Jens Lapidus - Easy Money

Went home.

Drove over the Västerbron bridge, the most beautiful spot in the city. Lit up from below. View over a territory: a business empire annexed by the Serbs. No puny AWOL nigger could take that away from them.

Reached Katarina Bangata in four minutes. Home. Now he had to find a parking spot.

The apartment: a two-bedroom. Living room, Mrado’s bedroom, and Lovisa’s room.

The living room: Eastern European luxury look. A group of black leather corner couches. Glass table. Bookshelf with a stereo, flat-screen TV, and DVD player. Expensive shit. Also on the shelves: CDs, mostly Serbian music and rock, Bruce Springsteen, Fleetwood Mac, and Neil Young. DVDs: action, boxing, all the Rocky films, and Serbian documentaries. Photos of his family in Belgrade, the Swedish king, Slobodan Milosevic, and Lovisa. Three bottles of good whiskey and a bottle of Stoli Cristall. The rest of the booze was in anther cupboard. Four flint-lock rifles on the wall, bought at an arms market in Vojvodina-symbols of the 1813 uprising against the Turks. In a broad glass-front cupboard beside the bookshelf: two Browning pistols, one Smith & Wesson Magnum.41 replica, a bayonet, and a real land mine from the war. The bayonet was well used. Constant question about the mine: Was it disarmed? Mrado kept up the suspense. Never told anyone the truth.

He sat down on the couch. Turned the TV on.

Channel-surfed. Watched a couple minutes of a nature show about crocodiles. Got bored. Kept zapping. Shit across the board.

Fingered his gun. Mrado packed Starfire ammunition. The bullet was hollow at the tip. Effect at impact: explosion. Tore up enough flesh to kill with one shot.

Put the revolver down on the table. Mused.

The Jorge fag was a total fucking fiasco. He was annoyed with himself for not having found the Latino yet, with Radovan for his arrogant style, and with Jorge for lying low.

Flipped through his notebook. Questions and probable answers. In the middle, a column devoted to questions without answers. Two words were underlined and circled: current location. The trail’d ended. But people usually slipped up eventually. Ran outta kale. Wanted to bang bitches. Live la dolce vita. Livin’ on the lam was hard. But Jorge was keeping a low profile. Nevertheless, Mrado was certain the blatte was still in the country/city. It wasn’t over yet.

But where to pick up the search?

Mrado leaned back.

His cell vibrated.

A text: Met Jorge tonight. He at Vadim’s now.

Bingo.

Adrenaline rush.

Mrado called the number. A guy, Ashur, answered. Mrado remembered the name. One of the kids him and Ratko’d shown pics of Jorge to during their runs in Sollentuna. Got the story told to him in crappy Swedish.

Ashur, Jorge, and another hoodlum, Vadim, had been out partying the night before. Cruised to Mingel Room Bar in the Sollentuna Mall and boozed. Jorge’d almost been collared. The Latino’d asked to crash at Vadim’s. Ashur’s theory: They were still there; it was only noon.

Mrado thanked him. Agreed to stop by later and pay up what he’d promised.

Put on his leather jacket. Stuffed a rubber baton in his inside pocket. Popped the revolver into the holster. Walked down to the car.

Drove the road he now knew by heart. To Sollentuna. To Jorge. It was about fucking time.

What was the smartest thing to do? Head straight into the apartment and do his thing, like he’d done with Sergio? There was a big risk that Vadim, Jorge, and maybe others who were in the apartment would be harder to overpower than Sergio’s screaming chick. Risk number two: If neighbors heard and the cops showed up, Jorge’d be put away again. The Latino’d be able to cut down big parts of the Yugo empire with what he knew. Conclusion: Mrado wanted to get at the fugitive alone.

Meanwhile, he called Ratko, Bobban, and other contacts. Asked them if they knew Vadim. Who the guy was. If he was dangerous. Put them to work making calls and finding out more: if the dude worked, where he worked. Who did he hang with? Did he pack heat?

Mrado kept an eye on the entryway to the building. People went in and out. He took note: an unusual number of people around for this time of day. Immigrants, junkies, wife beaters, other criminals-all bunched together in the same kind of concrete towers he’d grown up in.

Mrado was on the phone with Bobban when a guy who looked like Jorge stepped out.

He’d seen the Latino four or five times before. The last time: at the trial, where he’d testified so that Jorge was put away for three years. Radovan and Mrado’d fed him to the wolves-you had to take some losses. Then: The Latino’d been a young, cocky player with modern, gaudy threads. Gold chain with a cross. Gelled hair. Good-looking stubble. Quick movements and machine-gun tongue. Now: The person outside the car looked like a fucking nigger. Nappy hair, dark brown complexion. Walked like a Rastafarian: sluggish with rhythm. Baggy clothes, dirty puffy. Still, there was something about the person’s worn appearance that seemed to suggest something else: vigor.

It had to be the Latino.

Mrado hunched down lower behind the wheel. Saw Jorge look around. Then walk toward the commuter rail station. Too many people around to act.

Mrado waited until Jorge rounded the corner toward the path leading to the station before he stepped out of the car. Put on a pair of shades. Wound the scarf a couple more times around his chin. Sent off a prayer to the big Car God: Let my car be left untouched, unscratched, unstolen here on Sollentuna’s most dangerous street.

Walked to the corner where Jorge’d turned off.

Jorge didn’t turn up the stairs to the station. Kept walking straight. Toward the Sollentuna Mall. Mrado kept his distance, but he didn’t want to lose sight of his target.

Into the Sollentuna Mall. Mrado waited a couple of seconds outside the automatic doors before he followed Jorge in. As soon as he stepped inside, he saw Jorge disappear into the grocery store. Mrado sneaked into the photo store across the way. He was such a scout-combat-trained. He called Ratko. In Serbian: “Ratko, where are you? It’s important.”

In past conversations, Ratko’d been whiny about the over-the-top treatment of Sergio. Now he heard that something real was up.

“I’m home. Watching TV. D’you find him?”

“Yeah. He spent the night at some guy’s in Sollentuna. On his way outta here now. Get ready. Go to your car.”

“Damn, I was getting so comfortable. Where am I going?”

“Don’t know yet. Just get ready for the starting shot.”

“Already out the door.”

“Nice. I’ll call you. Bye.”

Jorge walked out of the store. Had two bags in each hand. Looked like they were full of food. The Latino was probably on the way to his hideout.

He trailed him up to the train station. Ground rule: no sudden movements when you’re following someone. A guy like Jorge was electrified with tension-would react right away.

Jorge walked out on the platform. Mrado stayed inside the station house. Hoped the outside light turned the glass doors into mirrors. Jorge seemed watchful.

The train headed to the city rolled in. Jorge got on. Mrado got on another car.

He called Ratko again. Told him to drive toward the city.

Mrado looked out the doors at every stop. Jorge didn’t get off.

The train slowed down. Rolled slowly into the Stockholm Central Station.

Came to a stop. Mrado looked out. Saw Jorge get off.

Mrado waited outside the train till Jorge walked down the stairs toward T-Centralen, the subway station. He followed. Jorge walked farther up, mixed with the crowd. Mrado concentrated, couldn’t lose him now.

They walked the underground passage toward T-Centralen.