was tough. The SUVs hogged the streets. Driving by the latest beauty from Porsche made him drool: Cayman S. A 911 combined with a Boxter-hotness incarnate. He finally found a spot-the Ford wasn’t exactly a big machine.
He went up to his room at Mrs. Reuterskiold’s. It was nine o’clock. No point in driving the cab before midnight. He settled down with his schoolbooks. Had a midterm in four days.
The apartment was located near Tessin Park. Lower Gardet was okay for JW. Upper Gardet wouldn’t cut it- too far off the grid, too bitter. The room was 216 square feet, with a separate entrance, toilet, and a big window overlooking the park. Peaceful and calm, just like the old lady wanted it. The problem was that he had to be so damn quiet when he managed to get a girl home.
The room was furnished with a full bed, a red armchair, and a desk from IKEA, where he put his laptop. He’d swiped it from some oblivious sucker at school. Piece of cake. He’d waited till the owner went to the bathroom. Most people took their computers along with them, but others chanced it. JW’d seen the opportunity-just slid it into his shoulder bag and walked out.
The lamp from his childhood room was screwed into the desk. It still had glue marks from old cartoon stickers. Embarrassing, like whoa. Important to turn it off when he had a girl over-home game.
Clothes were strewn everywhere. There was one poster on the wall: Schumacher in a Formula 1 uniform, spraying champagne from the prize podium.
There really wasn’t much to the room. Sparse. He preferred to go home with the chicks to their places instead-away game.
JW didn’t mind studying. He liked writing his own papers instead of copying stuff off the Internet. He participated actively in class discussions when he was prepared. Always tried to make time to do the practice sets after. Tried his best to be ambitious.
He cracked the books. The Financial Analysis course had the hardest exam. He needed more time.
Turned the sets over in his mind, counted, fed numbers into the calculator. His thoughts returned to the discussion he’d had with the boyz the night before. How much did the blatte really make selling coke? How much did he pull in a month? What were his margins? Risk versus possible income. He should be able to calculate that.
JW went through the list of his life goals. One: to not reveal his double life. Two: to buy a car. Three: to become loaded. Finally: to find out what happened to Camilla. A step toward getting over it-if that was possible.
Principles of Corporate Finance — he got through seven pages. The difference between financing a company through stocks or through loans. How does the value of the company change? Preference shares, beta value, rates of return, obligations, et cetera. He took notes on a pad of paper and underlined in the textbook with a neon yellow highlighter. Almost fell asleep over the pages covered in graphs and equations.
When he nodded off for a second, he dropped his pen. That woke him. He thought, No point to keep going at this hour.
Time to drive home the money.
He was on his way to Medborgarplatsen, on the south side of the city. It was quarter past eleven. He was driving Sibyllegatan down to Strandvagen, past Berzelii Park. Dangerous area, way too close to the boyz’ stomping grounds.
JW kept mulling over his thoughts. What did he really know about his sister’s life in Stockholm anyway? The texts, calls, and e-mails he’d gotten were often without substance. Camilla’d had a part-time job at Cafe Ogo on Odengatan and gone to continuing-education classes at Komvux to get better high school grades in literary arts, math, and English. She’d had a boyfriend. JW didn’t even know his name. He knew only one point of interest: The guy’d driven a yellow Ferrari. There were photos of Camilla in the car at home in Robertsfors. In them, she was glowing, smiling and waving through a rolled-down window. You couldn’t make out the guy’s face in the pictures. Who was he?
JW drove past the Foreign Ministry at Gustav Adolf’s Square. There were a lot of people out and about. Everyone was back from vacation and wanted to make up for what they’d missed by vegging out at country houses and on sailboats. He drove through the tunnel at Slussen toward Medborgarplatsen.
He parked the car outside the Scandic Hotel and got out. Positioned himself outside Snaps. There was always someone there who needed a ride home or downtown.
Three chicks stumbled out. Possible good pickup. He cocked his head to the side, pulled an irresistible JW. “Hey, ladies. Need a ride?”
One of the girls, a blonde, looked at her friends. They knew what was up, nodded. She said, “Sure. How much to Stureplan?”
Damn it. Gotta play this. Coax, smile. He said, “There’s so much traffic there. I know it sounds like a drag, but would it be okay if I drop you off by Norrmalmstorg?” Charm attack. Added, in a fake blatte accent, “Special price for you only.”
Giggles. The blond girl said, “Only ’cause you’re cute. But then you have to give us a good deal.”
It was settled: 150 kronor.
JW drove toward Norrmalmstorg. The chicks chirped in the back. They were going to Kharma. It had been so nice at Caroline’s. Amazing food, crazy atmosphere, sweet drinks. They were soooooo drunk. JW shut them out. Couldn’t get interested in anything but driving tonight. He smiled, looked mysterious.
The girls babbled. Did he wanna come? JW felt the vibe, it would be so easy to score. But there was a major hurdle: These weren’t the kind of girls he wanted to meet. Svens.
Before he dropped them off, he said, “Ladies, I have to ask you something.”
They thought he was going to make a move.
“Have you ever met a girl out named Camilla Westlund? Tall, pretty, from the north. Like, four years ago?”
The babblebrauds looked like they were thinking, hard.
“I’m not too great with names, but none of us recognize Camilla Westlund,” one said.
JW thought, Maybe they are too young. Maybe they weren’t partying at the right places back then.
They got out by the bus stops at Norrmalmstorg. He gave the chicks his cell phone number. “Call whenever you need a ride.”
Time for more driving.
He parked by Kungstradgarden Park. Couldn’t stop thinking. It was the first time he’d asked anyone about Camilla. Why not, anyway? Maybe someone would remember.
Seven minutes passed before the next passenger was seated in the Ford.
It was a calm night. Everything went off smoothly. The clubbers were into it, wanted to get home. JW delivered.
Later. The night was a success; he’d made two thousand kronor so far. Mental arithmetic. That meant twelve hundred in his pocket.
He was waiting outside Kvarnen on Tjarhovsgatan. Mostly jailbait and soccer fans. The line was long, more orderly than the one outside Kharma. Lamer people than at Kharma. Cheaper than Kharma. No one was being let in just then-something’d happened inside. Two police vans were parked outside. Their flashing lights illuminated the walls. JW wanted to get out of there fast; it was needless to take risks with the car.
As he was walking back to the Ford, a familiar figure came toward him. One who walked with rhythm, dressed in a well-tailored suit with billowing pants. High hairline and short, curly hair. Without really being able to make out the figure’s face, JW knew who it was: Abdulkarim. He had his big friend in tow, his very own gorilla: Fahdi.
JW looked at him, hoped nothing was up.
Abdulkarim said hi, opened the car door, and got into the passenger seat. The gorilla folded himself into the back.
JW jumped in behind the wheel. “Nice to see you out and about. Anything in particular you want to check?”
“No, no. No worry, man. Just drive us to Spy.”
Spy Bar. Stureplan. What was he going to say?
JW started the car. Held off answering. Made a decision-he couldn’t stir shit up with the Arab.
“Spy Bar it is.”
