Everything was cool. She was on ticket number 162. The night was young. He took a look in the cash box. Seemed straight. No funny stuff.
They moved on. The place across the street, Marie Laveau, was controlled by Goran Boman. His time would come one day, but they let it go for now.
They continued toward Slussen. The night was cool. Ratko talked about how he was gonna build his upper body. Chow on lean protein: tuna and chicken. Pop Dbols. Do double sessions at the gym. New ideas for how to plan his training.
Mrado looked at him. Ratko was built but needed many hours at the gym before he’d play in Mrado’s league.
Patrik revealed that he’d eaten ice cream only twice in the past year. The single unhealthy thing he put into his body was beer.
Mrado got lost in thought. The guys were obsessed with the wrong stuff. He thought about Lovisa, his daugher. His ex, Annika, lived with her. Mrado had visitation rights, every other Wednesday night to Thursday night. It wasn’t enough, but they were still the best days in the month. His schedule as a collector/dealer/hit man was perfect. Had the whole day free for museums, children’s theaters, the latest Disney flicks. They ate pizza, watched movies, and read Serbian children’s books. Mrado could honestly say to those around him, “I am a good father.” Family court, Annika, society, everyone-they didn’t think that a Serbian man could take care of kids. Bullshit.
He should retire. Get more visitation. Be more with Lovisa. Stop being hard-boiled.
They walked up to Gotgatan. Checked spots off the list. Most were already controlled, but there were some wild cards. Patrik did good work. Stepped up. Mrado and Ratko stood in the background, clearly visible. Arms crossed. Patrik asked to speak to the person in charge of the coat check. Patrik explained the advantages. Patrik: in tight jeans, T-shirt, thin green military jacket, shaved skull covered in scars, tattoos protruding on his neck.
Be afraid.
“We make sure you don’t have any trouble with mobs or gangs. You wouldn’t want your coat-check cash robbed all the time, would you? Our insurance covers that kind of thing. We can help you get more paying customers. We have lots of good ideas about how to increase coat-check efficiency.” Yada, Yada, Yada.
Most people bought the bull. Some’d been visited before. No problems. People didn’t want to get the Yugos on their backs. Some refused. Patrik didn’t make a scene. Just asked to come back later. They knew they were being fucked-smile and take it or have to take it from someone else.
They walked along Gotgatan. Down to Medborgarplatsen. It was 1:00 a.m. A lot of places were starting to close. Down by Medborgarplatsen, Snaps, 5ifty4our, Kvarnen, Grone Jagaren, Mondo, Gota Kallare, and farther down, Metro and East 100, still open.
Snaps belonged to Goran Boman. Grone Jagaren belonged to HA.
They went into Mondo, in Medborgarhuset. A youth center. Lots of people. Patrik did his thing. The place got the drift. Wanted to make a deal. Most restaurant and bar owners counted the coat-check revenue in their own balance sheets. Mrado thought the ex-skin did good. Over the year they’d been working together, Patrik’d toned down his hotheaded tendencies, picked up the right style: calm, assured, commanding respect.
They left at quarter past one. Gypsy cabs swarmed outside Medborgarplatsen.
On to one of the biggest bars and clubs on the south side: Kvarnen. An old boozehound and soccer hooligan hub. Place’d gone wild when Bajen, the area’s team of choice, won the national championship in 2001. The old room had once been a beer hall. High ceilings. Columns, wooden tables, turn-of-the-century wood paneling. The new room was decorated in an aquatic theme. Aquariums and blue stylized water drops on the walls. The basement had a fire theme. Orange walls, no big tables, only bar stools and little tables screwed into the walls serving as parking spots for beers.
The line stretched all the way out to Gotgatan. Nearly forty yards long. Pretty orderly. No drama at the door. Hipsters with complex hairstyles and accessories. Alternative types with tightly laced boots and Palestinian scarves. Popfuckers: dyed black hair with bangs. Bajen soccer fans: no frills.
Kvarnen drew quite a crowd.
Mrado, Patrik, and Ratko cut the line. People glared, pissed. But still-no protests. They got it. Unmistakably registered the aura of respect.
The bouncer said no. “No first-class boarding.” This is the democratic south side. Jackass. Patrik kept cool. Explained that they just wanted to have a chat with the coat-check attendant. The bouncer was clueless. Refused to let them in. Mrado wondered who the loser was. Stared. Patrik tried again. Explained that they didn’t want to cut the line, just had some business with the coat-check attendant. The bouncer turned his head. Saw Mrado. Seemed to get it. Let them in.
The coat check was run by the bouncers themselves. Unusual. Meant trouble.
The coat-check bouncers: three big guys. Their shirts bulged, the panels of their bulletproof vests visible beneath the fabric. Controlled the crowd with a rough attitude. Take no prisoners. Real southies. Wouldn’t budge on the fee, didn’t matter that tons of people only had thin jackets. Even the pretty girls had to pay. These boys worked for SWEA Security-a Sven company for real Sven boys.
The head bouncer, their front man, knew right away whom he was dealing with. Maybe he’d heard the outside discussion in his earpiece. “Hey, hey. Welcome to Kvarnen. Unfortunately, we’re not interested in your business, but feel free to come in and have a drink.”
Patrik, who’d already gotten fired up from the provocation at the door, was getting his edge back. “You in charge of the coat check here tonight? Why don’t we go have a chat. I’ve got a proposition.”
Mrado and Ratko stayed put in the background. Mrado, laser-focused. Tried to listen.
The bouncer said, “I’m in charge here. But I don’t have time to talk right now. You either go in or out. Sorry.”
“We weren’t treated very well at the door. I want to talk to you now. You follow? Your other two guys’ll be just fine here by themselves for ten minutes.”
Attitude. The two other bouncers glanced over. Saw there was trouble. The front man said, “Excuse me. Perhaps I wasn’t clear? We’re not interested in your services. We play our own game. I don’t want to be impolite, but you have to understand that we’re fine. Without you.”
Patrik’s body language screamed, I want to take this fucker down.
His fists were balled, knuckles whitening. His tattoos seemed to spark.
Mrado stepped up, laid his hand on Patrik’s shoulder. Calmed him. Turned to the front man, “Okay, we’ll go in. We’ll have a seat and wait for you. Come in when you have time to talk.”
Shit was tense.
Mrado tugged at Patrik. Ratko did the same.
Patrik caved. Went in.
Anticlimax.
The bouncers won.
Mrado ordered beer. They sat down at a table.
The volume in the beer hall was on high.
Patrik leaned toward Mrado, “What the fuck was that? We can’t tolerate that kind of shit. Why’d you pull me away?”
“Patrik, chill out. I’m with you. We’ll talk to him, but not in front of all the guests. Not in front of the other bouncers. That’d be trouble. Listen. We’ll sit here, relax. Maybe he’ll come to us. Maybe not. But we don’t forget, we wait, and when that cunt has to go to the bathroom or is on his way home or whatever, then we’ll have a little chat with him. Tell him what’s up.”
Patrik calmed down. Looked more relaxed. Ratko cracked his knuckles.
They chilled. Mrado drank light beer. Checked out the chicks. Checked out the place. Checked out the bouncers on the sly. He was sitting so he could see straight into the coat check. But he didn’t make any obvious eyes in that direction. Easy does it.
They talked about Ratko’s upper body again. Went over different steroids. Mrado told a few Radovan secrets even though he shouldn’t. Patrik told them how he’d shot a Magnum last weekend: the recoil, the pressure, the bullet holes.
Patrik got personal. Asked Mrado, “How many’ve you killed?”
Mrado, dead serious: “I was down in Yugoslavia in 1995. Draw your own conclusions.”
