EASY MONEY Read online

  Tumult outside.

  Quiet inside.

  Mrado said, “Guys. You made a little mistake tonight. You messed with the wrong people. We’ll be in touch regarding our business with you. One more thing, don’t make a big deal outta this. I think you can figure out why.”

  Mrado released his grip and walked out of the bathroom. Three bouncers left in there. Like fools.

  Mrado, Ratko, and Patrik pushed their way through the crowd. Outside Kvarnen, the cop cars’ blue lights lit up the night. They jumped into a taxi. Patrik with blood on his jacket and T-shirt. Bad.

  The place was crawling with cops.

  7

  It was almost time.

  Jorge sat still in the chow hall. Concentrated. He didn’t give a damn about the clatter, the crunching and munching. Today was the day.

  Rolando called after him when he stood up. “Jorge, you gonna come blaze later?” Rolando was being ironic. The only one who knew.

  Jorge said, “Don’t holler like that. The screw over there can hear you.”

  Rolando grinned. “He don’t know words like that. He just a small-town guy.”

  Jorge put his hand on Rolando’s shoulder. “I’m gonna miss you, hombre.”

  Rolando looked serious. “Damn, Jorge, you doin’ the right thing, you know it. Come on, wontcha tell old gangsta Rolando how you gonna do it? Who wanna be caged for the rest o’ his life?”

  “Loco, I can’t tell you today. You’ll see for yourself. Just watch and enjoy. As long as you do your thing.” Jorge got up. He honestly felt like he would miss Rolando, his bullshit about cocaine paste, long lectures on the OG community and armored-car heists.

  He’d tested Rolando several times. Revealed a few things to see what would happen. For example, that he exercised the way he did to prep an escape. If Rolando was gonna snitch, Jorge could’ve laughed it off as a joke. But it was cool. Rolando’d kept his mouth shut. No leaks. The Latino was trustworthy. Jorge’d made up his mind: Rolando would play an important part in the actual Plan. He would do his thing today.

  But everything hinged on Sergio, who Jorge’d met on his jam roll. That he could fix what needed fixing on the outside. Thirty-odd yards beyond the walls: cleared land—would be hard to do anything that took too long without being spotted. If things worked out today, Jorge would be forever indebted to him. Jorge knew enough to fix this thing. The COs’ routines. Where Sergio’d come from. Where the car would be parked. The best way to drive. The forks in the roads. Jorge knew he could run 440 in less than fifty seconds, two miles in less than eleven minutes. Knew people’d have to pick their jaws up off the ground. Jorge had the know. Jorge had the skill. He got this—without violence and without Sergio’s ass too much on the line. Man, he was el rey.

  After lunch they had an hour break from work. Everything ready to go. Now was the time. The plan was simple and genius. Jorge, surprisingly calm. If the shit hit the fan, so be it.

  Jorge went back to his cell. Closed the door. Removed the Che Guevara poster from the wall. Unscrewed the wooden panel with his fingernails. It came off easily. He’d done it many times before.

  Took out the rope that lay coiled like a thin snake in the space he’d carved into the concrete. The only place the screws didn’t check when they searched the cell. A shallow but long hole. Perfect for a cable.

  They thought that panel was smart. Jorge—the Salsa Breaker—was smarter. Honestly: He thought even his sister would be proud. No matter how college-educated she was, she could still recognize finesse when she saw it.

  The rope: twined out of long strips of bedsheet. The ritual before turning his sheets into the laundry once a week: tearing off a strip, about half an inch wide. The dude who picked up the sheets was Colombian. Their deal: Hombre didn’t say anything about Jorge’s sheets looking funny in exchange for one pack of smokes a week.

  The rope would hold. He’d tested every segment after every new foot he twisted into shape.

  He walked out.

  It was sunny outside. Sweet. Swedish summertime.

  The rec yard was full of people. The screw on duty was playing soccer with the guys. Rolando was on the screw’s opposing team. Beautiful.

  Jorge checked the time.

  Showtime in exactly thirty seconds.

  Rolando glanced at him. After ten seconds, he made the sign they’d agreed on. Rolando braced himself. Ran toward the screw. Full-on slide tackle à la Vieira. The screw went flying. Screamed like a pig. Writhed in pain. Attention: zero.

