Jens Lapidus - Easy Money

They talked for two hours. In and out of the sauna. Sitting in reclining wooden chairs outside the sauna. In the showers. In the pool. Ladled water onto the coals. Let the steam rise. Breathed through their mouths. Analyzed. Scrutinized. Rhapsodized.

Why’d they been demoted? What did the situation look like in terms of potential repudiation? Sit tight or try to strike back right away?

Mrado told Nenad in detail how he’d tried to cut himself a bigger slice of the coat-check cake and about his work with the market division. Which persons might be of help. Who he’d made a good connection with, the Bandidos’ Jonas Haakonsen, the Wolfpack Brotherhood’s Magnus Lindén, and others. But above all, he told Nenad about the feeling he’d had of a confidence crisis between himself and R.

They’d never before spoken so openly about the situation within the organization. And what was encouraging was that they shared so many views regarding Rado.

By the time they parted ways, they’d established three principles. It was the two of them together now. They would keep their mouths fucking watertight about all this. And the only way out: Radovan’s fall or their own.

Let the war begin.

Obvious-something’d happened to her.

Jorge’d called the brothel madam at least fifteen times a day for the past two days. The effect: She’d stopped picking up her phone. The rings went unanswered. She’d probably gotten a new number. Before she’d stopped picking up, he’d gotten the same answer every time: “I’m sorry, I have no idea where Nadja is.” Fat chance- mentirosa.

In summation, the situation was clear: Nadja’s disappearance, the terror in the eyes of the hooker in her room, the brothel madam’s lies.

The tough question: Was it his fault? The thought ate away at him. Ordinary Jorge’s basic philosophy: No one is responsible for anyone else. Life’s too short to wait around for cash flow. Serve yourself and let others take care of themselves. Worked for blow biz. Worked for cigarette deals at Österåker. Worked when there were direct material gains for J-boy to collect. But now there was something else driving him.

Jorge saw himself as the Yugos’ nemesis. And the war against them entailed dangers for others. He already knew that. They’d threatened to hurt Paola. Now Nadja was gone. Where was she? What did she know?

When he found out what’d happened to her-Radovan would have to pay for that, too. Project R. just became more and more important.

Abdulkarim and Fahdi were back from London. Apparently, they had a massive deal in the works there. Abdulkarim’d called. Been restrained. Still, it was obvious-his voice verging on ecstasy. Bare brief: A shipment would arrive within a few months. He didn’t say with what, how much, from whom, not exactly when, not how. Until then, they’d move the grams that Jorge’d recently pocketed via the Brazilian. Plus other smaller shipments coming up. Above all, they were gonna keep expanding the market. More sales channels, corners, enlisted bodies.

Blow was blowing up. Jorge was happy he’d stayed in Svenland. Thought back to when JW’d stood bent over him in the woods. Explained Abdulkarim’s grand borough expansion. And now, the kale was being harvested faster and thicker than for a big publicly traded company. A project player’s predetermined track.

In Jorge’s mind, the money increasingly became a means rather than an end. A potent instrument in the enactment of Project R.

Next phase: work on Giant Karl.

Jorge knew the following: Radovan ran a prostitution business. Nenad was in charge. Girls were imported from the former Yugoslavia and other Eastern Bloc countries. Pure fucking Lilya 4-Ever. And there were Swedish women involved, too. Nadja’s brothel was a part of the business. The place was run by the brothel madam, Jelena Lukic, and the dude with the hoodie. Jorge’d looked him up: Zlatko Petrovic. Nadja’d had her own pimp or boyfriend-the giant, Micke. The latter’s role was somewhat unclear. More interesting: The apartment brothel wasn’t the only one in Radovan’s whore empire. There were more. Further fucking in finer places with finer females. Nadja’d told him: Swedish men’d partaken in parties whose only purpose was for the poor suckers to dip their wicks. Probably paid Radovan handsomely. Gave the Yugo boss contacts and protection, too. The crux: Nothing pointed straight to Radovan, not even to Nenad. Everyone knew who was behind it, but no one’d seen anything. With one exception: Nadja’d met Radovan at one of the pussy parties. He had to see her. Know more.

According to Nadja, there were two people involved in organizing the parties and fixing up the girls: a Jonte and a Giant Karl.

According to Sophie: a Jet Set Carl-Stureplan’s golden god, party pasha, scenester supreme.

According to Jorge: The names were too similar to be a coincidence.

Evening. Jorge, ready to go. Sitting with Fahdi at home in the gorilla’s lair. Vodka, Schweppes tonic, and weed on the table. IKEA glasses, half-melted ice cubes in a deep bowl, Rizla papers, and a lighter. On the TV: Jenna Jameson being mounted by two American musclemen, on mute. From the speakers: Usher. Fahdi informed him matter-of-factly, “He first Negro ever with three hits on Billboard lists in States. Racist pigs.” Fahdi’d clearly been influenced by Abdulkarim. Generally believed that USA spelled Satan. Took every opportunity to hate on the place.

Jorge’s idea for the night was simple. They’d hit the town. Raid Stureplan. Find Jet Set Carl. Then Jorge would have a talk with the guy. Finally: Jorge and Fahdi would each find a blonde. With luck, get to play an away game.

Fahdi kept talking about London. Proudly exhibited his Gucci jacket. Described hot strippers, glam boutiques, thick crowds. Described the gun he’d had there.

Jorge wasn’t too impressed. Remembered the arsenal Fahdi kept hidden in his closet. The dude was a traveling army.

They downed their drinks.

Jorge rose. “Should we bring some fun?” He pointed toward the kitchen, where scales and envelopes were spread out alongside Red Line baggies of blow.

Fahdi got up, as well. “For us or sell?”

“Not to sell. I’ve pretty much stopped selling retail. Anyway, that’s JW’s turf. We don’t compete with our own. When’s he coming home?”

“No clue. Had stuff to take care of in England. Staying a couple extra days.”

Jorge thought, Fahdi-the guys in Dumb & Dumber were smart in comparison. He didn’t get the rules of the game. The pyramid: Some sold on the streets, some sold to dealers, and some sold to the dealers’ dealers. Nowadays, Jorge was almost on top. But Fahdi had strengths-a certain kindness and, obviously, his muscle power.

They called for a cab. Automatic recording on the other end of the line: “Would you like a taxi to come to ROSENHILLSVÄGEN right away? Press one.”

Jorge said, “Why do they always gotta yell the street name double as loud as the rest of the sentence, so you get tinnitus for the rest of the night?” Jorge pressed one.

They went down to the street. Jumped in the cab. The Stockholm night down to town.

Stureplan in full swing.

They got out by Svampen. Looked around. Where to begin?

The places around Stureplan’s party aorta had their own particular caste system. Kharma, Laroy, Plaza, and Köket-on top. Richest/brattiest/best. Sturehof, Sturecompagniet, the Lydmar Hotel-next tier. Select/bratty/somewhat older scene. Spy Bar, Clara’s-YugoMafia/bodybuilder/celeb locus. The Lab, East-had their own clientele. Undici, Crazy Horse-regular honest-to-goodness Sven dank dives.

Easy equation: Jorge and Fahdi had to get into a top-caste place. Hardest. Especially for two male immigrants with the word blatte written across their foreheads in neon letters.