Jens Lapidus - Easy Money

The second time, he hadn’t smuggled H, something else. Worse.

Jorge got interested. Poured on the questions.

Darko looked strained. His eyes danced around the room. Downed his coffee. Suggested a walk instead.

They went out.

It was a cold February day. Crispy air and blue sky.

Jorge spewed chatter. Created trust. Babbled on.

“You should’ve been there. In the summer. Steven smuggled in fifteen cannabis seeds hidden in raisins that he planted in the rec yard. You know, cannabis is thirstier than an Arab in the desert.”

Darko listened. Let himself be entertained. Looked like he was unwinding somewhat.

“Major problem, watering the plants. Steven got the sickest idea, stood and pretended to piss on ’em at the same time the dude poured a glass of water on the shits. A screw found him out, of course. Walked up. Flipped the fuck out and was all ‘Are you urinating on the lawn?’ Steven denied it, straight up. The screw was all gonna prove he’d pissed, got down on all fours. Started smelling the grass. You follow? Like a fucking dog. Steven told the CO fag, ‘Now you proved it. I suspected it a long time-screws and bitches, you got the same genes.’ Man, everyone in the yard just howled.”

Darko smiled. “I’ve heard that story before. Steven’s a cool bro.”

They walked up Kungsgatan.

After another five minutes, he started telling the story. “Me and Steven worked with a Serb, Nenad. Cruel bastard. The dude had good connections in Belgrade. There were rumors he’d belonged to the Tigers, that he’d slaughtered thirty Bosnians in Srebrenica with his bare hands. First brought the men out into the square, their hands tied behind their backs, and beat them until they crawled in their own puke. Then they raped their wives, in front of them. We didn’t know then that he was Radovan’s man. When we did the H job, it was on direct orders from R. We got a twenty percent cut. Partied for six months, then time for business again. So, the second time we worked for Radovan, it was on Nenad’s orders. Think that was a year before I was put away. We met up at Café Ogo-you know, Jokso’s old place. Nenad introduced himself, said we could call him the Patriot ’cause he always supported Serbia. That was serious for those guys. He was rock-hard, Nenad, with war tattoos all over his knuckles. Two other dudes were there at the table. Kept their mouths shut the whole time, I think. But I recognized one of them from the club scene, Stefanovic. Younger guy who worked for Radovan at the time. Nenad buttered us up. Kept talking about the good job we’d done with the last transport. What a success it’d been. He knew a lot about me, but that wasn’t strange, since we often worked for Yugos. I mean, I’m a Serb myself.”

Darko paused. His eyes glowed like embers. Fired up by old memories. By the kicks. The suspense. Or?

They walked across the square at Hötorget.

“Nenad went over the plan. It was a big load of H. We were gonna bring it on trucks, like before, from the Belgrade area. And it’d be real bulked, take a lotta space. We didn’t clock shit, then. Planned the whole thing. Landed two German-registered semis, took two containers each. Fixed the drivers, the customs crap, the permits. The whole enchilada. Officially, machine parts were being driven from Turkey over the Balkans. Nenad had rules. Needed at least seventy cubic feet for the load in each container. When we met up with our contact people outside Belgrade, they drove up in two old army buses, dressed in military uniforms and carrying machine guns. Had four women with them. I thought they were gonna give us vodka and a nice time with the girls. It took me a minute to get it. We were never bringing any H. It was people we were smuggling. At first, I thought they were refugees.”

Jorge and Darko kept walking along Vasagatan at a leisurely pace. Past the Central Station. The taxis in line. Jorge asked, “Who were the contact people?”

“No idea. But we drove the girls all the way here. Wouldn’t let ’em out even once. It was hot as hell that summer. When we drove through Germany, the thermometer showed over ninety-seven degrees. Fuck knows how they survived the trip. Thirty hours in seventy cubic feet-suck on that. At least they had water. We unloaded them in the harbor at Södra Hammarbyhamnen, which was an undeveloped industrial area at that time. I can still see their faces when they came outta those containers-puffy from crying, a dark gray color. Bags under their eyes that added twenty years. If I’d only known ahead of time what I’d be carrying, fuck. I could’ve said no. But they had water.”

Jorge ignored Darko’s remorse. Right now, it didn’t matter if the whores’d had water or not. He asked, “Who met you?”

“Radovan, Nenad, Stefanovic, and a couple others.”

“Radovan?”

“Yeah. I recognized him from pictures I’d seen at Café Ogo.”

“You sure?”

“As sure as I am that it wasn’t H I was driving that time.”

“Who were the others?”

“No clue who the others were, other than Nenad and Stefanovic. Sorry.”

“How much did you get?”

“Hundred and fifty each. To cover everything. Including bribes and salaries for the drivers.”

Jorge with a fire inside.

So hot.

Hate.

A lead.

Radovan-wading in the whore trench.

Jorge picked up the chase.

JW’s luxury problem: He’d put away 300,000 kronor in three months and still been able to consume like an oil sheik-what to do with all the money?

It would soon be time for the Beamer. Maybe in a month. Maybe in two. Probably a used one after all. He was choosing between a slick BMW 330Ci with M sport pack from ’03, an even slicker BMW 330 cab with navi from ’04, and, slickest of them all, a BMW Z4 2.5i. He was eyeing the last-named car online. It was ill, silver with leather interior, and made zero to sixty in five seconds. Cash car. Class car. Cavalier car for the incomparable. It was soooo him.

Faced the classic caveat for off-the-bookers. On paper, JW didn’t make any money and lived, according to Big Brother’s records, on student loans-a total of 7,500 kronor a month. The car had to be registered and insured. As a result, Big Brother would see that he’d bought a car for three hundred G’s, even though he didn’t report any income or assets. Big Brother would wonder. Worst-case scenario: Big Brother would get suspicious, start eyeing JW more closely.

The standard solution for naughty off-the-bookers was to launder the dirty money.

JW did some research. These economic models weren’t the most openly written about. Hard to find info. He asked Abdulkarim about smart ways to do it.

The Arab responded, “JW, man, you know, me, I’m no economist. Me, I’m a regular blatte. Sweden don’t trust me anyway. I don’t need clean cash. I’m outside all that.”

JW tried to explain the advantages of being good with the system.

Abdulkarim offered a crooked smile. “You comin’ to London ’cause you’re my economist. You do the thinking. You come up with a smart way-you tell me. In that case, I’ll wash ten percent.”

The Arab had a point: One alternative was to stay completely outside the system. Not register any cars, not insure any cars, not buy any co-ops, always pay cash.

But that wasn’t JW’s way. He wanted in-for real.

Three days after he came home from Robertsfors, JW asked himself, What do I have with me from that place? The easy answer: nothing. But still, deep inside, he knew that it’d felt good to be there. Felt good to be safe. Not have to pretend. Be able to speak with his regular dialect again. Be able to walk around in any crappy old threads. Be able to lie on his bed all day without having to call people and ask them what was happening that night.