Jens Lapidus - Easy Money

He ruminated. Should he screw Radovan’s orders and run a night along the coat-check route? Before he’d even finished the thought, he realized what a shitty impulse it was. Kamikaze idea.

But, on the other hand, Radovan wasn’t immortal. He thought he was Jokso, but just like for Jokso, the carpet could be pulled from under his feet in an instant.

In Mrado’s head: the possibility of busting Rado’s monopoly.

The idea had to be perfected.

Mrado’s thoughts flowed in conked-out currents. But at the same time, on an energy-efficient circuit, the idea was sparking: His strength was in his contacts; he should be able to break Rado, trick the fucking turncoat. If R. was planning to redecorate the Yugo hierarchy, there was a chance someone else’d been given the boot, too. Mrado had to find out who.

He rummaged around rumors. Dug dirt. Ratko knew some. Bobban some. Radovan was in the process of cleaning out the house.

Mrado guessed. Probably not Goran. Not Stefanovic. Could it be his friend Nenad?

Mrado began preparations for breaking out on his own the following day.

He was gonna play like in poker, even though it’d gone to hell the last time at the casino: the Big Slick. All or nothing. Mrado’d made up his mind. He was gonna take the plunge-all in.

Mrado versus the Stockholm underworld’s single most powerful man. It required planning.

Mrado versus Jokso’s heir to the throne. It demanded brainpower.

Mrado versus a tool. Mrado would take home the trophy, but he needed faith even to make himself believe it.

He brought out the notebook that’d been left untouched since he’d gone Latino hunting.

Thought about everything he’d done for Rado just to find that blatte. Broken the fingers of the fugitive’s cousin. Beaten up his chick. Waited in his car day and night and interrogated bums outside of homeless shelters. Turned the Latino into a human puddle. And what were his thanks? Mrado’d made up his mind-he couldn’t let it end with his own humiliation.

At the top of a fresh page in the notebook, he wrote, Secure my life.

Started to list measures that had to be taken.

Move. Alternatives: become a lodger, sublet, buy a house through a front man, get a trailer.

He reread what he’d just written. Get a trailer-yeah right. Still, let it stand. He had to brainstorm. All ideas had to be put to paper.

Kept going.

Get a new car.

Get a dog: pit bull, German shepherd, or other attack dog.

Always keep the bulletproof vest on.

Get an even lighter gun. To carry, always.

Get an even better alarm system for the car and potential new home.

Arrange for a bodyguard. Possible people: Ratko, Bobban, Mahmud. Who can be trusted?

Stop training at Fitness Club.

Stop training at Pancrease.

Stop eating at Clara’s and Bronco’s.

Get a new cell phone and prepaid plan.

Start going to a new gym.

Change habits. Drive different roads to the same place. Change workout schedule.

Make Lovisa move, switch schools, and get an unlisted address.

Get a PO box address.

Write down and collect evidence about what I know about Radovan’s business and store it in a safe place. My best insurance policy.

He looked over the list again.

As was his habit, he underlined one word: Lovisa.

Most important. Most difficult.

He called her mother, the hate object, Annika.

No answer.

He left her a message. Hoped she would call back despite the mess with family court.

Decided once again. He’d make a go for R. But he had to take it easy. No point in rushing. The preparations were key.

Two days later. Nenad’s slow drawl on the phone. “Mrado, are you somewhere you can talk?”

“Yeah, sure. What’s up? When did you get back from London?”

Mrado’s interest was piqued. Nenad’s tone suggested something.

“I got back a few days ago. Things went fantastic there. Anything happen here at home? How’s your daughter? Is your line secure?”

Nenad let the last question slip in as though he’d asked about the latest K-1 fight on TV, something totally normal.

“These days? With you and me both marked by the Nova bitches? I don’t think so.”

“Could you meet me outside Ringen in twenty? It’s important.”

Dreary weather outside. March’s drabness was dragging on for longer than usual. And the area by Ringen was as dreary as the weather. Across from Ringen: the Clarion Hotel’s enormous entrance illuminated by colorful spotlights.

It was quarter past three in the afternoon. A Sunday.

Nenad arrived with the fur collar on his coat popped-mink against three-day stubble. Mrado saw something in his gaze he’d never seen in Nenad’s eyes before. Mrado thought, Is it panic/fear or just confusion? Something’d happened to Nenad; it was obvious.

They walked into the Clarion.

Nenad talked to a pretty girl at the reception desk. He’d apparently planned this well-had booked a mini spa session.

They walked up a flight of stairs. The smell of chlorine hit them in the hallway.

Registered at another reception desk. Got towels with the Clarion’s monogram embroidered in gold-colored thread. Felt slippers. A set of bottles each: shower gel, shampoo, conditioner, moisturizer. Terry-cloth bathrobes.

The door to the pool was fogged up.

They went straight to the showers. Rinsed off. Didn’t bother with the regular sauna.

Nenad’d booked nice; a private mini sauna was included.

The mini sauna fit three people on the top and three people on the lower level. Classic wood paneling covered the walls and ceiling. On one short side was a round window facing out to the Skanstull Bridge-ultraurban. Cool.

They each sat down on a towel.

Mrado studied Nenad’s face again. That strange something was still there in his eyes, and he looked tired, too. Not his usual, confident self. Something was off.

“Mrado, you’re the only one I trust right now.”

Mrado cut right to the chase. “What happened?”

“Shit show.”

“I’m not totally surprised. All of you is radiating ‘shit show.’ Let me guess. Rado shit.”

“Bull’s-eye. I suspected you knew. I’ve been cut. Demoted. Humiliated.”

“Tell me.” Mrado, strategic: was gonna wait to drop his own bomb.

“Came home from London two days ago. Rigged the biggest fucking deal ever. You can’t even imagine, it’s so huge. Then what happens? Rado calls my house at one in the morning. I’m making out with this hot little piece of Östermalm ass I brought home. I go there. To his house, that is. Stefanovic brings me into the lib. Classic Radovan audience. Then I get a long lecture about his fucking ideas, a lot of smack about the new type of organization. Ends with him telling me I’m no longer in charge of the C business and am being demoted in the call-girl sphere. That I’m a fucking nobody. That I can forget about my role in the group. And, you know, I just sat there and took it. Felt the pressure-if I’d put up a fight, it could’ve ended there. Stefanovic was trigger-happy. Fuck. That’s the thanks I get. That cunt. And I just busted my hump in London for that douchebag. Biggest fucking deal ever.”

Nenad’s reaction as opposed to Mrado’s: healthier/angrier/more childish. Mrado envied him. That was the right way to tackle this shit. To lose it.

“Nenad, same thing happened to me the day before.”

Nenad’s mouth looked like a gaping black hole in the heat of the sauna. Both felt the same way. But above all, they felt relieved not to be alone. Someone to share the shit with. Someone to plan the counterattack with.