Jens Lapidus - Never Fuck Up

Mahmud saw the same thing in 90 percent of the people in line: desperation. In other words—it was business as usual out here.

Mahmud, Babak, and Robert—they weren’t heavy hitters yet. Normally, they didn’t have a chance at luxury places like Sturecompagniet and Hell’s Kitchen. But Babak was fucking jonesing. Mahmud would rather go to Blue Moon Bar on Kungsgatan, look for Wisam. Ask people in the bar questions. What’s more: he didn’t understand how Babak thought they were gonna get in.

But Babak wasn’t pulling any punches. Eye contact with the head bouncer up on his throne. He spread his fingers. The bouncer raised his eyebrows, didn’t get the message. Babak took a step forward, pressed himself against the barricade. Leaned toward the bouncer. “I got the hookup. Ten grams.” The bouncer winked. Raised the velvet rope.

They were allowed into the area with the cash registers. Two hundred and fifty kronor each. Shit, it cost to be on top. But who gave a fuck at this point—they were in.

What a fucking miracle. Mahmud and Robert eyed Babak. He grinned. “You didn’t know? I’m the snowman.”

Inside: the tight boys dominated. Magnum and regular-sized bottles of champagne in ice buckets everywhere. Dudes with silk kerchiefs in their breast pockets, slicked-back hair, and, on the hottest ones: fluffier manes combed back. Unbuttoned striped shirts with cuff links that gleamed, expensive-looking blazers, slim-cut distressed designer jeans, leather belts with monogram-shaped buckles: Fendi, Gucci, Louis Vuitton. Some with ties, but most rocked open necks—that offered the most opportunity to flaunt their chests. What’s more: a couple of worn-out rockers with sideburns and trucker hats. Mahmud didn’t understand why they’d been let in.

Fine girls were sitting in booths sipping vodka tonics or letting the dudes treat them to bubbly. Silver-spoon bred, young socialites, bumpkins who fronted.

But also a dapple of other types of people: C-list celebs. Reality-TV stars, talk-show hosts, performers. Surrounded by chicks with designer purses over their shoulders and Playboy jewelry around their necks who danced facing out toward the place.

Last but not least: Jet Set Carl, top playboy on all Stureplan bitches’ list of dicks to suck. Even Mahmud and his homies knew about the guy. The dude owned three places downtown, his real name was Carl something, Mahmud didn’t know what. The only thing he knew: the player was mad jet set. Hence the name.

Not a lot of real blattes in there. Maybe a few adopted and well integrated. Like people who did music stuff, media, or other crap. Honestly: Mahmud couldn’t feel any less at home—but the honeys were fly. He undid another button on his shirt. Babak ordered a bottle of Dom at the bar.

Mahmud glanced at his reflection in the ice bucket that was brought along with Babak’s champagne.

Liked his look. Broad eyebrows, black hair slicked back with so much gel that he could’ve had the same hairdo for three weeks without a single hair falling out of place. Full lips, solid jaw, perfectly even stubble over his cheeks.

He saw the reflection of Babak and Robert walking toward him behind his back. Turned before they reached him.

Babak, surprised: “How’d you see us?”

Mahmud said, “Ey, buddy, with this many pumas in one place you gotta have eyes in the back of your head. Don’t wanna miss one.”

A smile played on his lips.

They laughed. Gulped champagne. Did their best to make eye contact with the chicks around them. No success—it was as if they were invisible. Finally, Rob went up to a couple chicks. Said something. Offered bubbly.

They turned him down. Brutal.

Kh’tas —cunts. It was unfair.

“Let’s split.”

Mahmud wanted out, wanted to go to Blue Moon Bar instead. Ask around for the Lebanese.

Babak laughed. “No, let’s split a bag o’ yay instead.” Ha-ha-ha.

An hour later. The C-rush’d settled. But still: Mahmud felt like the city’s finest Million Program blatte, the world’s number one smartest concrete detective—Sherlock fucking Holmes. He was gonna find Wisam. Make him confess where he’d buried Radovan’s Arlanda cash. Force him to deliver. Give himself the chance to impress. Get the Yugos’ protection.

Robert slid onto the dance floor with a honey that looked like jailbait. Mahmud and Babak stayed put at the bar as usual.

Then he saw something he didn’t want to see. The sound died. His head burned. Around him: a little island of panic. A few yards away at the bar—Daniel and two other guys from that night.

Mahmud froze. Stared at the bottles on the other side of the bar. Tried to focus his gaze. Fuck. What was he gonna do? Panic washed in waves against the inside of his skull. The memories returned: the grind of metal in his mouth. The roulette sound from the spinning cylinder. Daniel’s grin.

He tried not to glance over at them. Had to keep his cool. Did they see him? If they came up to him he didn’t know how he’d react. Babak didn’t seem to notice him wigging out. The people around him grew blurry.

Afterward, when Mahmud thought about the situation, he couldn’t remember how long he’d been standing that way. Nauseous. Stiff. How many scared thoughts’d zipped through his brain.

But after a good while he looked up. They were gone.

He didn’t give a shit about Babak and Robert. Saw that Babak was trying to snare a puma. Coke rings around the girl’s nose. Lipstick on Babak’s cheeks. Good for him.

Mahmud wanted out. And he had to get to Blue Moon Bar. Now. He slipped out of Sturecompagniet. The line outside was three times as long as when they’d arrived. The desperation in people’s eyes—thirty times as thick. The head bouncer was still at his post, deciding in or out, winner or loser, life or death.

Up Kungsgatan. The air was colder. Where’d the summer run off to?

He thought about sinking a burger, but decided not to. Needed to do his thing at Blue Moon. Farther up, he saw the place.

Blue Moon Bar was boasting a good line, too.

Short, wide bouncers in excess. Mahmud thought, You gotta be a midget to get a job here, or what?

Mahmud slid straight up to the VIP entrance. Past the line. Up to a bouncer. Met Mahmud’s gaze. That special understanding between big dudes.

He pulled a classic move—this place wasn’t as hard to get into as Sturecompagniet—offered a five-hundred-kronor bill, without saying a word.

The bouncer cube asked, “You alone?”

Mahmud nodded.

The bouncer pushed the bill away. “It’s cool.”

Mahmud went inside. Paid the hundred-kronor entrance fee; the price wasn’t as wack as the other place. Surprised by the bouncer’s class. Mahmud’d actually been treated good.

He eyed the place. The lower level: surplus of guys—Syriacs with mullets and shirts unbuttoned, showing their shaved chests; Svens with groomed beards; brothas with sideways caps and fake bling in their ears.

A blue glow was blinking in time to the techno: “This is the rhythm of the night.”

He moved on. The next level: a more even division of the sexes—meat market galore. People entwined on the dance floor, dudes squeezing tits in couch corners, bitches licking those same dudes’ ears and massaging their cocks through their pants. Wunder-Baum—Mahmud would’ve loved to pick up some little honey.

But not now.

He stepped up to the bar. Ordered a mojito. Usually boozing wasn’t his style, other than maybe bubbly for the bitches’ sake. He liked smoking up and getting high—but not so loaded you lost control. Only Svens drank away their dignity that way. And if you got in a fight, you didn’t have a chance. Plus: too many calories.

He was leaning against the bar. The mojito with a cocktail straw in his hand. Stirred. The ice cubes made his teeth hurt. He counted face-suckers.