  Jorge ran to the wall. Got in position.

  Waited.

  Saw what he’d planned now for so long: The top of an aluminum ladder appeared above the wall, on the other side.

  Sergio, the savior, had followed instructions. Driven as close as he could, parked the car at the edge of the woods, where the cleared land was at its narrowest. Ran the last yards, placed the ladder, leaning, against the outside of the wall at the point they’d agreed upon. At the right place. At the right time. At the right second. Incredible.

  Jorge got out the rope. Had kept it coiled in his pocket. Clasped the hook onto the end. It’d been crafted out of one of the rings on the basketball hoops, which he’d paid a pretty sum to have removed. Bent it into shape with Rolando’s help an hour ago.

  Positioned himself opposite the top of the ladder. Looked up. He’d calculated this.

  Felt the mass of the hook in his hand. Weighed it. This was the only part he hadn’t been able to practice. Everything depended on his succeeding in hooking the rope onto the top of the ladder and pulling it over the wall, to his side.

  He pitched it. The white rope arched in the sky. Settled over the rounded edge of the wall. Didn’t connect with the top of the ladder. He pulled the rope to the side. Hoped to make the hook catch somewhere lower down on the ladder. Didn’t feel any resistance. Shit. Tugged again. Nothing. No resistance. He pulled at the rope. The hook fell down on his side of the wall. Fucking cock. He ran to it. Picked it up again and got into position. The ladder remained on the other side of the wall; he could see the top of it plainly. The way out. He had to get it right this time. Pitched it again. Come on. The clank of metal. Had he gotten it? He pulled the rope. There. Resistance. The hook had caught onto something—it was the ladder. He made a test tug. It worked. Started to pull. Pulled harder. The ladder scraped. More than half was visible over the wall. He tugged. Even though it was aluminum, it was heavy. Finally: It fell down on his side. He heard yelling in the background. He turned around. Saw the screw get up. Fumble for his walkie-talkie. Jorge moved quickly. Leaned the ladder up against the wall. Glanced over his shoulder. The screw was running toward him. Jorge climbed up as fast as he could. Good grip. Didn’t weigh too much. Strong arms. Up at the top. Looked down, then back: more screws in action. He kicked the ladder aside. It fell into the grass. He heaved himself down, dangling on the outside of the wall. Let go. Jumped. Sixteen feet down. Rough landing. Asics 2080 DuoMax with gel in the heel—his foot still suffered the impact. Mierda.

  He ran. Felt good to weigh 147 pounds today. The adrenaline pumped. The clearing like a mirage.

  The map in his mind. His foot hurt. Sight set on point number two. Felt the sweat on his back. Heard himself pant. Heavily. Fuck, wasn’t he in better shape? Relax. Lower your shoulders. Enter the zone. Think about your breathing.

  Remember: guaranteed the best shape you’ve ever been in. Guaranteed the best shape of any of the inmates. Guaranteed the smartest slumdog. For real. Fuck the fucked-up foot.

  Run.

  Through the woods. Along the small gravel road.

  Sergio should’ve peaced long ago.

  His back, completely drenched. In the middle of his mad rush, a thought about his sweat. His smell now: sharp, strong, stressed.

  Keep going down the gravel road.

  Never slow down.

  And there was the car. Sergio’d parked it exactly where they’d agreed. Point number two. Oh, you beautiful new world. Jorge heard the siren
s in the distance. Jumped in. The key was in the ignition. He gunned it.

  There was a God.

  The sirens in the distance came closer.

  8

  The line could be seen all the way from Sturecompagniet. JW walked up Sturegatan with the boyz. They were pumped, amped, ready to roll. JW felt the energy like currents of electricity through his body—they were riding high.

  Earlier that night, they’d eaten at Nox. Ordered fine wine with dinner. It’d been two weeks since the last time they’d gone out. The boyz’ needs were making themselves known: Putte wanted to hook up, Fredrik to booze, Nippe to chase tail. JW was speeded; he wanted to test his new job, mark his territory.

  Thirty grams of his own ice, on credit from the Arab, were packaged in ten mini zip baggies—Red Line brand. He had six grams in his pockets right now. The rest was stashed behind a radiator in Mrs. Reuterskiöld’s foyer.

