Jens Lapidus - Easy Money

He started a new game of chess. Had trouble concentrating, was always sensitive to stress. Started searching for the slip of paper where he’d written down his confirmation number-Ryanair didn’t even do paper tickets.

Skavsta Airport, in JW’s opinion, was an embodiment of the word beige. Broad fluorescent tubing lit up the departure hall. A white propeller plane was suspended from the ceiling, which looked like it was made of thick metal pipes. The floor was made of laminated plastic. The walls were of laminated plastic. The check-in counters were made of green-guess what?-laminated plastic.

A line unfurled itself from two counters. JW set his bags down. One of them was a large Louis Vuitton. Price: twelve thousand kronor. The only problem at a place like Skavsta was that everyone would assume it was a fake. But there was still a risk it’d be stolen by the baggage loaders if they realized it was real.

He kept playing chess. Pushed the bags in front of him with his foot. Focused on his phone. The line took over forty minutes. He thought, Ryanair-go shit yourselves.

After he’d checked in, the only carry-on he had was a black shoulder bag from Prada.

Security was overambitious. He guessed the Brits were scared of Muslim bombers. JW hoped that Abdulkarim traveled without his prayer hat. JW’s Hermès belt set off the metal detector. He had to take it off and run it through the X-ray machine in a blue plastic tray.

After security, JW called Sophie. They chatted. She already knew about his trip and with which friends he was traveling. After a couple of minutes, she repeated her question from earlier: “When do I get to meet them anyway?”

JW changed the subject. “Can you recommend some sweet bars in Mayfair?” Sophie’d been to London more times than JW’d been to Stockholm before he moved there. She listed some places. They talked on: about Jet Set Carl’s latest party, Nippe’s latest chick, Lollo’s latest C trip. Nothing about JW’s buds.

He was hungry. According to the signage, there was a restaurant around here somewhere.

He found it-a supergrimy place. Three dishes on the menu: fish and chips, spaghetti Bolognese, and pork chops with french fries and béarnaise sauce. In front of him in line: two seventeen-year-old girls wearing Palestine scarves and wool hats pulled down low. They complained about the lack of vegetarian options.

The cashier muttered, “You could have french fries with béa.”

The activist broads declined. Whined for a bit and then went to the airport kiosk and bought Snickers and soda.

JW ordered fish and chips and grabbed a seat. Waited for his number to be called.

He pulled out the latest issue of GQ, which he’d bought at the bus station. Absentmindedly skimmed an article about the latest florid fashion for men. Really, he was uninterested. Just needed something to busy his fingers.

The food arrived. At least half a pound of thick white sauce covered the fish-heart-attack grub, yes siree. He ate, thought about calling his mom when he was finished. Tell her what he’d found out about Camilla’s relationship with one of her Komvux teachers. Or about the Ferrari.

There was so much that was shady. Still, it wasn’t a good idea. Would make her head spin with unnecessary thoughts. Better that the police finish their investigation. Better that it be done professionally instead of through JW’s own inquiries. Find solutions. Inspect, interrogate, investigate. Sort out Camilla’s life.

Boarding at the gate. People lined up. JW felt tired; it would feel good to sleep on the plane.

A second security check. They checked passports again. The passengers were ushered outside, where it was piss-cold and windy. Then into the plane. Even the flight attendants were uglier than on flights from Arlanda. He found a seat, set the Prada bag down on the floor. A stewardess asked him to stow it in the overhead bin. JW felt pissy. Gave her attitude. The stewardess didn’t even try to be polite. The bag went up.

Fuckingmotherfuckingcuntfucker. JW promised himself: business class next time.

They ran through the safety procedures. JW read his magazine.

The plane started up.

He leaned back. Closed his eyes.

Relaxed.

“Beep! Beep!” someone yelled behind him. He turned around. Thought, No end to the misery. JW hadn’t seen them when he boarded. Behind him was a group of soccer fans, already smashed. One of them was shrieking himself red in the face. The other guys roared hysterically.

A flight attendant walked down the isle with determined steps. “Excuse me, can I help you with something?”

The guy pointed to a button in the ceiling. “I pressed the button here, but no one came, so I beeped myself.”

The guys doubled over.

The flight attendant fired off a snide remark. More laughter.

What a day. JW thanked God for his MP3 player, but the soccer asses’ laughter even penetrated the music.

Two hours later: landing at Stansted. JW followed the sleepy flock of passengers out through the passport control to the baggage claim. Played Chesswizz on his phone. His two bags came riding on the baggage belt. They looked unharmed. Relief.

Out through customs. Took the escalators down to Stansted Express.

JW calculated his total travel time. The flight: around two hours. With the accompanying trips-buses, subways, taxi-plus waiting, it would total six hours. Ryanair blew horse cock.

The train rolled into the station. An automated woman’s voice blazoned out: “This train leaves for London’s Liverpool Street Station in three minutes.”

He got on. Sat so he could see his Louis Vuitton bag in the luggage rack. Fished out his GQ. England was significantly warmer than Sweden. He sweated. Took off his Dior coat. Draped it over his lap.

The train conductor rocked an ultra-Cockney dialect. JW barely understood what he was saying when he suggested JW buy a return ticket now.

JW got out his cell phone and texed Abdulkarim, telling him he’d landed. Sent another text to Sophie: Hi, hot stuff. Just landed. It’s warm here. Slept on the plane. What are you up to? Talk in a couple of days. Luv /J.

A couple of hours later he was splayed out on the hotel bed, tired and still wet from the shower. He’d made a few calls to Fredrik’s and Jet Set Carl’s friends in London. Wanted to get plans lined up for the evening. Test the nightlife. Party and, above all, network.

The hotel was in Bayswater. A tourist trap-wall-to-wall carpeting in every nook. Even in the bathroom.

He’d booked rooms for Abdulkarim and Fahdi, too; he was going to cancel them tomorrow and get safe rooms at a luxury hotel instead if anything seemed fishy. In JW’s opinion: a fucking hassle. According to Abdulkarim, their phones could be tapped. The police could find out where they were staying, whom they were seeing, what they were doing in London. Therefore the quick changeability.

JW thought about Sophie. She’d really pressured him to tell her who his other friends were. What was she after? Why was she interested? He still didn’t know if it was intimacy she really wanted. After all, superficiality was a virtue in their crowd. In his darkest moments, JW suspected that she saw through him. That the show he’d been putting on was coming close to curtain. And why was it so important? Why didn’t he ever feel like he was good enough? What did he want to achieve? The last question mirrored another question: What’d Camilla wanted to achieve? Something’d been driving her. JW couldn’t decide if it was his job or the police’s to find out what.

Things had to turn soon. Things would turn.

He would get everything squared away. Radovan’s frostiness-a bad omen. R. sensed that Mrado didn’t see him as he had Jokso. And there was a difference. Jokso’d been a true guru, the man who’d brought the Serbs to the absolute top of Stockholm’s underworld. United, strong, loyal. Radovan didn’t have what it took. A weakling, a divider. Two-faced. Mrado was beginning to envision a path of his own: Maybe one day it’d be him and Nenad, alone.