Jens Lapidus - Easy Money

He was holding the shotgun in one hand, the computer in the other. Difficult to maneuver. He put the computer down. Groped in the pimp’s jacket pocket. The vibrations, unmistakable.

Got hold of the phone. A letter combination on the display: JSC. Only one person it could be-the Carl fucker.

Jorge picked up. “Yes.”

“Yo, it’s me. Could you put the one with the big tits in a cab to my house?”

Jorge, perplexed. The dude sounded trashed. What to say? Try to imitate Zlatko?

Instead, he mumbled as much as he could. “Sorry, she’s not here.”

“Damn, that’s too bad.”

A single thought: Have to say something smart. Something that will lead somewhere.

“Eh, so when is the next big thing happening again?”

“You ought to know, Mr. Fix. The twenty-ninth, in two weeks. The one with the tits really isn’t there?” Jet Set Carl was slurring worse than a heavyweight postknockout.

Jorge got a lightning rod-hot idea. “Sorry, no. Hey, one more thing. Had a guy here today who definitely has to come on the twenty-ninth.”

“Come on, get real. Not possible.”

“Fuck it is. Nenad okayed him. Just wanted to let you know, too. His alias is Daniel Cabrera.”

“All right, fine. You need a password?”

“Yeah, that’d be dope. Would you forward it to me?”

“I’ll forward it to you. You’re talking like a fucking lawyer. I’ll text you a word right now. Later.”

Jorge put the phone in his pocket. The shotgun under his jacket. The computer in his hand.

Threw a quick glance at the bodies. Felt sick.

Thought he’d be immune after all the video gore he’d watched as a kid. Really, it was just the opposite. He felt worse because of all the shit he’d seen on TV. Or it was just the effect of the blow-rush.

Pulled the sleeve of his sweater down over his hand in order to grip the handle to the front door. Nope, no CSI team would find his thumbprint.

He walked out. Felt Zlatko’s cell vibrate in his pocket-the text from Jet Set Carl.

It was dark out.

Hallonbergen by night.

Deserted.

JW was on his way to the Isle of Man. Manx Airways flew six times a day. It took a little over an hour from Heathrow to the airport outside Douglas, the main town on the island. As opposed to flying with Ryanair, it was smooth, speedy, stylish.

He was still walking around in a dream state-the quantities that could be shipped from Warwickshire. Pricing and upward curves. The C cycle-a sunny future for the trade. The Arab’s ideas would be realized. JW would be a wealthy man.

Two days ago, he’d met Nenad at a hotel in London. The man who was Abdul’s superior rocked a totally different style than the Arab. Felt good to meet the mythic/shadowy boss. To get closer to the top.

The negotiations with Nenad and the Brits’d gone well. They sat in one of the hotel’s conference rooms. Nenad’d booked a room first, but the Brits asked to switch it as soon as they got there. Nenad ate it up-higher security awareness than Abdulkarim.

The conference room was decorated with rococo furniture. An elliptical table of walnut wood in the middle of the room. Crystal wall lamps spread subdued lighting. Pretty different from Abdulkarim’s living room.

The Brits looked like soccer hooligans. Nothing like the style they’d seen on Chris, the guy who’d met JW, Abdulkarim, and Fahdi at the packaging plant. The guy in charge was in his fifties, with gray hair combed back and casual clothes: Paul & Shark polo shirt, Burberry jacket, and Prada shoes. Pockmarked face and calm demeanor. He oozed confident power. The other guy was overweight but hadn’t compensated for his size by wearing baggy clothes-gave a slightly ridiculous impression when the Pringle pullover stretched taut over the man’s spare tires. But after the initial pleasantries, that impression was wiped right out-the fatso was a bone-hard brainiac. JW sat with his notebook and calculator in front of him. The fatso did all the counting in his head.

They negotiated the price of the wares, different grades, shipping methods, payment systems. They went over the risks versus the proceeds. Customs, narcs, competing networks, companies that could be used as fronts. Ways to guarantee that neither side got ripped off. What would happen if pounds disappeared along the way. Transportation was ultimately at whose risk, exactly?

The Brits were cautious. Their routine felt calculated. After two hours, Nenad asked for a break.

They went up to Nenad’s room. Compared their negotiation position with their calculations. The deal Nenad was after consisted of 90 percent pure coke in cabbage for under 350 kronor a gram. Would probably total two containers, with five tons of cabbage per container. The five hundred outermost cabbages would go without C as a safety measure, in case of crap customs and sanitation department checks. Sum: two thousand cabbages filled with ice. Fifty grams per veggie, which is to say: one hundred kilos-220 twenty pounds-of cocaine to be transported by trailer and ferry. Some bribing of the shipping company would be necessary in order to separate the containers from those with only regular cabbages inside, and to keep a special eye on them when the situation demanded, including some bribes to actual cabbage suppliers. In Sweden, they had to cover the costs for driving, for reduced checks of the containers, plus fixed sales and distribution costs. Price tag from the Brits: between thirty and forty million. Price on the street in Stockholm after discounting price pressure: seventy to eighty million. Iiiiiill income.

After an hour and a half in the room, Nenad’d made up his mind. The deal was definitely worth going for. He set a bar for the lowest-possible price, plus a level of security, the highest imaginable.

They went down.

Continued negotiating with the Brits. The mood was good. Beneath the surface, the Brits’ attitude glared: You know you can’t get a better deal anywhere else. Gave them psychological advantage. Gave them mental strength.

The negotiations dragged on; they kept at it for another two hours. JW got exhausted by all the numbers, appraisals, and calculations. At the same time, he loved the whole thing.

By two o’clock, the two parties’d reached a preliminary agreement. The tension eased up. Nenad shook hands with the older Brit. They looked deeply into each other’s eyes-the code of honor sealed the deal.

They would reconvene the next day at noon to confirm that the sale was finalized.

Nenad and JW had a seat in the piano bar at the hotel.

The Yugo ordered in two cognacs.

“JW, thank you for your help. I will convey my praise to Abdulkarim.”

“Thank you for letting me take part. It was very interesting. I think we got a good deal in the end.”

“Me, too. After our drink here, I’m going to run some numbers by Stockholm and hopefully get the whole deal approved.”

“By who?”

“JW, sometimes it’s best not to ask.”

JW didn’t answer. He’d seen the same stiff facial expression on Abdulkarim when his boss’d come up in conversation-the Arab’d never mentioned Nenad, even though JW’d nagged. The layers between the levels in the dealing hierarchy were airtight.

“One more thing. You’ve never met me. Don’t recognize me. Won’t call out to me at a bar. Will never mention my name to anyone.”

JW got it. Nodded.

“It might get really sad if you do,” Nenad said gravely.

“It’s cool. I understand. Really. I understand.”

The plane was small; each row was only one chair wide.

JW was forced to keep his phone turned off. The restlessness gnawed. He thought about what the police were doing. Were they getting anywhere? Maybe they’d called while he was away. If not, should he call Mom and tell her everything? She felt so remote. Bengt felt even more remote, on his way out of the picture altogether.