Jens Lapidus - Easy Money

“It’s cool. I just chatted a little. Ended up staying in here.”

The bouncer guy didn’t look pleased. “No cell phones in here. Don’t you know that?”

Jorge repeated, “I just chatted with a colleague. What’s your problem?” Jorge tried to sound self-assured. “Maybe we should talk to Sven Bolinder about this?”

The bouncer hesitated.

Jorge plowed on-it’d worked by the gates.

“Come on. Let’s take this to Sven. I’m apparently not allowed to borrow a phone and make a call. Is that what you’re saying?” Jorge pointed over toward Sven Bolinder. The nasty old hound was seated in one of the armchairs, closely entwined with a girl who didn’t look a day over seventeen.

The bouncer hesitated even more.

Jorge kept pushing. “I’m sure he’d love to be bothered right now.”

Tension in the air.

The bartender looked at the bouncer.

The bouncer gave up. Apologized. Walked away.

Jorge acted calm. Inside: keyed up like crazy.

He had to get away from there.

Walked out to the coat check.

When the coat-check girl handed him his coat, she said, “Too bad you’re leaving, sweetie,” in an accent he couldn’t place.

Jorge, silent.

Took the coat.

Walked out.

Didn’t see any guards.

He started the car. Drove toward the gates.

It was half-past twelve.

The gates slid open.

He drove out onto the road.

Away from Smådalarö.

Away from the sickest shit on this side of the Pinochet era.

He thought, Captains of industry cavort like kings.

Fuck yourselves.

Jorge’s the King.

The feel of double-double-gaming was titillating. At the same time, it was strange and demanding-almost too many lies to keep track of. The fact was that JW needed to study his own lies instead of his finance textbook, or else there was a risk he’d let his tongue slip.

People thought he was a backslick brat. Really, he was a regular Joe Schmo pleb who made his money in the dirtiest way possible. Abdulkarim thought he made his money by working for him, administrating the C business. Really, JW was gonna make the big time by betraying Abdul for Nenad.

But whom was he betraying, really? Above the bosses were other bosses. He worked for Abdulkarim, who worked for Nenad, who apparently worked or had worked for someone else. Why all this hush-hush? Who was he betraying if he worked for Abdul but worked even more for Nenad? Of course, someone was behind it all. But who? The Yugo boss himself-Radovan? The Yugo boss in some other faction? Some other gang? JW didn’t even want to guess. Anyway, it wasn’t his problem, not really.

Two weeks’d passed since Nenad’d made his offer. Conflicting interests were battling inside him. JW was randy for riches. At the same time, he should be afraid of the person, whoever it was, that he was betraying. He weighed his options. The advantages were easy to see. First up, the money. Runner-up, the money. Third place, ibid. Besides, he was living more dangerously than he cared to think about. Why run that race and not get the maximum dividend? No reason. If he was going to live like a drug kingpin, he might as well live large. He’d heard Jorge say it, the gangsta rappers’ motto: Get Rich or Die Trying. That was the truth of the day.

The disadvantage was more difficult to calculate. It was constituted by the danger. The person he betrayed would, most likely, not exactly be cartwheeling for joy. The risk of being found out by the police’s narcs increased. The risk of being gypped on all fronts increased.

But, he repeated to himself, the money.

It took him two days to think it through. He chose the big shots over Abdulkarim, the high rollers over a B-list Arab, cash over danger. Nenad, in other words.

The arrangements he’d made on the Isle of Man came in handy, even more than he’d thought at first.

The trip to England’d been nice, a relief. JW’d forgotten about his Camilla musings. The reality of Stockholm stressed him out. Sometimes he considered moving home again, when he’d put away enough money.

Abdulkarim was overjoyed about the enormous shipment that was coming; the London deal felt like a success. But it was three months until then. The cabbages had to grow nice and big first. The Arab, JW, and Jorge started preparing the organization for the large quantities that were going to flood the system. They didn’t want to cause too steep a price drop. They needed more dealers and stash spots. Above all, they needed a plan for transport and logistics.

Stockholm’s underworld was still shaken by the double homicide in Hallonbergen. Everyone was speculating. JW couldn’t have cared less about the whole thing. A pimp and a brothel madam shot in a brothel. So what? It didn’t have anything do to with his industry.

The next day, he grabbed a coffee at Foam Café with Sophie. The hot Sunday brunch spot for top-cream types. The place was decorated in an Italian Starck style. The day-after dank didn’t show. The chicks were primped more than was scientifically possible on a hungover morning. The dudes were cropped, showered, scented, fresh.

JW and Sophie ordered pancakes with maple syrup, bananas, and ice cream. A Foam specialty.

JW posed the question he’d been thinking about for a long time: “Why do you want to meet my other friends so badly?”

Sophie pushed the ice cream to the side with her spoon without answering. JW thought, Why’d she order ice cream if she wasn’t going to eat it?

“Hello? I’m talking to you.”

Sophie looked up.

“JW, stop. Of course I want to meet them.”

“Why? What does it matter?”

“’Cause I want to know all of you. We’ve been together for almost four months now and I thought we’d get to a higher level after a while. Now I’m starting to realize that this is the next level. Not to know anything about you. If you have a bunch of friends that you’re, like, hiding from me, it feels pretty weird.”

“I’m not hiding them. But they’re not interesting. They’re lame. Not worth your time.”

“I thought Jorge was really nice. We talked for hours. Okay, he’s not really like your or my other friends. He comes from a world we’re not familiar with. But I think that’s interesting. A guy who’s had to fight to get somewhere. For most of the people we know, silver spoons’ve been ladling sweets since birth. Right?”

“Sure, maybe.” JW thought about himself. How much did Sophie understand? He continued: “Nippe was wondering who the hustler was you were with at Sturehof. Did you have to go to Stureplan with Jorge?”

“Stop being so lame. Are you ashamed, or what? Stand up for who you are. I thought Jorge was awesome. A badass. He told me about his childhood, actually. Total ghetto, you know, like, there were only four Swedes in his class in elementary school. And I don’t even know anyone with parents born outside of Europe. I think Stockholm’s, like, a total Johannesburg.”

Sophie’s words seared. What did she know about him, really? JW wanted to change the subject. Usually, that was his expertise. But now he couldn’t think of anything to say.

They sat in silence.

Staring down at the melting ice cream.

A week’d passed since the night at Smådalarö. Jorge was lying low. The cops were still on high alert because of the Brothel Murders, as the evening press’d dubbed them. What bullshit-who the hell cared about some übercriminal Serbs?

Jorge hung out at home. Sometimes he had to go out on the street to deal with immediate concerns regarding sales and distribution, but not often. He’d been outside a total of three times.

Abdulkarim was happy as long as the plan panned out-to spread the white gold in the boroughs. Lower the prices. Set the bar. Instead of: “Wanna grab a few beers?” make it: “Wanna snort a few lines?”