Jens Lapidus - Easy Money

JW was quiet. He thought about where he could get a hundred thousand from and already knew the answer. Nowhere. But he didn’t say anything. Played along. Grinned.

Nippe changed the music. Putte put his feet up on the coffee table and lit a Marlboro Light. Fredrik, who’d just bought a new Patek Philippe, played with the wristband and recited aloud to himself, “‘You never actually own a Patek Philippe. You merely look after it for the next generation.’”

The latest hit gagaed from the stereo.

JW loved these pregames. The conversation. The mood. These were boys with class. Good-looking boys. Always well-dressed boys. He checked them out.

Button-down shirts from Paul Smith and Dior, and one specially made by a tailor on Jermyn Street in London. One from the brand A.P.C.-French-with an American collar and double cuffs. Two of the guys wore Acne jeans. Gucci on another: intricate designs on the back pockets. One wore black cotton slacks. The blazers were elegant. One from Balenciaga’s spring collection: double-breasted, brown; a somewhat short model with double flaps in the back. One was a charcoal pinstripe from Dior, a slim model with double pockets on one side. One was ordered from a tailor on Savile Row in London: visible seams at the cuffs and with a red silk lining. The wool was super 150s, no higher quality anywhere. The telltale sign of a nice suit: the fluidity of the lining, that it didn’t sag. This particular jacket’s lining was softer, more fluid, and had a better fit than anything that could be found in the stores in Sweden.

One guy wasn’t wearing a blazer. JW wondered why.

Finally, the shoes: Tod’s, Marc Jacobs, Gucci loafers with the classic gold buckle, Prada’s best-selling rubber shoes with the red logo on the bottom of the heel. Originally developed for Prada’s sailboat in the World Cup.

On top of it all: slim black leather belts. Hugo Boss. Gucci. Louis Vuitton. Corneliani.

JW appreciated the total value: 72,300 kronor. Excluding watches, cuff links, and gold signet rings with family crests stamped into them. Not bad.

On the table: Jack Daniel’s, vanilla vodka, some gin, a half a bottle of Schweppes tonic water, Coca-Cola, and almost a full decanter of apple juice-someone had come up with the idea of making apple martinis but then only had one glass of it.

The general consensus: This is not where we get drunk. We’ll get trashed at the club. A drinks table at Kharma was already reserved. Chicks were basically included.

JW thought, What atmosphere, what buildup, what wonderful camaraderie. These were chill guys. The Stockholm night was theirs to conquer.

He let his eyes scan the room. The ceiling was over ten feet high. Rich moldings. Two armchairs and a gray couch on top of a real Persian carpet. Four hundred thousand tiny knots tied by some shackled kid. A couple of Maxim s, GQ s, car and boat magazines were tossed on the couch. Against one wall stood three low bookshelves from the luxury design store Nordiska Galleriet. One was filled with CDs and DVDs. The second housed the stereo, a Pioneer-not big, but with good power in the four small speakers that were installed in the corners of the room.

The last bookshelf was filled with books, magazines, and binders. A bound catalog of the Swedish aristocracy was among the books, as was Strindberg’s Collected Works and a bunch of high school yearbooks. Strindberg’s Collected had to have been a present from Putte’s parents.

The TV was wide, extremely flat, and disgustingly expensive.

Everyone wore their shoes inside-classic. The shoe question divided the Swedish indoor world. There are three types of people. The type who always walks in with shoes on and has the right attitude-is there anything worse than walking around in party attire and socks? The second type of person is the one who becomes insecure and checks out what everyone else is doing, who might keep them on if everyone else does. Wishy-washy, a turncoat. Finally, there’s the third type, who thinks you should always take your shoes off, who walks around soundlessly in sweaty socks, who only has himself to blame.

JW hated people who walked around in only their socks. Even worse if there were holes in the socks. His suggestion for a solution was simple: a bullet to the back of the head. Seeing an errant toe grossed him out. So Sven-style. So coarse. A true sign of plebs. A recap of the rules of the sock world: Keep your shoes on, never wear tube socks, and make sure there’s never any skin showing between pant and sock. The color should be black, or possibly fun socks in loud colors if matched with an otherwise-somber look.

To be safe, JW always wore kneesocks. Black. Always Burlington brand. His theory: Much easier to sort after washing if they’re all the same.

The plan for the night was simple. Bottle service was always a sure win. They easily fulfilled the requirements to make a reservation. You had to booze for at least six thousand kronor.

Straight shot from there. Drink, snort, drink, check out chicks, maybe dance for a while, converse, flirt, unbutton more shirt buttons, order bubbles, definitely hit on girls, snort again. Fuck.

JW couldn’t let the matter drop. Kept returning to it. The questions popped up in his head. How much can the dealer darky make? Does he have to work long hours? How dangerous is it? Who does he buy from? What are the margins? How does he get customers?

He said, “So, what do you think he makes a month?”

Fredrik, surprised: “Who?”

“The Turk. The blatte we buy C from. Is he a little Gekko, or what?”

Referring to Wall Street was standard among the boyz. JW’d seen the movie over ten times. Enjoyed every second of it: the simplicity of greed.

Nippe laughed. “Damn, you go on about money. What does it matter anyway? I’m sure he makes plenty, but, like, how cool do you think he is? Ever seen his clothes? Hick leather jacket. Thick Gypsy gold chain that he wears outside his shirt, baggy pants from an outlet or something. Huge cuffs on his shirts. I mean, he’s a real tool.”

JW let rip a belly laugh.

They dropped the subject.

Two minutes later, Putte’s cell phone rang. He held the phone close to his ear as he talked, while grinning broadly at the boys. JW couldn’t hear what he was saying.

Putte hung up. “Boys, I have a little surprise for us tonight. They’re just looking for a place to park.”

JW had no idea what he was talking about. The other guys leered knowingly.

Five minutes passed.

The doorbell rang.

Putte went to open the door. The other guys stayed put in the living room.

Nippe lowered the music.

A tall girl in a trench coat and a bodybuilder type in a black jean jacket entered the room.

Putte glowed, “Voilà, the evening’s warm-up.”

The girl went over to the stereo as if she were walking down a catwalk. Self-assured and steady, almost gliding, in sky-high stilettos. She wasn’t a day over twenty. Stick-straight brown hair. JW wondered, Is it a wig?

Changed the music. Raised the volume.

Kylie Minogue: “You’ll never get to heaven if you’re scared of getting high.”

The girl dropped the trench coat. Underneath, she was wearing a black bra, a thong, and nylons with a garter belt.

She began to dance to the music. Provocatively. Invitingly.

She gyrated. Smiled at the boys as though she were doling out candy. She rolled her hips, played her tongue across her top lip, put one foot up on the edge of the coffee table. Leaned forward and stared into JW’s eyes. He chortled. Yelled, “Damn what a fine bonus, Putte. She’s better than the one we had before the summer.”

The stripper moved in time to the music. Touched herself between her legs. The boys howled. She approached Putte, kissed him on the cheek, licked his ear. He tried to pinch her butt. She danced away from him with her hands on her back. Thrust her crotch back and forth rhythmically. Unclasped her bra and tossed it toward the bodybuilder, who stood motionless against the wall. The music kept pumping. She moved faster. Humped. Breasts bobbed. The boys sat as though in a trance.