Jens Lapidus - Never Fuck Up

“Absolutely. You’re not on patrol?”

“No, I’m off. Calling from home. There’s something I want to talk to you about.”

“Shoot.”

Thomas began in a monotone voice. Didn’t want Hägerström to think he’d become friendly toward him.

“I took the autopsy report home. I know it’s material that’s under investigation and that you’re not supposed to take it out of the building, but I don’t give a shit about that crap. I didn’t want to print and read it at the station. And you’re right, it doesn’t mention the track marks. You’re probably not surprised since you said there wasn’t anything written about them in my incident report either, but I know I wrote about them. It’s not likely that Gantz, the forensic pathologist, who’s used to carving up bodies, would’ve missed them. To be completely honest, no one, not even you, could’ve missed them. Did you see the body?”

Silence on the other end of the line.

“Hägerström?”

“Yes, I’m here. I’m thinking. What you’re saying sounds very strange. It seems to me there are only two explanations: Maybe you’re messing with me. You didn’t write shit about any holes or cause of death at all and only want to screw up my investigation. That’s the most likely solution to your little mystery. Or something’s really wrong. Something that I’m going to get to the bottom of. And I haven’t seen the body. But now I intend to do so. Just so you know.”

Thomas didn’t know what to say. Hägerström belonged to the other side. But, strictly speaking, the guy was handling himself impeccably. Strictly speaking, Thomas should hang up. Never let a rat like Hägerström talk to him that way. Anyway, patrol officers like Thomas shouldn’t meddle with detectives’ investigations. Still, without knowing why, he heard himself say, “I think it’s best if I come with you. So that someone can show you where those track marks were.”

Early signs of summer: small white flowers in brown lawns, outdoor seating being set up at cafés, defrosted dog shit. Thirteen-year-old girls in too-tiny miniskirts even though it was only fifty-seven degrees out. Soon it would be here: the Swedish summer. Warm. Light. Filled with chicks. Mahmud longed for it. Now he just had to bulk up in time and iron out the shit he’d ended up in.

He was hanging out by a little hole-in-the-wall shop. Hair wet after his workout. Aching muscles. Sweet exhaustion.

Waiting for his homie Babak. It was six o’clock and they should be closing in there by now. Weird that he hadn’t come out yet. Mahmud tried to call. No answer. Fired off a text, pulled a standard joke: “Remember when we rode the train and I stuck my head out and you stuck your ass out. Everyone thought we were twins. Call me!”

Irritated. Not really with Babak, the boy was always late, but with the whole situation. Everything was going to hell. Less than five days left. Mahmud hadn’t scraped together more than fifteen thousand in cash yet. It didn’t even cover a fifth of what Gürhan wanted. What the fuck was he supposed to do? Same thought on repeat like a sampled loop: the Yugos are my only chance.

He eyed the electrical cabinet he was leaning up against. Covered in tags, Ernesto Guerra stickers, the Giant face sprayed on, sticker ads for, like, forty thousand different record stores. He thought, The Svens did so much crap. That was their luxury—they could follow unnecessary, unfathomable, unmanly pursuits: demonstrate in order to trash small shops in Reclaim the Streets riots, organize weird Goth parties in Gamla Stan where everyone looked like corpses, hang out at cafés and study for a whole day. But the Svens didn’t know shit about life with a capital L. What it was like when you had to translate at the welfare office so your parents could explain that they couldn’t afford winter jackets. What it was like to grow up in the Million Program concrete without a future. To see the dignity in your father’s eyes crushed every time some official mistrusted him—a highly respected man where he came from who was dragged through the Swedish dirt like a whore over the square in the home country. They questioned why he didn’t get a better job even though he was an educated engineer, why he didn’t speak better Swedish—gave him forms to fill out even though they knew he couldn’t read the Swedish alphabet. Pork their mothers.

Mahmud loved his dad and his sisters. He had his homies: Babak, Robert, Javier, and the others. The rest could go fuck themselves.

He was gonna beat them all. The Born to Be Hated players. The Sven pussies. The Stockholm brats. The Ernesto Guerra clowns. Make a comeback. Show who was boss. Cash in. The blatte from the Million hood was gonna be king. Crush ’em. Pluck ’em. Only the Yugos would help him.

Four hours earlier he’d called and told Stefanovic yes—he was gonna find Wisam Jibril for them. King Mahmud Bernadotte—when he was done with the assignment, Gürhan was gonna taste his fat cock.

Mahmud thought about what he had to do. To count with the Yugos was to count with everyone. If he succeeded with this—plucking the Lebanese, fulfilling Radovan’s wishes—his name would spell Mahmud the Man. Not like today: Mahmud the Dude Who Wants Up but Hasn’t Gotten Anywhere Yet.

Right after the call to Stefanovic, Mahmud called Tom Lehtimäki—a buddy from way back. Tom was into econ and stuff like that. Worked for some debt-collecting agency. A golden contact who stepped up right away. Two hours after the call, Tom’d already asked a court to fax over all the paperwork from the trial regarding the Arlanda Airport robbery. They refused to fax that much paper. Sent the shit snail mail instead. Apparently the case’d been closed—the prosecutor’d given up the hunt for the perps. But there was still a battle going on between the bank and the transportation company. Mahmud could hardly believe it—the court was giving him good service. Sometimes he loved Svenland.

He woke from his reverie. Checked the time on his cell. Why hadn’t Babak shown yet?

They were going out tonight. Gonna do the city. Run their race—the bitches were theirs for the picking. Wham-bam. He hummed in Arabic— Ana bedi kess . I love pussy.

He was sick of waiting, climbed the half stair into the store.

Inside: packed.

The store was tiny, like a hot-dog stand. Sweat stench and lots of buzz. Babak was standing behind the glass counter. A shadow of stubble over his cheeks, neatly waxed side part, shirt unbuttoned at the neck. Mahmud would never say it aloud, but Babak had swag. Beside Babak: his dad and a couple other relatives. His dad was dressed in a fake Armani T-shirt. His uncle and cousins in button-downs. They crowded around, peddled and chatted. Babak was busy with a customer. Mahmud loved the place. The atmosphere was mad un- Suedi : another world, another country. People haggled like crazy, screamed to make themselves heard. Three young black guys were begging for the best price for a box of stolen cells. Babak’s dad threw open his arms, made a face like they’d asked to date his daughter. “You think I made of money? Max hundred each, I give.” Mahmud smiled to himself—the guy couldn’t get more home country. An island in Sven Sweden.

The shelves were loaded with used cell phones, MP3 players, chargers, wireless phones, calling cards, alarm clocks. There were cell-phone cases in various colors under the counter, along with watches and unlocked iPhones. On the counter: plates with Babak and his dad’s dinner. Tomatoes, raw onion, feta cheese, and pita bread. Authentic.

At least fifteen people waited in line. They were selling their old or stolen cell phones, wanted help unlocking SIM locks, were dropping off watches for repair. Most of all they bought calling cards for übercheap international rates. On the walls were ads for different cell-phone manufacturers, everything from old Ericsson legends—black brick phones— Now with dual band! —to iPhones. But above all: price lists for the calling cards. Jedda, Jericho, Jordan. You name it.