Jens Lapidus - Easy Money

James looked at him. Seemed to consider piling on the sarcasm but then thought better of it. “Of course,” he said. “We work according the same principles as you do. To act but not be seen.”

James pulled out one of the chairs. Kept his leather jacket on. Offered Mrado a seat. The guy with the pockmarked face stayed outside the container. James sat down. Offered him a drink. Poured out whiskey for Mrado. They exchanged pleasantries. Sipped the whiskey. Waited in silence.

Three minutes passed.

Mrado thought, If he’s not here in five, I’m out.

He lifted his gaze from the glass and looked at James. Raised one eyebrow. James understood.

“He’ll be here any minute. It’s not our intention to keep you waiting.”

The answer was enough for Mrado. Important that they really knew whom they were dealing with.

Two minutes later, the hatch to the container was opened. Jonas Haakonsen walked in, hunched over.

Mrado got up. They shook hands.

Haakonsen sat down on the third chair. James poured out whiskey.

Jonas Haakonsen: at least six two, hair in a ponytail, and a thin blond beard. Bloodshot eyes. Leather jacket with the customary patches. On the back: Bandidos MC, Stockholm, Sweden. The logo in big block letters, surrounded by embroidered machetes. He had a crazed look in his eye. Reminded Mrado of what he’d seen in the faces of some of Arkan’s men. Glazed eyes, shark eyes. Psychotic warrior eyes. Could go to attack mode at any moment.

Haakonsen was the kind of man you’d take a mile detour to avoid bumping into. The dude could silence an entire chow hall just by opening his mouth.

He took off his leather jacket. Apparently, the chill in the container didn’t faze him. He wore a leather vest under the jacket. Under the vest: a long-sleeved black T-shirt with the text We are the people your parents warned you about. His neck: covered in tattoos. On one of his earlobes: the SS lightning bolts. On the other earlobe: the letters BMC -Bandidos MC.

Mrado didn’t give much for the attitude. But the eyes. He knew what those eyes’d seen. Everyone knew. Jonas Haakonsen as a nineteen-year-old in Denmark. Leader of a gang of guys from south Copenhagen who robbed post offices and pushed lighter drugs. They made a big hit, the post office in Skanderborg’s mall. Three guys. Rushed in right when the armored van was about to pick up the banknotes. Their weapons: a sawed-off shotgun and two axes. One of the guards thought fast. Locked the bills into a security bag. But Haakonsen thought faster, grabbed the security bag-and the guard. The robbers switched cars somewhere on the freeway. Drove out into the Danish countryside. The guard was in the trunk, like in an American gangster flick. He was found three days later, staggering along a road near Skanderborg. Delirious, with a T-shirt wrapped around his head. Coagulated blood everywhere. The EMTs removed the T-shirt. The guard’s eyes were poked out. Haakonsen’d asked him for the combination to open the security bag. The guard hadn’t known it, but Haakonsen’d been persistent. The guard hadn’t had anything to say. Haaksonsen’d popped the man’s eyes out with his thumbs. One at a time. He managed to stay on the lam for three weeks. Then they got him. Haakonsen was slammed with only five years, because he was so young. He caged out after three. Angrier than ever.

Haakonsen downed a gulp of whiskey. Then, with a light Danish accent: “So, the infamous Mrado. Floored any bouncers recently?”

“It happens, it happens,” Mrado said, and laughed. “Even I’ve gotta stay in shape, right?” Mrado, surprised. Didn’t know a guy like Haakonsen knew about the Kvarnen incident.

“And how is the Godfather himself?” Haakonsen went on.

“Just dandy. Radovan is alive and well. Business is booming. And you?”

“Better than ever. The Bandidos are in Stockholm to stay. You’ll have to watch out.”

A joke or a warning?

“Watch out for what? Greasy-fingered kids with biker dreams?”

“No, I’m not talking about the HA.”

Mrado and Haakonsen laughed loudly. James grinned.

The tension lifted. They talked about Mrado’s Benz, about the weather, about the latest news in their world, that a man from the Naser gang’d been offed with a ballpoint pen. According to Haakonsen, the job’d been professionally done: “Hitting the right spot with a pen isn’t so hard, but the trick is, you gotta twist it around so you kill with the first jab.”

Ten minutes in, Mrado interrupted the conversation to cut to the chase. “I think you know why I wanted to see you.” He looked Haakonsen in the eye.

“I can only suspect. A little bird whispered in my ear that you’ve already talked to Magnus Lindén and Naser.”

“So you know what I’m after?”

“My qualified guess is that you want us to end the war with the HA. You want the other gangs to cool it?”

“That’s about right. But let me explain.”

“In a bit. First, I have to make a couple of things clear. We are men of honor. I am sure that you Serbs have your rules. We have ours, in any case. The Bandidos are a family. If you hurt one of us, you hurt us all. Like an animal-if you cut one paw, the whole body feels the pain. Two months ago, Jonny ‘Bonanza’ Carlgren was shot dead in Södertälje, in the middle of the square. Bonanza’d been at the liquor store with his wife and two of his brothers. Four shots to the stomach, but the first one, it was in his back. In front of his woman. He bled to death in thirty minutes. You get me. They put the first shot in his back. He didn’t even have time to turn around.”

“With all due respect, I know all that.”

“Just let me finish.”

Mrado backed up. Wanted to keep the mood good. Nodded.

“Bonanza was my brother. Do you understand. My Bandidos brother. We don’t forget. Nothing can get us to stop what has to be done. The Hells Angels are gonna pay. It’s gonna cost ’em. A fucking fortune. We popped the guy who planned Bonanza a month ago. Now we’re gonna get the guy who pulled the trigger.”

They were quiet for ten seconds, their eyes glued on each other.

“You’ve got every right to avenge a fallen brother. But, as you said, you’ve already done that. If I’m not mistaken, you guys shot Micke Lindgren. One all. What matters is that you’re only tripping yourselves up if you keep going. The situation’s just that simple, even if I sympathize. It’s not just about the Bandidos and the HA. Jonas, we’ve been in this town much longer than you guys. You’re big now, and I like your style, definitely, but you were pedaling a BMX and chewing gum when I first started breaking human bones. You’d robbed a couple of bodegas when I’d made my first million on blow. I know the opportunities this city has to offer. There’s room for all of us. But we have to act right. Why are we in a fucking container right now? In the middle of winter? You know the answer. You and me, we’re both targeted by that damn Nova Project. The cop offensive. They’re on it. If you just plan your next kick to the HA’s balls instead of planning your defense against the next Nova hit, you’ll be tripping BMC. We’re splitting ourselves into pieces in these wars while they pick us up, one by one. With my plan, we break these cop faggots.”

Mrado kept convincing. Haakonsen was opposed to everything that had to do with peace with the HA, but he listened to the rest. Nodded at times. Delivered his own monologues. Got fired up. James Khalil was invisible, sat completely silent. Mrado and Haakonsen discussed market shares for an hour.

The Bandidos president bought the basic concept.

Finally, they reached a preliminary agreement.

Mrado downed his glass. Haakonsen stood up. James got up. Opened the hatch. Mrado stepped out first. Outside, the snow kept coming down.