Jens Lapidus - Easy Money

“What is your name?”

“Tell Carl, Daniel Cabrera says hello.”

The guard took a few steps back. Talked on a phone or a walkie-talkie. Returned. The patronizing chill was back.

“He doesn’t know who you are. I am going to have to ask you to leave the premises now.”

Jorge remained ice-cold.

“Are you fucking with me? Call him again. Tell him it’s Daniel Cabrera and that Moët is on the way. He can check his cell if his memory’s failing.”

The guard took a few steps back again. Talked on his phone.

Jorge hoped for luck.

After twenty seconds, the gates slid open.

J-boy was in.

He parked the car alongside the others. Counted five Porsches. What kind of place was this anyway?

The house in front of him was big. Three stories. Pillars around the entrance. Ill Beverly Hills style. Supersized McMansion. Did Sweden have stuff like that? Pretty clear: Yup.

Music could be heard from inside.

A man had just gotten out of his BMW. Walked toward the entrance. Jorge followed the guy, who glanced quickly over his shoulder. Saw Jorge. Ignored him. Kept walking. Jorge caught up with him. Extended his hand.

“Hi. My name is Daniel. This gonna be a good night, or what?” Laughed.

The man looked back at him. “It’s usually pleasant. I haven’t seen you before.”

“No, I just got back from New York after a few years. Damn nice city. Already miss it.”

They reached the entrance. Jorge had time to think: I don’t even know in what capacity I’ve been invited. The door was opened from the inside before they’d even reached it. A dude in a suit, with a side part and a strong jaw, held it open for them. Another guard, but better dressed. Greeted the man Jorge’d just been talking to. He slid past. The guard eyed Jorge. Suspicious.

Held out his arm. Jorge stopped just inside the door. The guard asked for his name. Jorge rocked a confident VIP-born attitude. “I’m Daniel Cabrera.”

The guard said, “Do you know Claes?”

Jorge assumed he meant the man Jorge’d tried to talk to on the way in. The dude’d just checked his coat, disappeared in through a dark wood door. Jorge chanced it. “Sure I know Claes.”

The guard: still suspicious. Called someone on his cell.

Nodded.

To Jorge: “Pardon me. I hadn’t been informed that you were invited. Welcome.”

J-boy-James Bond, through and through.

The organizers seemed as confused as Jorge was. He’d thought he was gonna work for Nenad. Now he appeared to be a guest.

Just play along.

A coat-check girl came to take his coat. Nice to lose it. It didn’t fit in. She asked him for his cell phone. Jorge didn’t think about why. Handed it over. Anyway, unnecessary to make a fuss.

He hadn’t reacted at first. Not when the old guy, Claes, had checked his coat or when the girl took his. But now he looked at the coat-check girl one more time. A miniskirt so short, the bottom of her ass cheeks peeked out. Black stay-ups that ended in a lace border halfway up her thigh, left eight inches of provocative skin bare. The pink top-not whorishly cheap, but low-cut enough for her cleavage to form an obvious bull’s-eye for the gazes of the coat-check customers.

Obvious-this was no ordinary coat-check chick. She was some sort of spiced-up call girl.

Jorge opened the dark wood door though which Claes’d disappeared into the house.

Walked through a hallway. The noise grew. Party music. Giggles and chatter.

At the end of the hall, another dark door. Just as Jorge was about to open it, he smelled cigar smoke.

On the other side of the door.

Unreal.

A roomful of people.

Old guys. Well dressed, many in suits and ties. Some, like Jorge, in suits with no ties, a couple of buttons on the shirts leisurely undone. Others in blazers and slacks. Gray hairlines. Deep wrinkles in their cheeks when they smiled. They all looked to be somewhere between forty and sixty.

A few guards/organizers. All younger. Men. Soberly dressed-blazers, light-colored pants, dark turtlenecks or shirts without ties. Jet Set Carl flitted past, a glass of champagne in each hand.

Striking-all the girls were a variation on the coat-check chick. Miniskirts, hot pants, tights. Tops, tank tops, blouses that revealed more than they covered. Garter belts that showed, fake tits that bulged, stilettos, gleaming, glossy lips.

A girl for every taste. Thin, lanky, tall girls. Superbusty broads. Blacks, blondes, Asians. Girls with gripping gazes. Girls with empty eyes.

Still, not a filthy feel. Jorge was astonished. There was something else-a homey feeling. He pushed into the crowd. Counted heads. At least forty men and as many, probably more, women, and then another dozen or so staff. Pounding music. Glowing cigars in wrinkled hands.

Obviously some sort of brothel business, even if he hadn’t quite figured out how yet. Still, the mood was like at a large private party. Purely theoretically: Could’ve been the house owner’s invited friends and their significant others. But not a chance that all these geezers had girlfriends this young. Too good to be true. Or, the house owner’s male acquaintances plus some party chicks who’d been delivered to lighten the mood. But there was something more than that in the air.

Jorge looked around again.

The room was large. An enormous crystal chandelier was hanging from the ceiling. Spotlights were suspended from the walls. Speakers in a corner. One part of the room was made up of a bar manned by a guy and four girls. Busy mixing drinks. Most of the men stood in clusters with one another or surrounded by girls. Five girls were dancing right underneath the chandelier-at any other place, their moves would’ve been considered unnecessarily provocative.

Jorge positioned himself by the bar. Ordered a gin and tonic. Felt insecure. How should he act? What did he really want to achieve with this? WHERE THE HELL WAS HE?

Gulped the drink. Asked for a cigar, Habana Corona. Buena onda. The girl behind the bar held up a cigar lighter. Small, extra-hot flame. She pouted. Jorge looked away. Sucked the cigar.

Tried to think clearly. Couldn’t let the panic take hold.

Tranquilo.

Did he recognize anyone? Could anyone recognize him? The men: Swedish, well groomed. Posture, poise, attitude. Obvious signals of power. Jorge didn’t recognize a single face. So, no one should recognize him, either. The staff: Yugo meatheads and Jet Set Carl, plus some of his peeps, the party organizers. The brats. Jorge didn’t think the Jet Set dude would recognize him from Kharma; the guy’d been totally trashed. The biggest risk: that Jet Set Carl was extra vigilant because of the shots in Hallonbergen. On the other hand, he’d apparently chosen to organize this party. Chico wasn’t the cautious type.

Jorge hadn’t seen Radovan or Nenad. He should find out if they were here.

He took it chill-one out of about one hundred people. The guests probably thought he was a guard. The guards thought he was a guest.

Jorge gazed out at the room. Considered his next move. Listened to two men next to him at the bar.

One: darting gaze. Relentlessly checking out the girls in the room. The other: calmer. Took deep drags on a thick cigar. They seemed to know each other well.

“These events just get better and better.”

The man with the cigar laughed. “Damn well arranged this year, I think.”

“Just look at the women he gets. I’m going crazy over here.”

“That’s the point. You weren’t at Christopher Sandberg’s two months ago, were you?”

“No, I don’t know him. Was it nice?”

“Wow. Amazing. Christopher is as honorable a guy as Sven here.”

“I heard Christopher bought a new house near you guys.”