  The boyz strutted down the street. JW kicked his feet widely with each step. Thought about the Men in Black sound track.

  The line wasn’t a line—it was an organism made up of human bodies. People screamed, waved, jammed, pushed, hurled, cried, flirted. The bouncers tried to keep things under wraps. Drove people like cattle into a number of lines behind the roped-off area. The line for you with Kharma Cards. The line for you with VIP Kharma Cards. The line for you with VIP VIP cards. The rest needn’t bother. We’re at capacity. Only regulars tonight. Don’t you get it? We’re AT CAPACITY.

  Oversized ghetto kids threatened to beat them up. Banker boys pressed crumpled bills into their hands. Girls offered blow jobs. They were denied, one bouncer at a time. The air was thick with one word that no one said but everyone who wasn’t ushered in through the velvet rope felt: humiliation.

  It took five minutes just to push through the crowd and up to the bouncers. Some got the drift and let the boyz through. Others thought the world was a fair place, tried to keep them back. Sharpened their elbows and jabbed.

  Nippe nodded to one of the bouncers.

  The never-flagging confidence that JW was doing his utmost to copy worked its magic. They floated past the crowd. Humiliation was reserved for other people. The feeling: better than sex.

  At the cash register, they were welcomed by a tall blond guy with clean features: Carl. The guy was 100 percent jet set. Hence his nickname: “Jet Set Carl.” He and a partner owned the place. Kharma: premier hub of the riches-royales. Brat central. Backslick bay.

  Nippe threw open his arms. “What’s up, Calle? Things going well, as usual, I see. Incredible amount of people out tonight. Awesome.”

  “Yes, we’re pleased. Af Drangler is running the club tonight, really sweet crowd. You guys have a table?”

  “Of course, always.”

  “Great. We’ll have to chat more later. Have a good night, boys.” Jet Set Carl turned and walked in toward the venue.

  For a brief moment, Nippe looked like he was fumbling. Cut off with his mouth full of brownnosing shit. JW thought, It worked, so who cares?

  The girl at the register recognized Nippe. She waved them past without asking them to pay.

  Inside, the place was half-empty.

  Nippe and JW looked at each other. Laughed. They could hear the bouncers yelling outside: “We’re at capacity. Only regulars with cards tonight.”

  An hour later, Nippe was on his knees in the bathroom, bent over the toilet seat, with paper napkins spread out on the floor.

  Putte took the opportunity to sneak a Marlboro Light. Hummed along to the Eurotechno streaming in from the dance floor. “Why is this kind of music so popular at Kharma? Why not music with some more song to it, like R ’n’ B or hip-hop. Or why not some honest-to-goodness pop, like Melody Club. But no, they basically just play really fucking boring, watered-down, mainstream, party Eurotechno. A load of crap.”

  JW sometimes tired of Putte’s know-it-all attitude when it came to music. The guy had over eight thousand MP3s at home in his hard drive and was always complaining about other people’s taste.

  JW said, “Come on, do you have to whine? This place has amazing fuckin’ pull tonight.”

  Nippe put a mirror down on the closed toilet seat lid. The place wasn’t exactly spick-and-span. There were brown burn marks on the lid and the top of the toilet from people sneaking cigarettes and putting them down while doing other stuff. Such as cutting lines, the way the guys were doing now, talking on cell phones, pissing, being sucked off. If JW squinted, it looked as though there were raisins spread out on the lid.

  JW pulled out a baggie and carefully poured out about one-third of the contents in three piles on the mirror.

  Nippe looked surprised. “You bought again this week?”

  “Sure. But from another guy.”

  “Okay. Better price than the towelhead?”

  JW lied. “Not much, but nicer guy. I didn’t like that blatte. Thought he was trouble. I brought a lot tonight. If you know anyone who wants any, let me know.” He grinned, “Preferably ladies, of course.”

  Nippe shaped the powder into three lines. “This is so ill. I’m getting horny just looking at these lines. I’m gonna fucking beat my own record tonight. At least three girls.”

  JW looked at him. “Dude, no way. You’re insane. I thought it was pretty good when you got blown by two girls in the same night.”

