Jens Lapidus - Easy Money

Mrado was on his way to an industrial area in Tullinge, near the Bandidos’ headquarters. It was important to Mrado that a meeting like this not take place in the Bandidos’ bunker. Had to be on neutral ground.

He’d slept like a dog the night before. Woke at three-thirty. Sweaty. Nasty. Sheets all tangled. Images of Lovisa flashing through his head: playing in the building’s courtyard, in her room, watching a movie on the couch, building a snowman and using her crayons for a nose. Insomnia wore him down. Whiskey didn’t help. Turning on the stereo and listening to Serbian ballads didn’t help, either. He could function okay with three or four hours of sleep a night for a few days in a row. But not for weeks in a row. He had to do something about his life.

Three days earlier, he’d talked to a Bandidos member. Asked him to give a message to Jonas Haakonsen, the head of the Bandidos’ Stockholm chapter, saying that Mrado wanted to have a conversation about certain areas of their operation. Gave him one of his cell phone numbers. Two hours later: a text. A location. A time. And: Come solo. Nothing more. It fit with what Mrado’d heard about Haakonsen’s style. Dramatic. Didn’t take risks. Mrado thought, Come on, this isn’t some fucking Cold War spy thriller.

Mrado’d met Haakonsen at the Gangsta Golf meet the previous year. Gangsta Golf, a fantastic initiative by an old OG member. Anyone who’d spent more than two years in an iron pen and had a decent swing was welcome. Last year, they’d played at the beautiful Ulriksdal golf course. Forty-two players. Bull necks and tattoos ad absurdum. Mrado felt tiny in comparison. If Mrado’d had the assignment at the time, it would’ve been the perfect opportunity to talk about the market division. Except for the fact that every single tree, bunker, and green was probably bugged.

What was there to know about the Bandidos? The brightest star in mid-Sweden’s gang sky. Recruited from the immigrant boys’ hardest cores, via the prospect club, X-Team. Two bases in the Stockholm area: Tullinge and Bålsta. Their latest feat was kidnapping an HA member. The guy was found three days later. Skin like a leopard, round burn marks from stubbed-out cigarettes on every inch. Kneecaps in shards. Nails yanked out. Ultimate cause of death: forced consumption of gasoline. No wonder the MC gangs were at war.

The Bandidos did the same kind of business as the Hells Angels, except heavier on the drugs. That is, they engaged in booze smuggling, protection racketeering, some financial crime, like invoice fraud and tax fraud. Heroin and weed sales were sprinkles on top.

Mrado kept his eyes peeled for traffic signs to Tullinge. Being behind the wheel of the Benz was always a true pleasure. V-8 engine. Curved leather seats. Seriously broad tires.

He downshifted; the car growled from pure power. Driving delight at max.

Radio drone in the background, broke off for the news. Something about the Americans’ war in the Middle East. Mrado’s mixed feelings. He hated the U.S., while he loved that they were rubbing out towelheads. The fight. Light facing off against the darkness. Europe facing off against the Orient. The Serbs’ everlasting duty. And who thanked them for it? That they’d resisted for centuries. Kept the gate to the rest of Europe shut. Sacrificed themselves. Mrado’d fought, too. Now people whined about fanatic fundamentalists and girls being forced to wear veils. Europe, you only have yourself to blame. The Serbs’d done what they could. Been reamed royally by the rest of the world, and the U.S.’d been the first to climb on top. The Serbian people didn’t owe anyone anything.

He lowered the volume. Highways were so damn dull. He was planning on taking Lovisa to Kolmården, the big animal park outside the city, next week. Visit the dolphins. Maybe take the back roads. Enjoy.

The sky was gray. Was February the crappiest month? Mrado hadn’t seen the sun in four weeks. The other cars on the road were snow-stained, sans style, soiled. Boring.

The problems spun. Worry/angst as mood music instead of the radio.

Radovan was losing faith in him. Maybe it’d been eating at Rado for a long time. What the hell did Mrado know? The more he thought about it, the more obvious it seemed that Rado’d never trusted him.

He kept certain things secret, like how crappy the laundromats/video-rental stores were working. Above all, he hadn’t said anything about how he planned to rig the market division in his favor. Rado was probably ticked off about his demand for a bigger cut of the profits. Irked about the Kvarnen fiasco. Pure luck that he’d actually gotten away without a prison sentence. Meant an extra bonus for the Yugos’ own lawyer, Martin Thomasson.

Mrado needed to insure himself against Rado’s capriciousness. He ought to talk more with Nenad.

On the bright side: Mrado’d dealt with Jorge. Best of all: Mrado was needed to divide up the market in the gangster war.

Wet snowflakes were falling. The windshield wipers were moving back and forth on the lowest setting. He turned up the warm air blowing toward the window. His hands were resting on the wheel. His movements felt stiff-the bulletproof vest was heavy.

He took the exit toward Tullinge. Followed the signs.

Seven minutes later, he’d found the place. A row of low gray storage buildings. Snow on the roofs. Green containers lined up. Ads for a recycling company on the façade of one of the buildings. The area was fenced in. Mrado knew where the Bandidos’ bunker was, and it wasn’t here. Still, this felt like their home turf. On the other hand, if they messed with him, they’d have to count their losses-in lives.

He parked the car. Remained sitting for a minute. Made sure the switchblade was in its place in his boot. Pulled out his revolver. The chamber was loaded. No bullet in the circuit-honest old safety measure. Finally, he sent Ratko a text. I’m on my way in. Will be in touch in max two hours. /M

Took a deep breath.

The first time he’d gone alone to a meeting. Ratko was usually at his side.

Squeezed his eyes shut for ten seconds.

No wrong moves today.

He stepped out of the car. Big snowflakes settled on his eyebrows. Poor visibility.

Farther away, on the other side of the fence, two people were walking toward him. Mrado remained standing where he was. Hands at his sides. The people came into better view. Big guys. Leather jackets, patches on their breast pockets: the Bandidos logo. One had a dark, full beard, probably a blatte. Bandanna on his head. The other was a blondie with a pockmarked face.

The bearded one pulled off a leather glove and extended his hand. “Mrado?”

Mrado shook his hand. “That’s right. And you are?”

“Vice president of the Stockholm chapter. James Khalil. Are you alone?”

“That’s what we agreed on. I keep my end of agreements. Does that surprise you?”

“Not at all. Welcome. You’ll soon meet Haakonsen. Follow me.”

Mrado knew the lingo. The key word was respect. Short, hard one-liners. No signs of insecurity. Second-guess when you can second-guess. Respectfully.

They walked toward one of the containers. The Bandidos boys’ boots made deep impressions in the snow. Thirty or so yards farther off, a truck engine rumbled to a start. Drove out of the area. Mrado took note of several other noises coming from the same direction. Understood that normal work was actually being done on the premises.

James turned a key in a gigantic padlock hanging on a freight container. Opened it. Turned on a lamp. Mrado saw a table. Three chairs. A couple of bottles on the table. A construction site lamp suspended from a steel setting in the ceiling. Simple. Practical. Smart.

Before Mrado took a step in, he said, “I assume the place has been secured.”