Jens Lapidus - Easy Money

“You got so quiet. Are you mad?” Paola asked.

“When we were at Liseberg, remember? We rode the Flumride.”

Suddenly, her voice was serious.

“Jorgelito, who’re you running away from, really?”

A moment of silence.

“Whattya mean? The Five-Oh, of course.”

“A few months ago, I got threatened at the university, and it wasn’t by the police.”

Jorge’s eyes blackened-not the effect of his contacts.

Hate.

“I know, Paola. That’ll never happen again. The person who did that is gonna be punished. I swear on Papa’s grave.”

She shook her head. “You don’t have to punish anyone.”

“You don’t understand. I can’t live with myself if the people who threatened you don’t pay. I’ve been fucked all my life. Rodriguez, SS hags, cops. And now the Yugo fuckers. At Österåker, I learned to lay low when necessary but to stand up when it really mattered. I am somebody. Did you know that? I make mad cash. I’m on my way up. I’ve got a career. A plan.”

“You should think again.”

“I don’t want to talk to you about this. Can’t we just chill?”

The tension evaporated as quickly as it’d flared up.

They chatted about other stuff.

Time raced by. Jorge didn’t dare stay too long. They finished their tea. Paola refilled the mugs. A new bag this time. Topped it with a little cold water so Jorge’d be able to drink right away.

There was a white IKEA dresser in the hall that Jorge recognized from the apartment they’d grown up in on Malmvägen. High-heeled leather boots, sneakers, loafers, and a pair of Bally winter boots in rows.

“You can afford those?” Jorge pointed at the Bally boots.

“My boyfriend the asshole gave them to me.”

“Why?”

Paola smiled again. “You’re not too quick, junior. Can’t you tell? I can’t walk around in heels. I’m gonna be a mama.”

The subway usually lulled him to sleep. Not now. He was speeded.

J-boy was gonna be an uncle.

Sooooooo ill.

Needed time to digest.

Had to slam those swine before Paola had the baby.

Had to haul in a massive harvest before Paola gave birth.

Her child was gonna get all the advantages a flush uncle could give.

Her child was gonna get an uncle who’d punished those who’d hurt the Salinas Barrio family.

Money-laundering schemes were difficult, but JW’d done his homework. New rules and regulations were constantly being instituted-EU directives, commissions, and reports. Collaboration between banks, financial institutions, and credit card companies. Stricter reporting requirements, increased cross-checks, more questions. The EU pressured the Financial Supervisory Authority. The Financial Supervisory Authority pressured the banks. The banks pressured the clients.

Impossible to stay under the mandatory reporting requirement when the amounts got too big. The banks coordinated their systems; a deposit into a certain account at one office showed up everywhere. Electronic registries connected any suspicious transactions.

But JW was a laundry master. He’d made connections, mastered trust, manufactured solutions. His Swedish companies each had point persons at different banks and their own accounts with credit. Smiles and explanations about a cash-heavy industry in English antique furniture ought to do it. As long as they believed he was conducting credible business, it was all good.

A hundred grand was packed in his Prada bag when he was on his way to see his two contacts, one at Handelsbanken, the other at the SEB bank.

It’d been a week since he’d gotten back. The system was pure genius. Dirty cash in and two ways to get it out to the island. The first way-through invoices to British companies for phony marketing costs, all payable to his island company’s bank account. JW’d gotten the idea from the 2005 Ericsson bribery scandals. The smart thing was, of course, that he wasn’t messing with shady deposits, but payments. It looked better, didn’t raise eyebrows-an English furniture buyer needs to be marketed in England. His bank contacts would consider it completely natural. And, the second way, in order to diversify his methods-by packing thousand-kronor bills and snail-mailing them to the Isle of Man. Then he had someone there collect the package and deposit the money in the island company’s account. It was more dangerous, but you couldn’t travel on your own with that much cash. The metal detectors’d react right away to the metal threads in the bills.

The Swedish banks wouldn’t suspect deposits that were payments for something. He’d made the invoices himself. Not even a full-time graphic designer could’ve made more authentic-looking logos for a British marketing agency. He was so damn pleased.

The hard cash turned electronic through the payments made in Sweden or the deposits on the island. The accounts on the island were controlled by his companies. Confidentiality cut off all search routes to the companies. The money was his, undetectable to anyone here. And then, the island companies lent money to his company in Sweden. That was how his finances were actually replenished. Totally clean, white cash. Because the glory of it all was that anyone could be rich on borrowed money. Big Brother wouldn’t wonder. The interest rates and repayment requirements were set at market standard. Were even deductible.

At Handelsbanken, he took a queue number, then stood reading the text rolling on the screens. The market was going up. JW’d already bought some shares: Ericsson, H &M, and SCA. A good mix. Ericsson, the telecom stock that’d risen over 300 percent. H &M, the company that soared even during times of recession. And SCA, the serene security of timber. Spiced it up with two smaller companies, one IT company that manufactured routers, one biotech company that developed anti-Alzheimer’s medicine. Stocks were another filter to purify filthy change. Capital gains from the stock market were taxed, considered normal, weren’t questioned. Incorporated into the system. A future step in the money-laundering carousel-maybe he’d get in touch with a broker to tumble dry even bigger sums.

What’s more, the stock market gave him good talking points with his buds. The boyz and stocks, like Abdulkarim and coke. The bigger the money, the greater the buzz.

JW eyed the line; it was worse than at the Skavsta Airport check-in. The fifty thousand kronor he’d taken from the Prada bag burned in the pocket of his Dior coat. JW thought, If anyone stabs me, the wad of bills will catch the blade and save my life.

He thought about the packaging farm in the English countryside. Chris, the guy who ran the place, was still just an underling of the soccer hooligans who were really in charge. He’d been a part of something really big for the first time in his life. It felt so incredibly good and so ridiculously difficult not to tell Sophie anything.

It was JW’s turn at the counter.

He stepped up.

Became aware of his hand sweat.

Tried to smile.

“Is Annika Westermark available?”

The cashier smiled back. “Sure. Would you like me to get her for you?”

A miscalculation by JW. He’d hoped to go into Annika Westermark’s private office in order to give her the cash there. Not have to heap it up on the counter.

Annika Westermark appeared behind the glass dressed in a dark suit in conservative banker style, just like the last time he’d met her and told her about his furniture business.

JW leaned forward. “Hi, Annika. How are you today?”

“Fine, thank you. How are you?”

JW piled on the entrepreneurial small-business-owner style. “Hell yeah, things’re rolling. This month has been very successful, which is really awesome. I’ve had three interior designers buying a scary number of sofa groups.” He laughed.