Regretted trying. Hoped he hadn’t raised any red flags.
Wondered if anyone’d recognized him. Looked at his reflection in a shop window. Black hair. Curly. His beard was getting longer. His skin darker than it really was. It should be enough.
A thermometer pointed to fourteen degrees Celsius.
Where would he sleep?
He thought about his other plan-his cash idea. Did he dare? Challenge Radovan.
11
JW counted the money again. Twenty-two thousand clean, and then he’d still partied like Paris Hilton four weekends in a row, and on top of that been able to buy a Canali blazer.
He weighed the forty-four five-hundred-kronor bills wrapped with a rubber band in the palm of his hand. Usually, he kept them hidden in a pair of socks in the closet. Selling coke paid well. He’d made the money in a month. Paid back his debt to Abdulkarim and passed his Financial Analysis exam, too.
Abdulkarim praised him, wanted him to work with coke full-time. The flattery warmed. The flattery fed him confidence and sweet dreams for the future. But JW declined-he was planning on doing it all: partying, dealing, studying.
The boyz’d accepted that he provided the goods. They were polished boys. It suited them, having the goods delivered without needing to get their delicate hands dirty. The only one who reacted was Nippe, who dissed him as a joke, “Are you low on cash, or what? Kinda seems like it, since you’re, like, a runner all the time now. Just say the word and my old man will lend you some.” JW ignored him. Thought, Soon I’ll be able to buy Nippe’s old man and shut him up for good.
JW checked himself in the mirror. His lion mane was well groomed with the generous amount of Dax wax he’d just smeared into it, on top of all the wax that never completely washed out. He used to cut his own hair. Now he had other opportunities. Maybe he’d go to the same hairdressers as the boyz: Sachajuan, Toni amp; Guy, only the best. Fine thought.
All his clothes were secondhand: the Gucci jeans, the Paul Smith shirt, and the Tod’s loafers with the characteristic cleat-like rubber soles. That’s why it felt so good to put on the Canali blazer. No wrinkles, nice structure, crisp feeling. Even the smell was new.
He was nearly six feet tall, fair and with a slim face. Slim wrists. Slim neck. Everything slim. Piano fingers. Defined jaw. JW changed his pose in front of the mirror. I look good, but maybe I’d look better if I bulked up a little. Gym membership, here I come.
It was a Saturday. He was going with Nippe to one of his friend’s parents’ place, an estate in Sormland. JW had met the guy, Gustaf, a couple of times before at the nightclub Laroy. The plan: dinner followed by a party. Everyone was staying the night. Sophie and Anna were going. Some people he didn’t know were going. Best of all, Jet Set Carl was going.
With some luck, maybe he’d be able to get with Sophie. With even better luck, he’d make a good impression on Jet Set Carl. Definitely an opening to C channels.
It was 3:00 p.m. JW felt sluggish, tired for no reason. He hadn’t even partied the night before. He sat down on the bed, pulled up his legs, and counted the money again. Relished the rustle of paper. Waited for Nippe to honk down on the street.
The sales curve pointed straight up. The weekend after he’d treated Sophie and Anna in the park, he’d made his first deal. It started with him treating a second time. But never in Humlegarden again-he’d decided that was a one-time thing. Too lame.
They’d been hanging out at Putte’s, as usual. The whole gang: JW, Putte, Nippe, and Fredrik. Sophie, Anna, and two other prep school broads’d been there, as well. The boyz were in on the deal: JW scored the ice and they all split the bill. This time, the girls wanted in. JW played pasha, all generous and munificent, treating them each to a nose. The two new girls, Charlotte and Lollo, had never tried before. The mood got high, not just metaphorically. They felt molten-hot, impulsive-Autobahn-speeded. Everyone appreciated JW, the guy who brought the party. After three hours, they jumped in cabs and rode down to Stureplan. JW packed four grams. They went into Koket. Business as usual: danced, boozed, flirted. Nippe managed to get blown by two birds. After half an hour, one of the new girls, Lollo, came up to JW and said she thought the whole thing was so wonderful. Asked if he had any more and insisted on paying. JW looked concerned. Said she shouldn’t have to pay but that he’d promised another friend some. She said, “Come on, you just gotta give me a few noses. You gotta let me pay.” He said, “Sure, I’ll see what I can do.” He thought, Daddy’s paying anyway. He unloaded the whole stash for twelve hundred a gram. Wholesale price was six hundred. Profit: 3,400 kronor. Compared to the gypsy-cab gig, it was mind-blowing-a whole night’s work in the Ford equaled three minutes of ingratiating talk at a club, and he’d had a drink in his hand and a pretty girl to look at the whole time. Not bad.
