Jens Lapidus - Easy Money

DECISION (TO BE DELIVERED ON FEBRUARY 23 OF THIS YEAR, AT 1:30 P.M.)

Opinion of the Court

The District Court does not find sufficient grounds to terminate joint custody in the present situation. Annika Sjöberg’s claim will therefore be dismissed.

As for visitation rights, the District Court concludes that Mrado Slovovic has had irregular contact with Lovisa in recent years. Considering this, the District Court finds that Mrado Slovovic, until further notice, will have visitation rights with Lovisa one day every other week. If the visitation proves positive, the parties can discuss increased forms of visitation independently.

CONCLUSION

Until the issues have been resolved by a final verdict, or by court order, or by a contract created by the parents that has, in turn, been approved by Social Services, or until another decision has been made, the District Court has decided the following:

A. The parties will continue to maintain joint custody of Lovisa.

B. Lovisa’s need to see her father will, until further notice, be filled by Mrado Slovovic’s right to visitation with her every otherweek from Wednesdayat 6:00 p.m. to Thursdayat 6:00 p.m.

Psychological borders carved into the Stockholm territory. Kungsgatan was divided into three geographical regions. Farthest down, by Stureplan, were stylish clothing stores, cafés, bars, movie theaters, and electronics retailers. All types of people walked this stretch: Svens, Stureplaners, slumdogs. The next segment led from Hötorget down to Vasagatan. Crap central: shitty dives and rowdy restaurants. Street-fight central: populated by blattes and Svens. The last part, the intersection with Vasagatan down to the bridge, was empty of restaurants and regular bars, stores, or cafés. Only places with a specialized profile were found here. An indie theater, a jazz joint, and the gambling pit-Casino Cosmopol. Older clientele. Revitalizing mix of theater fanatics, jazzers, and gamblers.

A slash through Stockholm’s nightlife/shopping/entertainment scene. Kungsgatan-the sidewalks were always warm, always clean of snow, always crowded. Always racked by consumer hysteria. Three different strata. Three different worlds along the same street.

Mrado was sitting at the bar at Kicki’s Bar & Co., one of the crappy dives in the street’s middle section. He was waiting for Ratko. Bar hang with beer & co.: ale, light brew, hard cider.

He was so damn beat.

Staring vacantly. Twenty-year-old bad boys in stolen puffies hung in clusters around the place. Refused to check their coats-the Canada Goose label, with its implied price tag, was a symbol of a world they’d never really gain access to. Stared at a safe distance. They didn’t know who he was. Clocked anyway-don’t mess with the giant in the bar. If the coat check in this place were his, those downy-lipped niggers’ Geese would’ve been on hangers ages ago.

There was neon lettering on the walls. Formed the words Kicki’s Cocktails. Written in red, blue, and yellow, interlaced.

Mrado and Ratko’d decided to grab a beer before going to Casino Cosmopol, farther up on Kungsgatan. Mrado had to get some clean cash. The video-rental stores/laundromats weren’t working as they should. Weren’t able to handle the required volumes. The casino was always a last resort for cleaning cash.

The clock struck 10:05. Ratko wasn’t usually late. Had his grouse increased lately? Couldn’t be tolerated. Mrado was above Ratko in the Yugo hierarchy. Therefore, he was only gonna wait for ten more minutes.

Ordered another beer. Thought through the past months.

The Jorge situation’d cleared out well. Four months’d passed and the Latino’d taken it easy ever since. Laid low. No more attempts to fuck with them. Mrado’d gotten some indications. Jorge was still in the city, probably still rockin’ the dark look in order to survive on the lam. Scraping by the only way he knew how: pushing blow for some dealer. Mrado couldn’t care less, as long as the shit didn’t affect him.

Mrado’d been trudging along in the same old tracks. Longing for Lovisa. Cursing Annika. On February 23, the district court’d ruled: mixed verdict. A relief that he was allowed to maintain joint custody. Fucking ridiculous that he got a visitation day only once every other week. Sweden betraying the Serbs yet again.

Mrado woke up every night between 4:00 and 5:00 a.m., couldn’t sleep. Like an old hag. Usually downed a fat whiskey to fall back asleep. What the hell was going on?

Once, he went into Lovisa’s room to find peace of mind. Sat down on her bed. It creaked. The sound reminded him of something. Couldn’t think of what. He pulled out a drawer in her desk. Saw the crayons. Realized what the creaking reminded him of. He felt depleted. Racked with anxiety. What would Lovisa think of him if she ever found out about all the shit he’d done? Was it possible to be a good father and still break people’s fingers? He should stop.

Other than that, it was the same old. Business was booming. Cash was flowing. Important to-dos right now: fix the video-rental stores and figure out how to deal with the pigs and their new Nova Project. Radovan’d called everyone to a meeting about Nova. All the colleagues were supposed to talk about the cops’ efforts to stop them. Mrado, Goran, Nenad, and Stefanovic. Circle-jerk.

The video-rental companies’d been created after thorough research’d been done on the straw man, Christer Lindberg. Mrado didn’t want anyone who’d raise suspicions with the Man. He’d checked the public records to make sure the guy was registered as a Swedish resident, that he didn’t have any red flag-raising German-imported Beamers, that he was in the clear with tax records, bankruptcy records, and latepayment records. Finally, he’d checked the police’s internal lists-everything had to look clean as a Tide commercial. Mrado thanked his police hookup, Rolf, for the latter registry printouts.

Christer Lindberg was, at least on the surface, a responsible citizen. It would work.

Mrado didn’t want to meet Lindberg personally, kept his distance. He’d had Goran explain most of it. Mrado’d only spoken with the guy once on the phone. All he was told: Mrado was a friend of Goran and could fix fine flow in exchange for signatures on various documents and possible questions from the tax man.

Lindberg according to Mrado: proletarian caricature. Talked intense Sven Swedish, peppered with clichés and shallow insights. Mrado thought about their one and only conversation. Couldn’t help grinning to himself.

“Hi, I’m a friend of Goran. I’m calling about a business idea with video-rental stores. Has he mentioned something about it to you?”

“Yes siree.”

“Do you know what it’s about?”

“Let’s put it this way: I wasn’t born yesterday. I get the idea.”

“Can I ask you a question? What did you do before you started working for Goran?”

“Yours truly worked as a truck driver for Östman Åkeri, in Haninge.”

“And how was that?”

“That was like night and day, so to speak.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you know, Östman wasn’t exactly the type to turn down a drink. Göran showed up one day. Took over the entire operation. Strongly done, so to speak.”

“His name is Goran.”

“Ha, ha. Right, Goran. I’m not too good with names.”

That was enough. Mrado didn’t want to get close to Lindberg in any way.

He sent the guy paperwork. Asked him to sign. Explained some more what it was about, that a friend of Mrado and Goran was gonna open video-rental stores. Needed someone registered in Sweden to be on the board of the company. Lindberg would get a one-time fee of twelve thousand kronor if he signed. After that, they’d give him ten thousand every six months, as long as it all flowed smoothly. Mrado instructed him what to do if any nosy authorities got in touch with him.