Jens Lapidus - Never Fuck Up

After twenty minutes, she seemed to figure it out. Started to calm down, but still asked a bunch of stuff: “Have you heard about the new car thefts they’re investigating?” And so on.

Dispatch sent a call for anyone in the vicinity of Skärholmen. Apparently some kind of apartment brawl there.

Thomas didn’t even have to lie. They’d just driven past the Shell gas station on Hägerstensvägen, more than a mile away.

“Good thing we’re not in Skäris.”

Cecilia sat in silence.

They were cruising Thomas’s regular route along Hägerstensvägen. Past the center of Aspudden. Past Örnsberg’s subway station. It was eight o’clock. Still bright outside. A nice summer night.

The police radio rattled on. A drunk driver was slaloming down the Södertälje road northbound. Attempted robbery in an apartment on Skansbergsvägen in Smista. A teenage brawl down by the water outside the Vårbacka school in Vårby Gård. Maybe they should try to pluck the drunkard on the Södertälje highway. That was in their direction, after all.

Thomas sped up.

The radio crackled again. “The twenty-four-hour bodega in Aspudden. We’ve got an intoxicated man who is acting very aggressively. Can someone go there immediately? Over.”

Cecilia looked at Thomas.

“We have to take that. We’re just a minute away.”

Thomas sighed. Did a U-turn. Flipped the flashers on. Sped up.

Fifty seconds later, they pulled up next to the bodega. He could see through the window right away that something was wrong: instead of lining up by the cash register to pay for smokes, porn rags, or candy, a bunch of people were standing as if grouped together, but they weren’t. All looking at the same thing, but not acting together. Typical Swedish public crime scene. People were there, but still no one was where they were needed.

At the front, by the cash register, a large man with dirty clothes had the shop clerk’s arm in a grip, a young guy who looked totally crushed: on the verge of tears, darting gaze, trying to get the support of someone in there. The other clerk was trying to pry the man’s grip off. Tore at his huge hands.

The man roared: “You fucking cunts. Every fucking thing is going to hell. You hear me? Every fucking thing.”

Thomas took the lead. Rocked his strong, authoritative voice. “Police. It’s time to knock it off. Release him, please.”

The drunkard looked up. Hissed, “Pigs.” Thomas recognized him. The old-timer was big. Completely lethal appearance: ice-blue eyes, boxer’s nose, two scars over one eyebrow, bad teeth. But the guy didn’t just look lethal. He was a former boxer, used to hang out with the park-bench alcoholics, the so-called A-team, in Axelsberg—a walking barrel of dynamite. Was collecting disability or something, but probably had enough power in his fists to severely hurt the clerk kid. This could really get nasty.

Thomas walked up to the register. Put one hand on the A-teamer’s hands. The other clerk let go of his grip. In a calm voice Thomas said, “Let him go. Now.”

Cecilia was behind him. Fiddling with the radio. Maybe she was going to call for backup.

Then, something unexpected happened: the old guy released the clerk. Rushed at Cecilia. Thomas didn’t have time to react. Turned around.

The guy dealt Cecilia a blow to the chest. She wasn’t prepared. Tumbled into a shelf of penny candy. Yelled, “What the hell are you doing?” Good—finally, some balls.

Thomas tried to lock the guy in a grip. Damn it, he was stronger than you might think. Turned to Thomas. Head butt. Contact almost directly over Thomas’s nasal bone. A millimeter down to the middle and his nose would’ve broken. Hurt like hell. He saw stars. Blacked out for a brief second. He roared.

The drunkard threw himself at Cecilia, who was back on her feet again. The guy was too dangerous. This was chaos. This was not okay. They couldn’t wait for backup.

She tried to push him away. The guy tried to get three punches in. Struck her shoulder. Cecilia backed up. Could be immediate blackout if the guy got in a good hit.

