Jens Lapidus - Easy Money

His best opening hand of the night. He made up his mind, for the sake of the companies, to save the Rado situation-bid high.

The drop of sweat lodged itself in Mrado’s eyebrow. So close to a royal straight and still, hardly one in several thousands of a chance.

He twirled a chip around his fingers.

Thought, Let’s do this thing.

Bid five grand.

Berra K. called his bet. Five grand. High-stakes game.

The Sunglass Kid pulled out. Would be crazy to ride out a game this aggressive without really sitting on anything good.

Piotr, with the big blind, raised him. Twenty-five total. Crazy.

Berra K., Mrado, and Piotr all had a sick number of chips in front of them.

Mrado considered: It’s make it or brake it now. He knew the odds; his hand was one of the top ten opening hands you could get in this game.

He looked at Piotr. Didn’t he glimpse that same glitter in his eyes as in the first deal, when the Polack bluffed? The feeling was the same. Piotr was up to something. Mrado was sure of it-the Polack was trying to pull a fast one-it was Mrado’s turn to make it big this time.

He kept going. Twenty into the pot.

Berra K. started prattling again. Jabbered on about other crazy games he’d played and that this one was the craziest one yet. Then he folded. Not surprising.

Mrado faced off against Piotr, waiting for the first cards on the table.

The Sunglass Kid removed his shades; even Berra K. stopped talking. Silence settled around the table.

The flop gave an ace of clubs, a two of diamonds, and a queen of hearts.

Piotr bet another fifteen. Maybe to check Mrado’s pulse. Disgustingly high stakes.

Mrado still had a pair of aces, the best pair you could get. He just had to be in the clear, since he had the highest kicker, the king. And still a chance he could land a royal straight. He kept going. Bet fifteen grand. Called.

He was gonna crush that fuckin’ Polack.

Turn: jack of hearts. Crazy lucky. Mrado still had a chance at a royal straight. He wasn’t going to give up now. And he kept feeling more and more certain: The Polack didn’t have jackshit. The guy was crazy bluffing.

Crazier than crazy.

Piotr raised him another thirty.

Mrado thought he saw that gleam again.

He took the chance-played all in, the rest of the money he had in front of him, 120 grand. All his chips on one board. Prayed to God that he was right, that Piotr was trying to pull a fast one.

Piotr shot back the call, didn’t miss a beat.

The dealer felt the tension around the table. Both Mrado and Piotr turned up their cards.

Everyone around the table leaned in to get a look.

Mrado: almost royal flush, except for the ten of hearts.

Piotr: three aces.

Mrado’s heart sank. The Polack fucker hadn’t bluffed this time. That gleam in his eye was something else-maybe triumph. Mrado’s only chance was that the river contained a ten of hearts.

The dealer took his time with the river. Piotr shifted uneasily in his seat. Everyone in the poker area stopped what they were doing, sensed that something big was about to happen at one of the tables. If Mrado won, he’d rake in over 300,000.

The dealer dealt the card: three of clubs.

Mrado was dead.

The winner: Piotr. Three of a kind. The entire pot. Mrado’d blown 160,000 on one hand. Congrats.

Mrado could hear his own breathing. Felt dazed, got vertigo. Ready to hurl.

Felt the beating of his own heart. Fast, sad beats.

Piotr stacked the chips. Swept them off the table into a cloth bag.

Got up. Left the table.

Someone called Mrado’s name. Ratko was waiting on the other side of the velvet enclosure. More than two hours after the appointed time. Mrado nodded toward him. Turned back to the poker table.

Remained seated, as though in a fog. Felt a flash of heat. He was sweating.

Finally, the dealer turned to him, asked, “Are you in for the next deal?” Mrado knew-for him, a catastrophe had just occurred. For the dealer, it was only a question of when the next round could begin.

Mrado got up. Walked away.

Bobban used to say, “Things happen quick in hockey.” Mrado knew-things happen even quicker in Texas hold ’em. Burned more than 160 grand within an hour. Not his night tonight. He should’ve known. Too many vets at the table.

Ratko stood at a one-armed bandit with his back to the poker table. Fed bills to the machine.

Mrado knocked him on the shoulder. “You were late?”

“Me, late? Sure, but you’ve been playing for over an hour. Made me wait.”

“But you were the one who was late. We were meeting at ten.”

“My apologies. How’d it go?”

Mrado, silent.

Ratko asked again. “That bad?”

“It went so fuckin’ bad, I’m considering throwing myself off the Klaraberg viaduct.”

“My sympathies.”

Mrado remained standing and watched as Ratko played. He was done for. Shouldn’t have played when he was so beat. Money that belonged to the video-rental stores. This couldn’t get out.

Motherfucker.

Ratko fed a final bill to the machine. Pressed the play button. The symbols started spinning.

Mrado’s head was spinning even faster.

Back in business. The long-lasting feeling: J-boy, baddest bad boy in town. El choro. Phoenix out of the ashes. Gotten back up after what they thought was a knockout.

His life vacillated between justified hate and high-level blow business. The hate toward Radovan & Co.: the ones who’d shredded him. The blow business: his job for Abdulkarim.

But Jorge was the man with the plan; he would break Radovan’s empire once and for all. Make sure the Yugo Mafia got locked up or wiped out. All he needed was more information and time to plan.

R.’s day would come. Jorgelito was mad certain.

Flashbacks.

Jorge’d recovered surprisingly quickly. First, when JW found him in a thousand pieces in the woods, he didn’t clock a thing. Who the hell was this Östermalm creamer? Buzzing about new markets, blow-biz expansion. Did he want in?

Fifteen minutes of explaining to a busted Latino.

Jorge was hardly listening at the time.

JW promised that a car would come. That he’d fix painkillers.

Jorge asked him to leave.

JW walked down to the road.

Jorge left alone on the ground. Half an inch of movement equaled otherworldly pain. The cold crept up on him. Jorge wanted to pass out. Disappear. But the questions were buzzing worse than the pain in his head: Would the Yugos hurt Paola? Would they leave him alone now? Should he skip the country right away? In that case, what were his chances? No money, no passport, no connections. In other words, about as much chance of survival as a twiggy with attitude at Österåker.

Darkness settled over the forest. The weather was getting worse. The trunks of the trees looked black. The branches hung low to the ground.

Felt like his upper arms and thighbones were broken. Felt as though his back was torn apart. Felt as though he’d gotten a second asshole torn up beside his first. Nature’s strange symmetry completed: two eyes, two nostrils, two arms, and two legs. And now, two assholes.

He tried to sleep. Not a chance.

He shivered.

The definition of eternity: Jorge’s one and a half hours in the forest before JW showed up again. He had a big guy with him, a gorilla. They lifted him. Jorge thought he was going to die for the second time in four hours. Pest or cholera. First to be beaten to death by a psycho Yugo and then to be carried to death by an enormous Lebanese.

A white Mazda van was waiting on the road. There was a padded gurney in the back. They strapped him down. A Swedish-looking man who Jorge, at the time, thought was a real ambulance EMT poured morphine down his throat. He numbed off. Dreamed of dancing grocery bags.