Jens Lapidus - Easy Money

He didn’t fit into these kinds of environments. It was strange-the same insecurity that overwhelmed the people he pressed for dough, squeezed confessions out of, threatened with death, he felt in totally ordinary places. In the grocery store, in the pizzeria, on the street. Thought people stared at him, that they saw right through him. Recognized a dirty citizen, a criminal parasite, a bad father.

And still, when he saw them-the people in the grocery store-it was clear that what they needed was to pump up their lives. Feel some voltage, get kicks. Experience the adrenaline rush in the ring at Pancrease. The serotonin level when you broke someone’s nose. The cracking sound, like dry boards, when the hand’s first two knuckles met the nose bone’s cartilage. Mrado knew what it meant to be alive.

He flipped through a cell phone magazine he’d plucked from the rack by the checkout. New finesses: TV in your phone, pay with your phone, porn in your phone.

Someone said his name.

“Mrado, is that you?”

Mrado looked up. Instant indignity. Freebie reading instead of buying. Embarrassing.

“What’s up?”

Mrado recognized the guy. Hadn’t seen him in ages. Old classmate from Södertälje, Martin. The class’s brainiac.

“Martin, good to see you.”

“Damn, Mrado, it’s been years. Did you go to the reunion, whenever that was?”

The reunion: ten years after Mrado’d graduated from junior high. He’d been twenty-six at the time. At first, thought he’d screw it. Then chosen to show them. The fist champion they’d all hated was still a fist champion. With one difference-now he made out like a king. He’d sat with Ratko at a pub in the area an hour before. Downed three beers and two fat whiskeys. Hadn’t felt ripe enough to go without warming up.

“Sure, the reunion. That. What’re you up to nowadays?”

Mrado wanted to drop the subject. The reunion’d ended in a fiasco: Mrado in a fight with two old antagonists. Nothing’d changed-they were still on his back. Hadn’t understood who he’d become.

“I work in the federal court,” Martin replied.

Mrado, surprised. Martin in a green windbreaker, worn jeans, Von Dutch baseball hat. Looked young, chill. Not exactly the lawyerly type.

“Interesting. Are you a judge?”

“Yeah, I work as a deputy judge at the court of appeals. A ton of work. We’re criminally understaffed, toiling like beasts. It’s not unusual to pull sixty-hour weeks. We just maintain the rule of law. Nothing important. No siree. Sometimes you wonder about the values in this country. In the States, they value academics completely differently. Nope, the courts of law aren’t worth shit. Seriously, it’s totally messed up. I would make three times as much if I went corporate.”

“Then why don’t you?”

Martin pushed back his Von Dutch hat. “I happen to believe in this. Functioning courts, a court system where the best lawyers’ work guarantees a constitutional state. The possibility for people to have their sentences and rulings tried in appellate courts. Faster processing times without mistakes, carefully considered and consistent verdicts.”

Mrado hoped he wouldn’t have to talk about himself. He said, “You should be happy you work with something you believe in.”

“Don’t know if I believe in it anymore. I mean, we keep pushing the sludge through, but the slime is growing exponentially. Crime just gets smarter and more grisly, not to mention that there’s more of it. The police can’t keep up. We convict them as fast as we can, but they come right back again after two years, when they’ve done their time and are roaming the streets again. Often, they commit the exact same crime that we convicted them for the first time. Do they change? Not a piss. Soon the gangs are gonna fucking take over this city. Maybe I should offer my services to them instead. Better pay. Ha-ha. Anyway, what’re you up to?”

In Mrado’s head: I knew it was coming. What do you tell a judge? Mrado liked the guy somehow. At the same time, he felt it unwise to talk to a law fanatic. If he heard so much as a whisper about Mrado’s business, there’d be a hell of a racket.

“I work with teak.” Thought, Keep it simple. I do run that kind of company anyway. Less than 100,000 kronor in turnaround a year, but still. The perfect cover.

“Are you a carpenter?”

“Sort of. I import, mostly.”

Mrado suddenly wanted to stop talking, stop lying. He added the cell phone magazine to his shopping basket. Started to walk toward the checkout.

“Martin, nice to see you. I gotta go now. Am seeing my daughter.”

Martin smiled. Pushed his cap back low over his brow again. Looked trendy.

They shook hands. Mrado got in the checkout line. Thought, The dude convicts people like me every day. Imagine if he knew.

Martin disappeared into the store.

Mrado couldn’t stop harping. What if he already knows. What if he was just being polite. Fuck, maybe I should quit. For my own sake. For Lovisa’s sake.

At the same time, another voice was screaming inside: If you quit, who are you? If you don’t get even with Radovan, who are you? A nobody.

Martin’d lived on the same street as Mrado until the ninth grade. Then he’d moved to a better area north of the city.

He reminded Mrado of his school days. Mrado’d come with his parents to Sweden when he was three years old. Work immigration. Saab-Scania, big industry. Södertälje needed people. Sweden’d cut the visa requirements for Yugoslavians a few years earlier. Södertälje was crawling with Greeks, Finns, Italians, Yugos. The Syrians and Turks came later. Back then, the Yugos stuck together. No difference between Serbs, Croatians, and Bosnians. Tito was their hero. How wrong they’d been. Naïve. Gullible. Thought you could trust the Croatians and the Bosnians. Today, Mrado wouldn’t even piss on a Bosnian if he were on fire.

The catchword was Miljonprojekt, the state-run Million Program to create project housing and opportunities. Everyone worked hard. Mrado did, too. Every day, he’d beat one person up or get beaten up by a couple of people. They were always aggressive, armed. In bigger numbers. He bit the bullet. Never told anyone at home. Sharpened his knuckles. Learned to take a beating. Above all, learned to give a beating. Shootfighting at the basic level-kick to the shins, punch in the stomach, bite, scratch, aim for the eyes. He’d already become a fight-trick master by then. King of dirty play. A name in Södertälje.

He became respected. Did his own thing. No one got in his way. After finishing ninth grade, he never saw anyone from school again. Instead, he enrolled in an electronic and telephonic technical program at Ericsson’s own high school by Telefonplan. Dropped out his junior year and started working as a bouncer. Then straight up on the Yugo career ladder. And now he was gonna reach the top.

Mrado looked down at the girl manning the cash register. Thought, If I was a real father, I’d have an ICA rewards card. Instead, he pulled out his wad of cash. Sliced some cheddar off the top.

The girl didn’t seem to give a damn.

He saw Martin get in the line.

Looked away.

MEMORANDUM

(Confidential pursuant to chapter 9, paragraph 12 of the Secrecy Act)

PROJECT NOVA

COUNTY CRIMINAL POLICE INITIATIVE AGAINST

ORGANIZED CRIME

Balkan-related crime in Stockholm

Report Number 9

Background Information

The following memorandum is based on reports and reported suspicions from the Special Gang Commission and the Norrmalm police’s Financial Crime Investigation Unit in collaboration with the United County Effort Against Organized Crime in the Stockholm Area (collectively referred to below as the Surveillance Group). The methods employed include mapping, with the help of the combined experience of the Stockholm police; the collection of information from people within the criminal networks, so-called rats; secret wiretapping and bugging, as well as the coordination of requisite registries.