Mrado knelt down next to him.
“Yo, twiggy. How’s your sesh? What d’you do?”
Mahmud didn’t look up. Kept stretching his back. “I don’t know who you’re calling twiggy, twiggy. The sesh was good. I’ve worked the crap out of my lower back and shoulders today. Is fine. They’re far from each other. How’re things with you?”
“Rollin’. I need help with something. That cool?”
“Course. Mahmud never leaves you hangin’; you know that.”
“Cool. Do you know anyone doing time at Osteraker?”
“Yeah. My sister’s husband’s there. She visits a lot. They get a room to themselves, have a little fun.” Mahmud changed positions. Stood up. Arms between his legs. Hunched his back. The sound of joints cracking.
“When’s the next time she’s gonna visit?”
“Don’t know. Want me to ask?”
“Yeah. Would you call when you’re done here? I need to know as soon as possible.”
Mahmud nodded. They were silent. The Arab did a few more stretches. Mrado waited. Chatted with two other guys in the room. They walked down to the locker room. Mahmud called his sister. Spoke in Arabic. His sis was going there on Thursday.
They met up at a place on the south side. Supercheap-greasy kabobs and falafel in pita bread for twenty kronor a pop. Mrado ordered three. Scoped out the place. Pictures of the Al-Aqsa Mosque in Jerusalem and Arabic texts on the walls. Genuine or for show? Who cared when the kabobs were so good, they’d melt in your mouth.
Mrado’s take on Mahmud’s sister: tacky blatte. Clothes a little too tight. Skirt a little too short. Makeup a little too much. The Louis Vuitton accessories? A little too fake. Much too much ghetto Swedish. Tone it down, habibti.
She was amenable. Nema problema. He instructed her on what to ask: If Jorge’d had an unusual amount of contact with another inmate the days before the escape. With a CO? How’d he gotten over the wall? Had he belonged to a gang? Did people know who’d helped him on the outside? Who were his friends on the inside?
She wrote the questions down and promised to memorize them before her next visit to the penitentiary. Wanted two thousand cash for her time.
Mrado knew Jorge’s type; they never shut up. Bragged, showed off, said too much.
He felt certain: With a contact at Osteraker, the Latino’d soon be found.
The hunt could begin.
16
Spanish dreams. “Jorgelito, I’ll sit here till you fall asleep. Jorgelito, wait here and I’ll get the storybook. Jorgelito, have I told you you’re my prince? Paola’s my princess. You’re my own royal family.”
Jorge woke up.
It was light outside. Hot in the room. Sweet dreams were over. He lay on a mattress that he’d pulled off a bed. Reduced the risk that someone would see him from the outside. Double safety measures-tall bushes outside the window blocked the view.
He’d spent a total of six days in the cottage. Bored. Soon time to call that Yugo. He thought about Rodriguez. One day, Jorge-boy’d be back. Redecorate his face. Make him crawl. Lick mom’s feet. Beg. Creep. Cry.
Maybe he’d been stupid. Careless. For instance, he’d run out of food the day before. He’d walked out to the road. Followed it until he reached a bigger road. Kept going. Saw water. Boats that people were taking out of the water. Haloed autumn panorama. About an hour and a half later: a grocery store, ICA Nygrens. He went in.
Never felt as dark as there, in the Aryan Swedish national store. The blatte stood out, sharp contrast. No one said anything. No one seemed to care. But Jorge, el negrito, thought he was gonna be lynched, dipped in poisonous boat paint and rolled in granola.
He bought spaghetti, chips, bread, sandwich meat, eggs, butter, and beer. Laundry detergent and hair dye. Paid cash. Didn’t say thank you to the lady working the cash register. Just nodded. Thought everyone was eyeing him. Hating him. Planning to turn him over to the cops.
Already on his way out of the store, he felt like an idiot. Tried to walk through the woods on his way home. Didn’t fly. Kept hitting private property, houses. Got scared that people might be home. Get suspicious. Get pissed off. Report the nigger to the police. Walked back out to the main road. Hoped no one would take note of him, el fugitivo.
Jorge fried two eggs. Buttered five pieces of bread. Added sandwich meat. Drank water. A tower of plates and silverware balanced precariously in the sink. Why bother doing dishes? The house’s rightful owner could take care of that later.
He sat down at the kitchen table. Ate the sandwiches quickly. Ran his fingers over the tabletop. It looked old. He wondered if poor people owned the cottage, or if they’d chosen an old table on purpose.
Then: a sound outside. Jorge’s ears perked up.
A voice.
He hunched down.
Slid off the chair, onto the floor.
Lay flat on his stomach.
Crawled toward the window. If someone was on the way in, he could be cooked. If it was the cops outside, he was definitely cooked.
Goddamn it, why hadn’t he prepared better? Nothing packed. His clothes, hair dye, food, toiletries-everything was spread out in the room where he slept. Fucking idiot. If he had to run now, he wouldn’t manage to take a fucking thing.
He tried to look out the window. Didn’t see anyone outside. Just the tranquil garden, surrounded by trimmed hawthorn bushes and two maple trees. Again: the voice. Sounded like it came from the little road leading up to the house. Folded in half, he slunk over to the other window. Through the hall. The broad wooden planks in the floor creaked. Fuck. Didn’t dare look out the window. They might be able to see him from the outside. Listened first. Heard another voice, closer now, but not right outside. At least two people talking to each other. Was it the 5–0 or someone else?
Listened again. One of the voices had a slight foreign accent.
He peeked cautiously. No parked car. Couldn’t see the people. Looked up the road that continued past the house toward a dark red barn behind the garden. There. Three people were walking toward the house.
Jorge fast-forwarded through his options. Weighed the advantages and the risks. The cottage was good. Warm, relatively shielded from view, far from the city and the cops’ searching. He could bunker down here until all his money ran out. On the other hand, the people on the road from the barn. He couldn’t really make out who they were.
They could be the owners of the house. Maybe it wasn’t their house but they were just curious. Took a look- see through the windows. Saw the mountain of dishes, saw the mattress on the floor, saw the mess.
It could be the cops.
The risk was too big. Better to pack up his things and clear out before they got here. There were other houses. Other warm beds.
Jorge shoved his stuff into two bags, food in one and clothes and toiletries in the other. He went to the door. The upper half was made of painted glass. He looked out. Didn’t see the people. Opened the door. Walked quickly to the left. Not the gravel path out to the little road. Pushed through an opening in the bushes instead. Got caught on thorns.
Thought the voices sounded closer.
Fuck.
He ran without looking back.
