“Stop being so lame. Are you ashamed, or what? Stand up for who you are. I thought Jorge was awesome. A badass. He told me about his childhood, actually. Total ghetto, you know, like, there were only four Swedes in his class in elementary school. And I don’t even know anyone with parents born outside of Europe. I think Stockholm’s, like, a total Johannesburg.”
Sophie’s words seared. What did she know about him, really? JW wanted to change the subject. Usually, that was his expertise. But now he couldn’t think of anything to say.
They sat in silence.
Staring down at the melting ice cream.
51
A week’d passed since the night at Smadalaro. Jorge was lying low. The cops were still on high alert because of the Brothel Murders, as the evening press’d dubbed them. What bullshit-who the hell cared about some ubercriminal Serbs?
Jorge hung out at home. Sometimes he had to go out on the street to deal with immediate concerns regarding sales and distribution, but not often. He’d been outside a total of three times.
Abdulkarim was happy as long as the plan panned out-to spread the white gold in the boroughs. Lower the prices. Set the bar. Instead of: “Wanna grab a few beers?” make it: “Wanna snort a few lines?”
It worked. Jorge dealt to eight different contacts in the northern boroughs-from Solna to Marsta. Dudes who knew their turf. Knew the right people. Sold at pubs, pizza joints, discotheques, billiard halls, malls, parks, outside Social Services. And he also distributed to some of the city’s southern boroughs.
Jorge: a mini Abdul in his own territory. But he still wanted to avoid being seen.
Petter, the soccer hooligan, was his main man. Kept track of the dealers. Dealt with logistics. Drove around all day with baggies. Called himself “Mr. Icee.” The only thing missing was a catchy jingle as he drove past.
Peddled K-12. At house and apartment parties, outside hot dog stands and after-school programs. In common rooms, commuter rail stations, housing-project basements.
A competently cold-blooded coke invasion of the boroughs.
The money rolled in. Abdulkarim was generous. So far, Jorge’d collected over 400,000. Stored half the cash at home in six DVD cases on his bookshelf. Rolled the thousand-kronor bills side by side, like cigars. The rest he buried in a wooded area outside Helenelund-pirate-style.
He consumed some but saved most of it.
Couldn’t find peace. Woke up at least once an hour on the hour every night.
Disturbing images from his dreams: couches covered in brain matter, Osteraker’s walls from the inside, old guys with tongues like erect penises.
Didn’t need Freud to interpret that.
Jorge was scared.
If he was put away again, it’d probably be for life.
That wouldn’t fly now that he was gonna be an uncle.
He needed to act.
Exploit the positive sides of the situation.
Sodermalm, Stockholm’s south side. On the way to Lundagatan. Unknown territory for Jorge. The subway stop was Zinkensdamm.
Jorge got off the subway. A forceful wind struck him in the face as he walked up the stairs to the exit.
The weather outside, milder. Spring was on its way.
Lundagatan up. The Skinnarvik Park was snow-free. Jorge knew the rumor: Gay Central Station.
Street number: fifty-five.
He entered the key code he’d been given: 1914. Jorge thought, People have poor imaginations. Almost all building key codes begin with nineteen. Like dates.
Checked the list of tenants in the entry. Ahl-three flights. Jorge was in the right place.
He took the elevator up.
Heard music in the foyer.
Rang the doorbell.
Nothing happened.
Rang again. He heard the music stop.
Someone turned the lock from the inside.
A guy in sweatpants and a wifebeater opened. He had bedhead, round glasses, and mad acne issues. The caricature of a computer geek.
Jorge introduced himself. Was let in.
They’d spoken two days earlier. Arranged a time and place.
Richard Ahl: a twenty-one-year-old kid who studied film at Sodertorn College and worked nights at Windows XP tech support. According to him: a crack shot who spent at least eight hours a day in the world of Counter-Strike with a gun in his hand. Richard: online gaming’s unknown guru. “You gotta practice if you wanna be a pro. You know how much dough is in this industry?” he asked Jorge after he’d explained what he did.
Jorge couldn’t have cared less. He played Game Boy, Max; more advanced stuff wasn’t part of his repertoire.
Richard explained, “Counter-Strike, it’s the cash cow of the online gaming world. You know, that industry has a bigger turnover than Hollywood.” He buzzed on.
Jorge’d found Richard through Petter. According to Petter, the dude was a computer genius. Too bad he wasted his talent on games. The guy could easily hack into the Swedish Security Service, the CIA, or the Pentagon, if he’d only give it a whirl.
The apartment: a studio with a sleeping nook. Hardly any furniture save for a bed. Clothes and magazines all over the floor. Most striking, against one wall: the computer desk, completely cluttered. Two screens, one flat screen and one older model. Floppy discs, CDs and DVDs, cases, manuals, joysticks, controllers, keyboards, magazines, three mouse pads, each with a different pattern, one with a water-lily pond by Monet, two different mice, a laptop slightly ajar, cords, a Web camera, empty Coca-Cola cans, and empty pizza cartons.
A computer geek’s natural habitat.
Richard sat down on the chair by the computer desk. “Petter said you wanted some help. Spruce up some pics and get into a computer?”
Jorge wasn’t totally sure he’d understood. He remained standing in the middle of the room.
“First and foremost, I need to get into this laptop. I don’t have the user name or password, and there’s info on it that’s very important. Then I need your help to up the quality of a couple of pictures I took with a cell phone camera.”
“Right. Wasn’t that what I just said?” The dude rocked a cocky style. Knew he was smart. But not smart enough to be humble.
Jorge handed over the laptop that he’d swiped from Hallonbergen.
Richard leaned back in his desk chair. Rolled forward. Opened the laptop. Turned it on.
The computer asked for user name and password.
Richard typed something in.
The computer responded with a text message: You were not logged in. The user name or password you entered is incorrect. Please try again or contact customer service.
Richard sighed. Tried new letter combinations.
Nothing happened.
He restarted the computer. Inserted a CD.
Started writing in DOS format.
Nothing happened.
He continued to pound the keyboard frenetically.
Jorge pushed aside a pile of dirty laundry and sat down on the bed. Didn’t even try to understand what the