  “Sure, but tonight I’m on it. I can feel it in my cock. After this little dose of mirror magic, I’ll be scoring a hat trick. At least three girls are gonna taste the pinecone.”

  “You’re ridiculous, man. Where do you go? In here?” Putte stubbed his cigarette against the toilet. Another raisin.

  “Yes, my love. Here, or the ladies’ room. And now that it’s almost summertime, Humlegården Park is prime real estate.”

  JW wanted to be like him, Nippe, Stureplan’s uncrowned prince of BJs. With a profound self-assurance that always showed—no matter the situation, he radiated confidence. But sometimes JW wondered how deep it really ran. Like, did Nippe really think he was God’s gift to women, or was he just such a damn good actor that he even convinced himself? Whichever it was, it made him someone with edge, the guy everyone talked about. Someone JW wanted to be. And still, he didn’t want to be him—the guy could be such a tool.

  Nippe pulled a bill out of his back pocket. Rolled it Hollywood-style, leaned over, and vacuumed the mirror.

  JW and Putte followed suit.

  The powder hit right away. White dynamite.

  Life glowed.

  He lost the boyz out on the dance floor. The music pounded. Bob Sinclair in autotune: “Love Generation.” A smoke machine hummed in the corner. Strobe lights flashed. The world in movie snippets. Scene one: the chicks, top of the line. Cut: A chick swings her arm over her head. Cut: The same chick’s cleavage is pressed up against JW’s face.

  Kharma was a class-A meat market—for the crème de la crème.

  He got lit, hot. Felt like he was running on 98-octane gas. JW wanted to dance, touch, grope, hump. Most of all, he wanted to explode. He got an erection so rock-hard, a cat could’ve sharpened its claws on him.

  He kicked ten times more than usual with his legs. Strutted.

  The feeling was so crisp: He was the best, horniest, smartest. Coolest. They’d see.

  Another girl came toward him. Kissed him on the cheek. Yelled in his ear, “Hey, JW! What’s up? Did you guys have a good time the other weekend?”

  JW pulled his head back. Clicked into focus. “Sophie. You look so pretty tonight. Are you here with the rest of the girls?”

  “Yes, everyone except Louise. She’s in Denmark. Come to our table and say hi.”

  They held hands. He was pulled along.

  His gaze swept over the people at the table. Four insanely hot girls were seated in a row, dressed in tops that revealed more than they covered. The dominating colors: pink, purple, turquoise. All with push-up bras or boob jobs, tight blue jeans or short skirts.

  Straighten up now, JW—fucking focus.


  Nippe was already sitting at the table, had his arm around one of the girls. Buttering her up, joking, gazing deep into her eyes. JW thought, Which number was she in line? Damn it, could he have scored one already?

  JW sat down. On the table was a “banker tray”: an ice bucket with a handle of vodka and smaller bottles of Schweppes tonic, ginger ale, soda water. JW got one of the basic rules confirmed: You drink hard stuff or bubbles. No beer.

  It was hard to talk over the music. Sophie poured him a vodka tonic. JW sipped, stirred, picked up an ice cube with his fingers and popped it in his mouth. Sucked on it, hard. Sophie looked at him and sipped her drink.

  He went over Abdulkarim’s advice silently to himself. Start by handing out freebies. Make friends by being generous, friends who like coke. Friends with cash or other friends with cash. Try to make sure people take as little as possible at the club—it’s an unsafe environment. Go to after parties instead. Organize after parties. Deliver to B-list celebs at after parties. Use at home. Don’t sell too-large quantities in the beginning—you don’t want to create a secondhand market.

  Nippe leaned over and started talking to Sophie. JW couldn’t hear what they were saying. He dug the rush instead, unbuttoned another button on his shirt and gulped his drink. Felt how sharp his thoughts were—like a Mach3 razor blade.

  JW had his own ideas. He wouldn’t carry too much at a time. If he was picked up, he wanted to be able to claim it was for his own use. He hid the rest in smart places. When he sold out: home for more. No problem, Stureplan was close enough to Tessin Park. Even more important: keep his buds well heeled so they didn’t question too much why he’d always be the one delivering from now on.

  Sophie leaned over and brushed JW’s ear with her lips. He shuddered.