained at Pancrease. He knew their styles, their weaknesses/strengths. At the latest competition in Stockholm, he’d cashed in ten grand. Knew how to place his bets. MMA in its different incarnations was blowing up as a sport.

Mrado knew what was up. Had learned techniques. Trained the right muscle groups. The stronger muscles, tendons, ligaments you have, the more difficult it is to knock you down. The more flexible you are, the lower the risk of pulling something. Maintain your guard. Eye on the punches. Follow your opponent’s movements. At the same time, tense the right muscle groups to take the hit. Above all: A strong neck reduces the movement of the head. With Mrado’s neck, he was almost immune to knockouts.

Mentally: Pain increases with fear and is reduced with aggression.

Mrado’s only problem: Lately, he’d been working out at the gym too much, hadn’t been to Pancrease enough. State of contradiction: beefier muscles, less agility. He was starting to lose it. Stiffer joints. Reduced flexibility. Slower punch sequences.

Fighting was a lifestyle.

Mrado pulled on a pair of sweatpants and a sweatshirt after the training. Let the sweat dry. He didn’t shower at Pancrease. Showered at home. The guys at the fighting club were too young. Too jazzed. Mrado liked the meatheads at Fitness Club better. He downed a protein drink. When he got home, he’d take his own witch’s brew of growth meds.