Thomas speed-analyzed the situation. It wasn’t time to use his service weapon. Too many people in the store and the guy wasn’t dangerous enough yet. But Cecilia was weak. They could never take this giant alone. Maybe with their batons.

He made another attempt. His nose was pounding like crazy. He tried to grab hold of the guy’s arm, get him in a grip behind his back. A lost cause. The ex-boxer was wild like an animal. High on booze and his little display of power. Knocked Thomas off. Shoved him. He lost his balance. Tripped over a tower of soda bottles. They went flying all over the floor.

“Use the baton, damn it,” Thomas yelled, on his knees.

Cecilia tried to shield herself. Pulled out the collapsible baton. Opened it.

The guy threw a punch at her stomach. She hit him over the thighs.

The effect: less than a bitch slap. The old drunk was too crazy to care about the whip of the baton. Pushed her up against the window. Thomas picked up his baton. Hit the guy over the back. Really hard. He reacted. Turned around again. Cecilia was about to collapse. The guy threw a punch in Thomas’s direction. He ducked. Struck again with the baton. And again.

Cecilia was on her feet behind the guy. She hit him. He roared. Threw a jab at Thomas again.

Thomas put some real force into it. He had to bring an end to this now. Lashed the old drunk once over the neck. Another time over the thigh. The guy kept on roaring. Thomas hit him again over the legs. The guy sank to the ground. Screamed. Kept kicking Cecilia from where he was, down on the floor. She got more lashes in. The booze-hound shielded his head with his arms. Cecilia gave him hell again. Hit the guy over the head, chest, back.

She was in a panic. Thomas understood her.

This’d spiraled out of control.

One of the first things you learn in the slammer: don’t pace in your cell. It doesn’t lead anywhere. Instead: stay in your head and you can travel far beyond the prison walls. Like Mahmud used to do: fantasize about a BMW Z4 coupe cruising smoothly down Kungsgatan on a sweet spring day, pocket full of bills, headed to a hot party, chill homies, willing honeys. Freedom at its finest.

But now, in his room at Dad’s place, he paced back and forth like a monkey in a cage. Nauseated. Dizzy. Head pounding. Only one day left.

He’d managed to scrape together eighty large. Total. He was twenty short. He’d gotten in touch with Daniel the day before—to negotiate with them. But the dude refused to understand: Mahmud was happy to pay interest as long as they were cool with eighty G’s in the first installment.

“Forget it. We said one hundred. One hundred is what Gürhan’s gonna get. Day after tomorrow.”

Click.

Mahmud slept extra crappy that night. His time asleep: shorter than a mosquito’s cock. An explosive headache. Anxious thoughts were spinning out of control.

He couldn’t even go work out. The only thing he could think about: where Wisam was. When he’d grabbed that gangsta, no one could hurt him. He didn’t plan on charging Stefanovic cash. Just asking for a favor in return—that they show Gürhan who’s in charge.

He talked to his homeboy Tom Lehtimäki: mad CSI dude—the Finn helped him work with the info he already had. Get facts. Sort possibilities. Analyze leads.

The company that’d bought the car from the Bentley brat down on Strandvägen was called Dolphin Leasing AB. The paper he’d swiped from the brat didn’t say much: Dolphin Leasing AB had a P.O. box in Stockholm. A registration number. The document was signed by a John Ballénius—some fucking name. Tom explained: the registration number was the company’s organization number—all companies in Sweden had to have that kind of thing. Mahmud called the Swedish Companies Registration Office. Got information about who was on the board. Two shysters with Swedish names. The first was John Ballénius. The other was Claes Rantzell. Both had P.O. box addresses: classic shadiness. Mahmud paid a visit to the post office. A fatso in a small office in Hallunda. Mahmud rocked the same style as he had toward the boy in the Bentley dealership. Why mess with a winning concept? After ten minutes, he had the home addresses for both of the two men. Tegnérgatan downtown and Elsa Brändströms Street in Fruängen.