Jens Lapidus - Easy Money

Waited.

Phone in hand. If someone suspicious-looking entered the Hotel Oden, he’d call Mehmed, stat. Plan B, in case of a chase: Mehmed would drop the gear out the window toward Hagagatan. Jorge could pick the shit up there. Book it to the car. Step on it.

Nothing shady happened.

Darkness was falling. The hotel’s vertical neon yellow sign glowed softly.

Ten minutes passed. Jorge’d calculated that it’d take fifteen minutes to get the blow out of the bags.

Five more minutes passed.

Mehmed came out. Scratched his head-the sign that everything was under control. He had a plastic shopping bag from the NK department store in one hand. Started walking toward his car. Jorge watched from a distance. No one was following, as far as he could tell.

Jorge saw his very own controller, the IT dude, get out of his car. Timing smooth as hell.

Walked quickly after Mehmed. Caught up with him right at the car. Exchanged greetings. Jorge knew what they were saying to each other. Traded memorized phrases. A lot of people on the street at this time on a weekend. Made it worthwhile to put on a show. The IT dude asked loudly what Mehmed’d bought at NK. Mehmed told him about a jacket. Jorge saw the IT guy look into the bag.

It all went fast. The IT dude put his hand in the bag.

Pulled his hand out.

Licked his finger.

Tasted.

They talked for another forty seconds. Split up. Mehmed got into his car. Started it.

The IT guy kept walking down the street, his cell in hand.

Jorge got a text: Clean.

Neither Silvia nor Mehmed’d ripped him off. The gear in the NK bag was real. The IT dude was a genius call.

Jorge started his car. Pulled in behind Mehmed’s car, up by the red light at Dalagatan.

Then they drove off.

They were heading to Sätra. Petter’s apartment. Jorge looked around. Compared cars. Took note if anyone’d been driving behind them unusually long. He and Mehmed’d decided on a more roundabout route than necessary. If anyone trailed them, they’d know right away. Jorge wouldn’t make the same mistake as when Mrado and Ratko’d followed him so easily into the countryside.

They took St. Eriksgatan. Over to Kungsholmen. Between Mehmed and Jorge the whole way: a red Saab 900. Behind Jorge the entire time: a Jaguar. But Jorge and Mehmed’d driven the straight shot so far. At this point, there was nothing strange about the same cars caravanning the whole way to Fridhemsplan.

Vigilance.

They took a left after Fridhemsplan. Through the Rålambshov Park. The red Saab was still sandwiched between them.

Up on Västerbron bridge. It was dark out by now. The skeleton of the bridge was illuminated from below by floodlights. Jorge thought it was the city’s prettiest spot.

Nerves electrified. Thought he could feel the fabric of his shirt move over the left side of his chest with every heartbeat. To himself: Do this right. Become seven pounds richer.

Something in the red Saab caught his eye-a movement in the backseat.

Jorge looked again.

Something was off.

They came to the crest of the bridge.

The city’s silhouette draped in a dark blue shroud. The narrow bodies of the church spires like needles in his field of vision.

Jorge picked up his cell phone. Called Mehmed. Told him to change route at the end of the bridge.

Jorge kept his eye on the Saab. Saw more movements in the backseat. The people were putting something on. He hit his high beams. Shone straight into the back of the Saab.

The men in the backseat were as visible as on a sunny summer’s day. They were putting something on that looked like heavy vests. Could only be one thing-bulletproof vests.

Cunt.

Jorge slammed on the breaks. His forehead smacked into the windshield.

He looked toward the Saab. It stopped, as well.

Looked toward Mehmed’s car. He’d stopped, too, about thirty yards farther up. Probably hadn’t clocked more than that something was whack.

Jorge looked farther out, over Hornstull.

Blue lights every fucking where.

Mierda.

Quick calculation. The Saab between Jorge and Mehmed’s car was crooked. The enemy, the cops? He had to act now.

The dudes in the Saab stepped out of the car. Three. Two of them ran toward Mehmed’s car.

Someone behind Jorge honked. The natural question in rush-hour traffic: Why’d someone panic-braked in the middle of the bridge?

Jorge leapt out of his car. Ran toward Mehmed’s car.

The guys from the Saab turned around. Ran faster.

Jorge’s luck-the training from his escape still did the trick. He had speed. Reached Mehmed’s car at the same time as the men from the Saab.

Everything went so fast.

One of the men opened the door to Mehmed’s car. One turned to Jorge. Grabbed hold of his hand, tried to get him in some kind of grip. Mehmed yelled to Jorge, “Fuckin’ run. It’s the Five-Oh.”

The third man, who came running from the Saab, threw himself at Mehmed and tried to push him down into the seat. The guy holding Jorge’s arm pulled out a pair of handcuffs. Roared, “Police. You are being arrested on suspicion of possessing illegal drugs. Don’t fuckin’ give us a hard time. The entire force is waiting for you down there at Hornstull.” Jorge panicked. Kicked with all his might at the cop’s cock. The man howled. Only one thought in Jorge’s head: the blow in the trunk. Got a hold of the handle. Opened the trunk. Grabbed the NK bag. The cop standing by the door to Mehmed’s car threw himself at Jorge. Jorge took a step to the side. Remained free. The cop who’d taken the kick to the balls pulled a gun, yelled something. Jorge ran. The cop who’d tried to throw himself at him picked up the chase. Jorge accelerated. The man at his heels was fast. Jorge was faster. Thank God for the time at Österåker and the little training he’d done lately. The cop behind him hollered.

Jorge: focused. Come on now, pick up the pulse, hombre. Light steps. Long steps.

He ran along the bridge’s railing. People got out of their cars and stared at the mass of flashing lights moving its way up the bridge in the opposite lane.

In Jorge’s head: Run now, J-boy. No Asics DuoMax with super soles. No laps around the blocks at Österåker in his legs. Hardly any training except for some jump rope in recent months.

Still, he was fast.

His feet rolled with each step.

The pavement pounded.

The Stockholm night screamed blue.

He turned his head. His lead’d increased. The cop faggot was too winded.

Jorge saw Långholmen under the bridge. How far could the jump be? Worse than the twenty-three feet from the Österåker wall?

He didn’t give a fuck. Did it once. Could do it again.

Jorge, master escape artist. Chain-busting legend. Nothing would stop him.

He gained momentum. Leapt up on the railing. Looked down. Hard to see in the dark. The handle of the NK bag hung in the crook of his arm. He swung himself down, hands gripping the railing. Should reduce the fall by about six feet. Let go.

Fell.

JW sat on the bus to the Skavsta Airport, thinking, Two hours of restlessness ahead. God, I regret not flying from Arlanda Airport. So much closer.

He tried to play games on his phone: mini-golf, Chesswizz, Arkanoid. He’d become a master at downloading games. Was even starting to beat the phone at chess. Pride mingled with thrill: How good could he get?

Abdulkarim was flying two days later with British Airways, business class. From Arlanda.

Fahdi was flying SAS. Also from Arlanda. Typical.

He just had to stick it out. Deal. They were spreading their flights out over different carriers, different times, different locations. According to Abdulkarim’s philosophy, caution was a shortcut. JW thought, Shortcut for who? Not for me, that much is for fucking sure-two hours on a bus, at least an hour and a half wait estimated at Skavsta, then from Stansted Airport into central London, at least two hours. Congrats.