Jens Lapidus - Easy Money

A South American band was blowing into pan flutes and banging on drums. A woman in a trench coat standing by a pillar was peddling the Watchtower.

Jorge: down toward the subway track. Mrado followed at a measured distance.

Jorge got onto the train toward Mörby Centrum. Mrado boarded another car on the same train.

The car was half-empty. Two punks in baseball hats and windbreakers-potential future recruits-were sitting with their feet propped up on the seats. A misplaced Stureplan brat: blond, knee-length coat, narrow jeans, backslick. Was listening to his MP3 player.

Jorge got off at the Royal Technical Academy, KTH, station. Mrado: same.

Jorge walked out past the turnstiles. Stood and checked out the bus schedules. Went into the bodega. Bought something. His bags looked heavy. He walked up to the bus stop. Mrado followed. The Stureplan brat from the train was there, too, positioned himself at the same bus stop as Jorge. Probably just a coincidence.

Mrado eyed the bus number: 620. Jorge was clearly waiting for a ride to the Norrtälje area.

Mrado called Ratko. Told him, “Drive to KTH.”

The 620 bus pulled up. Ratko hadn’t shown. Mrado walked over to the hot dog stand by Valhallavägen. Beside it: a taxi stand.

Jorge got on the bus. It pulled out. Drove off.

Mrado told the taxi driver, “Follow the six twenty bus.”

They drove for thirty minutes. Mrado was worried. The Jorge-guy was smart. On his guard. Might start wondering why the same taxi kept driving two to five cars behind the bus.

Mrado kept in touch with Ratko.

Switched to his car at Åkersberga.

They kept their distance. Nothing strange about it. There were several cars backed up behind the bus. It didn’t make many stops.

The Latino stayed on.

Finally: Dyvik. The bus stopped. Jorge got off.

The Stureplan brat did, too. Weird, but no time to think about that now.

Mrado yelled, “Turn, goddamn it!”

Ratko turned off in the direction Jorge was walking. Mrado ducked in the passenger seat. They passed Jorge at a ten-foot distance. Drove as slowly as they dared. Like people who didn’t really know their way around. Looked in the rearview mirror, saw him walking. Worked for a minute or so. Then it got shady. They had to keep driving. Lost sight of Jorge behind them.

They stopped the car. Got out. Mrado walked up into the the woods. Couldn’t be seen from the road. Ratko started walking in the opposite direction. Toward Jorge.

Two minutes later, Ratko called. “He’s a little over two hundred yards away from me on the road. Still coming at you. What do I do if he recognizes me, gets jittery, and runs?”

“Keep going toward him. Just pass him like it’s nothing. Then turn around when you know he can’t see you. Start following him. I’ll take care of him here.”

Mrado waited. No houses nearby. No people. No problems.

His cell was on. Ratko on speed dial. Poised to call him.

Jorge came walking. Bags in hand. Looked tired. He was twenty yards away, down on the road. Mrado called Ratko. Whispered. Told him to run.

Mrado charged out of the woods like an evil Boy Scout, size XL.

Jorge knew right away. Panic in his eyes. Dropped the bags. Turned around. Saw Ratko running from the other direction. In a game of pickle. Tried to run-too late. Mrado grabbed him by the jacket.

Return of the Yugos. Fall of the blatte.

Mrado punched Jorge in the gut with full force. Jorge doubled over. Fell. Ratko came up behind, grabbed hold of him, and, with Mrado’s help, dragged the Latino up into the trees. Away from the road. Mrado snatched the bags. Jorge puked. Sour stink. Vomit on Mrado’s shoes. What a pig. Mrado, with the baton in hand, hit Jorge across the back. Jorge fell to the ground. Stood on all fours. Mrado kept beating him. Jorge screamed. Mrado was careful: didn’t break anything. No fractures. No bloodshed. No life-threatening injuries. Nothing that necessarily required medical attention. Just struck with the rubber baton. Across his thighs, arms. Hit across his back, neck, stomach. Whacked. Thrashed. Crushed.

Jorge tried to get on his knees. Folded. Protected his head. Curled into a ball.

Mrado let the baton dance. It bounced up and down over the Latino’s body.

Finally, Jorge was a puddle. Destroyed. Almost passed out.

Mrado knelt down.

“Can you hear me? Faggot.”

No reaction.

Mrado lifted his head by the hair. “Blink if you can hear me.”

The Latino blinked.

“You know what this is about. You tried to fuck with the wrong people. Radovan doesn’t dig your style. You only have yourself to blame. Who the fuck do you think you are? Blackmailing Rado. Remember this: We’ll find you, always. Wherever you are, on the run, in the joint. With your mom. We never forget. We always punish. If you tell anyone so much as a peep about us, I won’t be as nice next time.”

Mrado released his grip on Jorge’s hair. His head fell back down.

“Oh, and one more thing.” Mrado pulled out his cell phone. Scrolled to his photos. Held up the screen in front of Jorge’s face.

“You know this chick? I’ve talked to her about you. Go ahead, ask her. I know her well. Know where she lives. Where she goes to school. What classes she’s in. Don’t fuck shit up for her. That’d be a shame for such a pretty girl.”

J-boy, gone/with it. Flashed in and out.

The pain was insane.

Closed his eyes. Waited. Heard the Yugos leave. Crackling in the woods. Their sounds faded out. He waited. Listened.

Alone.

Beaten to bits. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t feel his legs; they were numb. His arms were totally gone, too. His back, he could feel. Passed out.

Snapped back. Heard a car drive by on the road. Heard the beat of his own heart. Tried to move his arm. Hurt too much.

Vomited.

Just lay still.

Clear flow of thoughts: Jorgelito in the fairy-tale woods. Crushed. Dumped. Disgraced. Thought he’d been the king. Really, the most naïve bitch. They’d been after Paola. God, please don’t let them’ve hurt her. Not humiliated her. He’d call her when he was done here. When he could get up. Paola, the world’s best sister.

He descended into darkness.

She’d accepted baby Jorge’s attitude. When he was fourteen years old, he’d come home with a letter from school.

I hereby wish to inform you that Jorge Salinas Barrio will be suspended from the Tureberg School for six weeks starting March 1 of this year. The reason for this measure is that he has serious problems cooperating with others and has a negative impact on the other students and the general schoolwork. I have on several occasions spoken with you about Jorge’s problems and we have also spoken with the school counselor, Inga-Britt Lindblom, about opportunities for Jorge to reach an understanding regarding his behavior. Unfortunately, his destructive behavior has only increased during this semester, which I also discussed with him and you on February 3 of this year. The school sees no other option but to suspend Jorge during the above-mentioned time. Sollentuna will offer homeschooling. Do not hesitate to be in touch with me if you have any questions.

– Jan Lind, Principal

Mama’d cried. Rodriguez’d whooped him. Jorge’d thought, If my real dad’d been here, he would’ve taken me back to Chile. But Paola wasn’t angry, not apathetic. Hadn’t made excuses. Just been nice. The only one who really talked to Jorgelito. Even though he was a hard-knock, it still felt good to talk. She explained, “You’re Mama’s and my prince. Never forget that. No matter what you do. You’re our prince.”

Someone in the forest was calling Jorge’s name. He couldn’t lay any quieter or stiller than he already was. Were the Yugos back?