Jens Lapidus - Never Fuck Up

Ljunggren nodded. “That’s nice. Where were you thinking?”

“Don’t know. My wife wants to go somewhere warm. Last year we did Sicily. Taormina. Real nice.”

“I know. You didn’t talk about anything else for three months after.”

Laughs.

Thomas turned off toward the Storholms school, outside of Skärholmen’s center. Always worth taking a look at the schoolyard. The punks usually got it into their heads to go there at night—sit on the back of park benches, roll a fatty, as they say, smoke up, and enjoy their short lives.

Dig the irony: the same kids that usually played hooky all day flocked to the schoolyard at night—to smoke themselves stupid. If they were still sitting on those benches five years from now, jobless, they could only blame themselves. But they complained that it was society’s fault. Moved on to heavier stuff: moonshine, hash, aimies. If unlucky: brown sugar. Talk about free fall. Welfare and social services. Worked a couple corners. Flipped a few grams and pulled some suburban break-ins. Their parents could only blame themselves—they should’ve taken their responsibility ages ago. The police could only blame themselves—should’ve clamped down right off the bat. Society could only blame itself—if you gather that much riffraff in one place, you’re asking for trouble.

The lights in the schoolyard could be seen from far away. The gray concrete school building lay like a giant Lego block in the darkness behind the yard.

They stopped the car. Got out.

Ljunggren grabbed the white baton. Completely unnecessary—but correct. The other feeble expandable baton didn’t always cut it.

“Maria always needs to be so damn cultural. Wants to go to Florence, Copenhagen, Paris, and God knows where else. There isn’t even anything nice to look at over there,” Ljunggren said.

“Can’t you look at the Mona Lisa ?”

Chuckles, again.

“Yeah sure, she’s about as hot as a fucking bag of wieners.”

Thomas thought: Ljunggren should swear less and show his wife who’s in charge more.

He said, “I think she’s kinda hot.”

“Who, the Mona Lisa or my old lady?”

More laughter.

For once, the schoolyard was empty. Except for under one of the basketball hoops, where a red Opel was parked.

Thomas lit his Maglite. Held it at head height. Illuminated the license plate: OYU 623.

“That’s Kent Magnusson’s car,” he said. “I don’t even have to run the plates. We ever plucked him together?”

Ljunggren hung his baton back on his belt. “You’ve got to be kidding me. We’ve picked him up ten times, at least. You going senile, or what?”

Thomas didn’t respond. They approached the car. Weak light inside. Someone moved in the front seat. Thomas leaned over. Knocked on the car window. The light went out.

A voice: “Beat it!”

Thomas cleared his throat. “We’re not going anywhere. That you in there, Magnusson? This is the police.”

The voice in the car again: “Dammit. I don’t got anything tonight. I’m as clean as Absolut.”

“Okay, Kent. It’s okay. But come out anyway so we can talk.”

Indistinct swearing in response.

Thomas knocked again, this time on the roof. A little harder.

The car door opened—the stench from the car: smoke, beer, piss.

Thomas and Ljunggren’d both struck a broad stance. Waited.

Kent Magnusson climbed out. Unshaven, hair a mess, rotting teeth, herpes blisters around his mouth. Faded jeans on half-mast—the guy had to pull them up at least a foot and a half in order not to fall over. A T-shirt with a print ad for the Stockholm Water Festival that must’ve been ancient. An unbuttoned plaid shirt over the T-shirt.

A complete junkie. Even more worn down than last time Thomas’d seen him.

Thomas shone the flashlight in his eyes.

“Hey there, Kent. How high are you?”

Kent mumbled, “Not at all. I’ve been cutting back.”

His eyes really did look clear. His pupils were a normal size—contracted when the light from the flashlight hit them.

“Yeah, right, you’re cutting back. What you got on you?” Ljunggren said.

“Honest, man. I got nothing. I’m trying to quit. It’s the truth.”

Ljunggren was losing his temper. “Don’t give me that crap, Kent. Just give us what you’ve got and we’ll play nice. No fuss, no hassle, and no bullshit. I’m damned tired tonight. Especially of junkie lies. Maybe we can be nice to you. You follow me?”

Thomas thought: Curious thing about Ljunggren—he talked more with the criminals than he did with Thomas during an entire night in the car.

Kent made a face. Seemed to be considering his options.

“Eh, come on. I don’t got any.”

The junkie wasn’t going to make it easy for himself. “Kent, we’re going to search your car,” Thomas said. “Just so you know.”

Kent made another face. “Fuck, man, you can’t search my car without a warrant. You ain’t seen no drugs. You don’t got the right to go through my car, you know that.”

“We know that, but we don’t give a shit.”

Thomas looked at Ljunggren. They nodded at each other. No problem: just write a report afterward claiming that they’d seen Kent fiddling with something in the car when the door opened. Or that they’d seen that he was high. Or whatever the fuck—there was always reasonable doubt. Piece of cake. Cleaning up the streets of Stockholm—that was more important than objections from some whiny junkie.

Ljunggren crawled into the car and began the search. Thomas led the junkie away a bit. Kept the situation under control.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Kent spit. “You can’t do this. You know that.”

Thomas remained cool. No point in getting worked up. All he said was, “Calm down.”

The junkie hissed something. Maybe pig.

Thomas had no patience for people like him. “What did you say?”

Kent kept mumbling. If the guy whined and made a fuss, that was one thing. But no way he said pig .

“What did you say?”

Kent turned to him. “Pig.”

Thomas kicked him hard in the back of the knee. He collapsed like a tower of matches.

Ljunggren popped his head out of the car. “Everything cool?”

Thomas turned Kent over. Belly to ground, arms behind his back. Cuffed him. Put one foot on the guy’s back. Called to Ljunggren, “Sure, it’s cool.”

Then he turned to the junkie.

“You fucking cunt.”

Kent lay still.

“Please, can you loosen the cuffs? It fucking hurts, man.”

Oh, so now he thought it was time to sulk.

After five minutes, Ljunggren yelled something. Yup, he’d found two bags of hash in the car. No surprise there. Ljunggren handed the baggies to Thomas. He checked—one with ten grams and one with around forty.

Thomas bent Kent’s head back.

“Now what you got to say for yourself?”

The junkie’s voice jumped up a notch. “Come on now, Officer, someone must’ve put them there. I didn’t know they were in the car. I mean, where’d he find it? Can’t you cut me some slack?”

No problem. Fifty grams of hash wasn’t much, considering. They’d let it slide, for now. “It’s cool,” Thomas said. He took the bags. Put them in the inside pocket of his jacket. “But never lie to me again. Got that?”

“No. Never. Thank you so much. Damn, you guys are being nice. Fucking generous. You’re cool.”

“You don’t have to bend over. Just quit lying. Act like a man.”

Two minutes later, Kent was crawling back to his feet.

Thomas and Ljunggren walked back to the cruiser.

Ljunggren turned to Thomas. “Did you toss the shit, or what?”

Thomas nodded.

Kent climbed back in the Opel. Started the engine. Turned the volume up high on the stereo. Classic rock. The junkie just got spared a month or so behind bars—despite losing the hash he was as happy as a kid on Christmas.