Same deal the next weekend, but with different people. Pregame in a different apartment, party at a different club, after party in a different pad. He’d raked in seven thousand kronor net, even though he’d handed out a total of five grams for free.
The week after, he’d met Sophie for a coffee in Sturegallerian, by Stureplan. They talked about sweet clubs, stylish clothes, shared acquaintances. Talked about serious stuff, too. What they wanted to do when they graduated. Sophie was studying economics at Stockholm University but wanted to try to transfer into the Stockholm School of Economics for her junior year. Had to get top grades on all her exams, study hard, be disciplined. Then she was going to London to do right for herself, to work. JW wanted to work with stocks; he had a head for numbers. She got personal, asked about his parents and background. JW was evasive, said they’d lived abroad most of his childhood, that they lived on an estate in Dalarna now, and that she probably didn’t know them. She wondered why they didn’t live in Sormland, or somewhere else closer to the city. JW changed the subject. He was an old hand, had a store of conversation topics up his sleeve. They talked about her family. That worked; Sophie let his background go and talked about her own instead.
She came from the countryside, from an estate, and had enrolled in a regular school in first grade. Hadn’t worked. Her classmates weren’t nice to her. Called her a snob, didn’t pick her for teams in gym class, thought it was totally fine to swipe her stuff. It almost sounded silly, but JW understood, for real. After sixth grade, she’d switched to the prep school Lundsberg. To her own kind. She loved the place.
JW couldn’t stop thinking about her. She was his best source of sales and she was so foxy, but she seemed genuinely nice, too. A good girl. His goal was clear: He would work on her, doubly.
The next weekend, JW’d hung out with Sophie and her group of girlfriends at a private party. Lollo loved snow, shouted at JW, “This stuff totally gets me off! My sex life is, like, amazing!” Sophie loved snow. Anna loved snow. Charlotte loved snow. Everyone at the party loved JW. He made eight grand.
The weekend after that-last weekend-they’d pregamed at Nippe’s on Friday, then went to Kharma, where a table waited for them, and then on to an after party at Lollo’s. Saturday started with dinner at Putte’s, followed by a reserved table at Cafe Opera. The evening ended with an after party at Lollo’s again-crammed with new faces.
A new record: He’d cashed in eleven grand net.
Weekdays he tried to study. He felt like a new person. C sales did wonders for his finances, his confidence, and his wardrobe. Still, he got no peace. Thoughts of the yellow Ferrari kept bothering him. The night the Arab’d suggested he sell coke was the first time he’d ever asked about Camilla. He’d hoped that maybe someone knew something, but deep inside he didn’t think it would lead anywhere. But now there was the Ferrari tearing down Sturegatan at a furious speed as a constant image in his mind. He had to know more.
He’d called the National Road Administration. Unfortunately, JW didn’t remember the car’s license plate number, but it worked anyway-vehicle registration was a wonderful state institution. Anyone could find out who the owner of any Swedish registered car was. If the car was unusual, you could get information even without the license plate number. According to the guy at the Road Administration, there were two yellow Ferraris in Sweden the year Camilla went missing. One was owned by the IT millionaire Peter Holbeck, and the other was owned by a leasing company, Dolphin Finance, Ltd. The company specialized in sports cars and yachts.
JW began by looking up Peter Holbeck. The man’d made his money on Web consulting. Now, in retrospect, JW thought the whole thing seemed so obvious. How the hell could they think that consultants should make five
