Jens Lapidus - Never Fuck Up

Mahmud looked them up with Tom’s help. They called the passport authority, went to Kungsholmen—got copies of the old guys’ passport photos. They didn’t drive any flashy cars, according to the national registry of motor vehicles. But, according to the tax authorities, they were saddled with some heavy tax debt. Mahmud went to John Ballénius’s address, Tegnérgatan. Waited outside. After four hours, the guy came staggering up the street laden with two bags from the liquor store. Looked half-marinated in booze. Still good—now he had his eye on the guy. Mahmud went to the other dude’s address. Waited all night. Nothing happened. Either Rantzell stayed home twenty-four/seven, or he was abroad, or he didn’t actually live there. Craven cunt.

Most likely the guys were front men for the leasing company. Stinky fish like that couldn’t buy flashy cars, at least not if they wanted to register and insure them. Wise guys knew the solution was luxury rentals.

The guard lead from the robbery’d unfortunately not panned out. A couple hustlers he’d spoken with’d heard talk that the Lebanese was back in town, maybe they’d even seen him, but no one knew where Wisam Jibril was hiding. Mahmud and Tom’s conclusion: the only lead Mahmud could go on was the Bentley.

He had to get one of the golden oldies to talk.

But how? Time was ticking by.

He called Babak and Robert. Even called Javier and Tom. Needed more help than ever. Couldn’t face any more attempts at negotiation with Daniel or Gürhan. More humiliation. In twelve hours, he had to have that cash. Twenty grand more. Couldn’t be impossible.

They met at Robert’s house.

Mahmud served up a blunt—weed rolled in cigar leaves instead of cigarette paper. Tried to seem a thousand times more chill than he really felt. They buzzed quick cash schemes. He needed to get his homies amped. Hoped they didn’t see the panic in his eyes.

Robert alternated between hip-hop and Arabic hits. His apartment was so permanently hotboxed that you mellowed out just by walking through the door.

Babak was babbling as usual.

“We should do like the heavy boys, Fucked for Life and those guys. Go to Thailand and just plan.”

“ Just plan?” Robert looked at Babak. “What about the hookers?”

Babak laughed.

“Okay, we’ll bukkake some Thai chicks, too. But mostly plan.”

Mahmud dug the way they spit.

Babak said, “Who are we, anyway? What should we do? Society already fucked us. We knew that early, right? School, high school, that shit wasn’t our beat. College, not on the map. But not slaving away at a McDonald’s or working as a cleaner forever either. None of that bullshit. And now there ain’t no good jobs for us to get. And honestly, we don’t want their normal jobs anyway. Just look at your dad, Mahmud. Sweden isn’t for blattes like us, not even the straitlaced ones.”

Mahmud was listening.

“Imagine a scale, you know what I mean. On one side you put the Sven life, nine-to-five, maybe an okay car, and some bust-your-nuts gig, a house somewhere. On the other side you put excitement, freedom, bitches, and cash. And the feeling. The feeling of being a don. Which side’s got the most weight? It’s not even a fucking choice, man. Who doesn’t want to swag it up, go from ashy to classy? Give society the finger, you feel me? They’ve pissed on us anyway so why not piss right back on ’em? Just think, the feeling, to be a Yugo boss, Gürhan Ilnaz or one of those real hustlers.”

Robert took deep hits off the blunt. “You’re right, man. No sane fucker’s gonna choose nine-to-five. But, yo, know what the thing is?”

Babak shook his head.

“The thing is, how you get there. Right? You can work corners for years, still someone else’s skimming off the top. Or else you can do all that fraud shit, like the guys I was telling you about, who tried to gyp Silja Line. But that’s gotta be too much stress.”

“True. That’s why we gotta go to Thailand. We gotta stop working corners and doing this petty bullshit. Explosives, that’s what it’s all about, yo, like I always say.”

Mahmud and Robert, at the same time: “You mean CIT?”

“Ey, I do. We learn to explode, we can do anything. Know what that’s called? The big fish call it technical crime. That’s the real shit, the kind of shit that needs planning, that needs technique. Plastic explosives, percussion caps, fuses—I don’t got a clue, but the guys who can do explosives can do anything. Imagine, getting ten million on a hit instead of a few grand here and there.”

Mahmud thought about the Arlanda hit, and Jibril.

“You can buy recipes for CIT knocks in Södertälje,” Robert said. “I know people.”

“Yeah, but then they gonna skim off the top again. Fuck, man, we gotta be on our own. Mahmud, don’t you know some Yugo who could teach us?”

Mahmud almost got pissed.

“You playin’? Those aren’t my people.”

“But maybe they know this shit. They’re warriors. Seems like most of ’em were down in Yugoslavia ten years ago.”

Robert kept sucking on the blunt. “I’ll tell you something—never trust the Yugos. They don’t got a proper hierarchy, not like the Hells Angels, the OG, or the Brotherhood. No rules. They’re not working for the next generation. Every Yugo’s just thinking about his own skin and don’t build nada for no one else. You know why they done so well in Sweden? ’Cause they were here first and ’cause they get a fuckload of support from their country down there. They’ve fucking owned this town for twenty years now, kept restocking with Serbian gats from their war, new soldiers who’ve been primed to come up here for work. But know what I think? They gonna disappear. They a clan, not an organization. They don’t got a chance against the HA and the others. The Yugos’ time is over. One more thing. They’re getting all Sven and shit. You feel me?”

Mahmud was shook—the Yugos’ time was over? Had he bet on the wrong fighter? He didn’t even want to think about what Rob’d just said. He had to get cash.

They kept buzzing.

After a while, they hatched a tight idea—they should crash a party nearby that Babak knew about. Babak sold E to the guy having the bash, Simon. So it was his time to cash in on some of Simon’s debt tonight: sweet Sven with a severe smiley habit. It was the kid’s birthday. And Babak wasn’t invited. That alone was a reason to show the boy who was boss.

The mood heightened. After a few minutes, it got even better—Robert surprised them with a bonus for the night: Rohypnol.

Three pills and two beers. Unbeatable combination: Benzo-buzz. Aggro-energy.

Mahmud felt it clearly: his blood was pumping better than the others’—he could do whatever he wanted.

They rolled to Simon’s birthday party.

It was cold out. They parked Robert’s car. Mahmud, Babak, and Robert waited outside the kid’s building. Babak’d called. Asked to come up and say happy birthday. Simon’d been reluctant. Worlds colliding—he didn’t want his low life to mix with his high life. The whole thing was simple: Babak wasn’t invited. Babak wasn’t happy. Simon knew that Babak wasn’t invited. Ergo: Simon knew that Babak wasn’t happy. Simon’d managed to have Babak agree to meet outside. Pleaded, “It’s my birthday, can’t you cut me some slack today?”

The guy came out of the building. Stood waiting outside by the road. A pale bean pole with hair dyed black. Another guy, maybe Simon’s friend, remained standing in the entranceway. Hard to see, the streetlight was reflecting in the glass section of the door.

Babak: high as a Dubai skyscraper. Looked at Simon.

“Happy birthday. You got my cash or what?”

Mahmud remained in the background. Eyed Babak’s forehead. He was breaking out. His forehead gleamed. Typical side effect of muscle pills.