Jens Lapidus - Never Fuck Up

He opened the door.

A dude. It was still dark. Mahmud tried to see who it was. The person was pretty tall, shaved head.

He said, “I’m back. Jalla, Mahmud, let’s do this.”

Mahmud recognized the voice.

“Yo man. Where the fuck’ve you been?”

Niklas stepped into the apartment. He looked different. Shaved head. Thin beard. Darker eyebrows than the last time they’d seen each other.

Mahmud repeated the question.

“Where’ve you been? We were supposed to do the thing tonight. You fucked it, man.”

“Don’t use that tone with me.” Niklas sounded pissed. Then he grinned. “Didn’t you hear what I said? I’m back. Let’s do this thing. Now. Jalla .”

A half hour later. The mood was completely different from when the bubbly’d been on the table and the stereo’d been jacking up the atmosphere. Serious, calm, focused. At the same time: ready to roll, pumped, sharp. At first, Mahmud hadn’t understood what Niklas was talking about. But when he understood, it felt good. Damn good. They were gonna go through with the attack. As long as his homeboys were into it—it would be the phattest shit ever. They kicked out Javier’s friends. Their swagger sagged, but Mahmud offered them the bag of weed to take with them. They still looked sulky, but accepted. There were lots of other parties in town tonight.

Babak, Javier, and Robert were sitting on the couch. Niklas and Mahmud, each on a chair. Mahmud was still a little buzzed. But in a few hours, he would be on point. The Rizla papers, the cell phones, the champagne, and the glasses’d been put away. Instead: maps, aerial photos taken off the Internet, blueprints, photos of the house. And weapons: the AK-47s, the Glock, and Niklas’s own gun, a Beretta. A goddamned arsenal.

Niklas went over the plan with the boys. Mahmud tried to fill in here and there, mostly for show. Niklas was in charge.

Babak raised his hand, like the good schoolboy he’d never been. “The Yugos that’re running this party, they armed?”

Niklas looked at Mahmud. “Mahmud, you work with these assholes.”

Mahmud cleared his throat. Weird feeling: to sit here with his homies planning the big gig together with a half-crazed mercenary soldier who didn’t seem to give a fuck about the money, who just cared about punishing people. Like in a movie somehow—Mahmud just couldn’t think of which flick.

He tried to answer Babak’s question. “I don’t know for sure. But I’ve never seen them pack heat. I think some of them have gear like that, maybe Ratko. But why, really? The whores just need a good slap to be put in their place. The johns usually don’t pull any shit. And it’s not exactly like they’re expecting the SWAT blattes from Alby to make an entrance, right?”

The guys laughed. Babak smiled, said, “Shit, man. The SWAT blattes , that’s us.” The mood lightened.

Robert said, “The Yugos are on the decline, I’ve always said so, right?” The boys relaxed. Even Niklas cracked a smile.

At around ten o’clock, they got up. Packed a bag and put it in Mahmud’s car: the weapons and the bolt cutters. They divided up in different cars. Niklas directed them to Gösta Ekman Road in Axelsberg. Parked outside. It was deserted. Everyone who wanted to be somewhere at ten o’clock on New Year’s Eve’d already made sure to get there.

Niklas turned to Mahmud. “The bulletproof vests, the clothes, and the other gear’s inside. But I can’t go in there. Can you and one of your buddies get the stuff?”

“Isn’t this your mom’s place? Why can’t you go in? What’s your mom doing tonight? Is she home?”

“I have no idea. And we’re not going upstairs to ask. Haven’t you read the papers? Haven’t you understood my situation?”

Mahmud didn’t read the papers. He looked at Niklas. The guy really did look different from the last time he’d seen him. Thinner, harder. His eyes were darting around more than ever. Then there was the thing with the shaved head and beard, too. “No,” he said. “What’s the deal?”

“What you don’t know won’t hurt you,” Niklas responded. “Forget about it, I’ll tell you some other time. But I can’t go in. You have to do it.”

Mahmud let a few seconds pass. Thought: The guy really is quasi crazy. But still okay, somehow. He’s got guts, he fights back. Just like I should’ve done, a long time ago.

Mahmud climbed out. Keys in hand. Babak got out of his car. He was wearing a ski hat pulled down low. Walked leaning slightly backward, trying to look chill.

It was cold.

They walked in through the entrance. Down to the basement. There was a sticker on the garbage chute: Please—help our sanitation workers—seal the bag! They walked down a staircase. A steel door. A lock from Assa Abloy. Mahmud opened it. Turned the overhead light on. Inside: a row of storage units. He looked for number twelve. One minute. Found the unit. He opened it. Two black garbage bags filled with soft things. He looked. Inside: the bulletproof vests, the clothes, and the rest of the gear.

Back to the car. Mahmud started the engine. Javier in the passenger seat. Robert in the back. Niklas’d climbed in with Babak in his car.

He started. Followed Babak’s car.

Robert leaned forward from the backseat.

“Honest, man, are we gonna pull this off?”

Mahmud didn’t know how to respond. He just said, “Check out that commando guy. The dude’s as cold as a glacier. I trust him.”

Robert reached out his hand. A matchbox. A thin Redline baggie. Mahmud turned to Robert.

“Is that some white dynamite?”

Robert gave him a crooked smile.

“I think we need a little extra strength tonight.”

Mahmud fished out a snort straw from his inside pocket. Put it in the bag. Sucked.

Outside, it was snowing like crazy.

Like the ice age was back.

Niklas repeated to himself: Si vis pacem, para bellum— If you wish for peace, prepare for war. His mantra, his life’s mission. He’d armed himself, planned his attacks, guarded the perpetrators, hit the right people, at the right time, in the right way. Then came the latest incidents: the arrest, the escape, and now: a bunch of clowns. BOG, boots on the ground: five people—but really, they ought to count as three. Sure, Mahmud was okay enough, might hopefully equal one soldier, but he counted the other players as one. These were circumstances he hadn’t been able to prepare for.

And somehow, it was all Mom’s fault. She was the one who’d cracked his alibi—the video night at Benjamin’s place was all to hell. He wouldn’t have had a chance if there’d been a trial, even if the lawyer seemed sharp.

His escape from the hearing’d almost gone smoother than expected. As soon as Niklas’d made it down into the subway, he zeroed in on a man. It was almost New Year’s Eve, so there were a lot of people out. Still, on the platform: mostly retirees and moms on maternity leave. The man was one of the former. Niklas forced him down on the ground, didn’t even have to strike him. Took his shoes and coat. People around him hardly missed a beat—no one tried to stop him. Symptomatic: the losers just stood there and watched. That was part of the problem. Society was made up of bystanders. A train rolled in. So far, he didn’t see any cops. Everything’d gone so fast, just a few seconds since he’d leaped out of the window in the District Court. His thoughts in battle position. Strategic considerations in fast-forward. He didn’t get on the train. When it rolled out of the station, he jumped down behind it on the tracks and walked into the tunnel in the opposite direction. Hopefully, the people who’d seen him would think he’d gotten on the train, disappeared in the direction of the next subway stop.