Jens Lapidus - Easy Money

He went to a tanning bed regularly. Kept curling his hair. Tried to learn to use a pair of dark brown contacts Abdulkarim’d given him. The rhythm to his step got better with every day; he did his best to walk like a gangsta.

He needed his own place.

Jorge got in touch with Sergio and thanked him for his help. Blessed/praised him. Told him everything was cool but that they couldn’t see each other for a while. Sergio understood. He explained: His broken fingers were still crooked; his girlfriend was still shaking like a kitten.

Jorge hated the Yugos even more.

Wrote a text to Paola from a prepaid phone that Abdulkarim’d given him: I’m alive and doing well. How are you? Don’t worry about anything. Say hi to Mama! Hugs /J.

Two guys, the Sven who’d taken care of him, Petter, and a Tunisian, Mehmed, became Jorge’s assistants. Looked up people in the Sollentuna area on his orders. Distributed grams to the right people. Sold on from there. Jorge himself worked the other projects. Places where his face, even if it was new, had never been known.

Everything went beautifully. In January, they grossed 400,000 kronor. After they’d deducted the purchase price and Abdulkarim’s cut: 150,000 kronor for Jorge, Petter, and Mehmed to split. Life was sweet. Jorge was royal-Jorgius Maximus.

One thought he hardly ever had time to think: Was this preordained? Was dealing C as far as an ordinary slumdog from a Stockholm ghetto could get? Was the race already rigged when his mama decided to leave Chile and try to become a normal citizen of a new country? It was like when you get on the subway and realize the train is going in the wrong direction. There’s nothing you can do. Can’t jump off the train. What happens if you pull the emergency brake? Jorge and his buds’d done that a ton as kids. The fuckin’ train didn’t stop in the middle of the track like you thought it would; it drove on to the next station before it stopped. What was the point of an emergency brake if you still had to go where you didn’t want to go?

Jorge’s project for the future slowly morphed. Leaving the country as quickly as possible was no longer a given. To get back at Radovan became more important. And there was still a long way to go on that road. He knew some about Mr. R.’s cocaine dealings from before-but not enough. Radovan must’ve thought J-boy knew a hell of a lot more than he did. If not, why send Mrado and Ratko after him? Jorge needed more, enough heavy shit to sink Radovan instantly.

Enough to put Paola out of danger.

Enough to sate his hate.

Abdulkarim’s plans took time. To establish the blow biz in the western boroughs as well as select areas in the south: Bredäng, Hägerstensåsen, Fruängen. And he was in the middle of planning/preparing a large shipment of snow. Maybe straight from Brazil.

Jorge’s new free life was keeping him busy.

The inner journey: by train. JW was on his way to Robertsfors.

Was he on his way home? Or away? Where was home, really? The boyz’ co-ops, the bathrooms at Kharma where the C deals were brokered, his room at Mrs. Reuterskiöld’s, or Robertsfors-at Mom and Dad’s?

He was listening to music-Coldplay, the Sadies, and other pop-while he munched on a bag of candy. Tried to see if the gummy colors tasted different from one another. Red, or green, or yellow, or… what? Did a blind test.

It was dark outside. He looked at his reflection in the window. JW thought, A wonderful vantage point for a narcissist like me.

The train car was almost empty of people. One of the advantages of being a student was that you could travel any day of the week. Of course, he could’ve afforded to take any train or flight, almost at any price. But it was unnecessary-stupid to make his parents suspicious.

He should really be studying. He had an assignment to do on macroeconomic theories: the relationship between interest, inflation, currency rates. He even had the laptop open in his lap. But the movement of the train lulled him. He felt tired.

He closed the computer. Shoved his mouth full of gummies and shut his eyes. Chewed and contemplated his circumstances.

It’d been four months since he found Jorge in the woods. Since then, Abdulkarim’s coke expansion’d taken most of his time. JW and Jorge were each project managers of an area. The gelt kept growing, an average of a hundred G’s a month. Soon he’d be able to buy his BMW-cash-and maybe a co-op apartment. Just had to launder the money first.

He was barely getting by in school. He nearly flunked the exams. Was he on the verge of breaking his promise? The positive effect of his scholarly neglect was that he was becoming a name in the Stureplan jungle. Everyone with a penchant for skating on ice knew of him. JW bided Abdulkarim’s orders; he was careful about giving out his cell phone number. Couldn’t make it too easy. People called, left messages. JW called back, checked up on people, dictated the terms. Played according to the Arab’s strategy-safe.

He hung out with the boyz, more and more with Jet Set Carl and other acquaintances, people raised in rich suburbs like Bromma, Saltsjöbaden, and Lidingö. In Djursholm. Important parentheses: Know-it-all types thought you were supposed to say on Djursholm, not in, when people who really knew said the opposite. They were people with contacts and cash: party organizers, coke snorters-above all, clients.

JW approached the inner circles around the Swedish royal family. Golden glamour. Progeny of the landowning aristocracy. Wild parties with wild winners and their families. Important C sales. A private arena with exclusive access. Forget pricey tix. This scene was VIP only.

He’d been getting together with Sophie like two or three times a week. Sometimes they went out to eat, got a drink at a bar, or went for a walk.

Their problem, according to JW: The relationship wasn’t developing. Felt like they were still playing a game. She wouldn’t call for days. JW didn’t call back. They waited. Played hard to get.

The sober sex sucked. Embarrassing. JW was all nerves. It took twenty seconds. Tops. He tried to make sure it happened when he was tripping on coke. Worked better that way.

After a couple of months, their relationship’d become more stable. He slept over at Sophie’s place several nights a week. At the same time, a certain distance remained. Sometimes she didn’t want to get together, without JW knowing why. He missed her whenever the time between their dates got too long.

Nothing wrong with the Jorge dude. Not JW’s type, but fine enough. The Chilean possessed sick knowledge about coke. JW tried to absorb all the info, all the know-how, all the tricks.

The train slowed down at Hudiksvall. JW glanced out at the station. There was a lake on the other side of the tracks. He was halfway home.

Three days ago, Abdulkarim’d called. Sounded worked up: “JW, I got something big goin’.”

“I’m all ears, Abdulkarim. Tell me.”

“We goin’ to London. Fix a fat import.”

“Okay. How? Is your secret boss in on it?” JW felt more and more secure with Abdulkarim-almost dared be cocky.

“Chill, habibi, my boss’s in on it. Big stuff, you understand. Much bigger than our other imports. We’re gonna contact the wholesalers direct. Gonna be ill, inshallah. You gotta book tickets for us. Me, Fahdi, and you. We need, like, five days. Have to be there by March seventh, latest. You gotta book hotel rooms, I want it nice. Classy. Fix sweet clubs. Fix a weapon for Fahdi. Fix up London for me. You with me, buddy?”

It drove JW crazy every time Abdulkarim used the word buddy. But he didn’t feel so safe in his seat that he’d mock the Arab. Sucked it up instead.