Mrado felt stressed-out. He saw her right away. She was sitting with a Pepsi in front of her. The Arab joint was packed. Two veiled women with at least 140 ankle biters occupied the back half of the place. In the front were a couple of Svens lapping up multicultural Sweden. Mahmud’s sister held out her hand. Meaning: I want my two thousand cash. The chick’d been compliant last time. Now: considerable attitude problem.
Mrado sighed. Thought something that surprised him: Too many people who are downright losers rock an attitude. He’d experienced it a lot. Unemployed Sven boozehounds, uneducated bouncers, and cocky project blattes played tough guy. Did that protect them? Did it keep them from feeling like the dregs they were? This chick was an obvious loser. Why did she even try?
He sat down.
“Okay, babe, let’s hold off on the money. You’ll get it soon. First, tell me what he said.”
Before she’d even said a word, he knew the answer.
“My man, he know nothin’.”
“What do you mean? He knew about Jorge, didn’t he?”
“No, I mean, like, they hung never, or whatever.”
Got irritated. The chick couldn’t fucking speak straight. Someone should return her to the store. Reclaim the warranty.
“Come on. Of course he knew who Jorge was. Think. What’d he say?”
“What’s your deal? Don’t think I remember, huh? Me, comin’ from there now. I just said-they hung never.”
“You want your dough or what? Did he know who the Latino was or not?”
“He knew. Said tightest break he’d ever heard.”
“You mean the escape? Did he see the escape?”
“Shit, you nag. My man not there. Not on motivation.”
“Girl, if you want the dough, you have to fuckin’ talk so I understand you.” Mrado was about to snap. Pushed back his chair. Signal: Wise up or I’ll leave.
“He, like, in not same block. Not motivation. He somewhere else. You know?”
Mrado knew. Bummed. Mahmud’s sis was a dud. There were two units at Osteraker. One for inmates who wanted to get their lives back on track, where they got motivation to get off drugs. Learn society’s rules. Pedagogical programs, workshops, bullshit psychology and chat therapy. Of course that’s where Jorge’d been, the so-called motivation unit. Then it was true what she’d said: Her tired-ass man didn’t know zilch.
19
He moved on to another cottage. Stayed there two days. And now he was gonna switch it up again. Had to keep moving.
He walked for over three hours. Wanted to get away from the area where he’d just stayed-watchful neighbors equaled foes. His nigger look a threat. One family has a break-in and suddenly every unknown individual with dark hair in the area’s a suspect. A miracle that no one’d stopped by the side of the road yet to ask him who he was and what he was doing there.
A cold wind. The middle of October wasn’t his favorite time of year. But Jorge-boy’d planned ahead. The knit sweater and the winter jacket warmed. Thanked the thrift store for that.
He turned off the main road. Read a sign that said DYVIK, 2 MILES. Smaller road. No houses yet. Pine trees all around. He kept trotting along. Hungry. Tired. Refused to lose heart. J-boy: still on the way up. Out. Onward. Toward success. Radovan would yield to him. Give him a passport. Kale. Opportunities. He’d head to Denmark. Maybe invest a few grand in blow. Deal. Make cash. Move on. Maybe to Spain. Maybe Italy. He’d buy a real identity. Start all over. Play drug kingpin with hard-core connections in Viking territory. Hook his old homeys up. Everyone except Radovan would bathe in his glory. The Yugo faggot would have to beg to get in on deals belonging to Jorge, King of Blow.
The road sloped downward. The forest opened up. He saw houses. To his left, a barn with two run-down green tractors out front. Farther down, horses. Not good. Someone lived on the place. He kept going. Found another house. Broke in.
A small kitchen, a living room, and two bedrooms-one with a queen-size bed, the other with a twin. It was cold. He turned on the radiator. Kept his jacket on.
He unpacked his food. The fridge and the freezer were turned off-a good sign that the house was closed for the winter. Fried two eggs. Cut thick slices off the loaf of bread. Put the eggs on top. Checked the pantry. Almost empty: an old box of chocolates, two cans of crushed tomatoes, and beans. Worthless.
Sat down in the living room. Opened the door of a corner cupboard that was painted with florid designs in red and blue: crammed with bottles of booze. Jackpot. City’s sickest juice-juju.
Screw safety. Jorge-boy was gonna have a niiiiice night.
No mixers. No ice. No fruit or drinks to blend it with. Fuck that. Real men take it straight. Jorge did a whiskey tasting all by his lonesome. Lined up five glasses on the living room table. Poured out five different brands. Picked the ones with the weirdest names: Laphroaig, Aberlour, Isle of Jura, Mortlach, Strathisla.
Munched on stale chocolate. Turned on the radio on a huge Sharp stereo. A display with blinking yellow stripes and patterns began to glow to the beat of the music. Felt very 1991.
Mortlach was the best. He poured himself another glass. Sang along to the songs from the radio. Tried to wail like Mariah Carey.
Poured water into a glass and more whiskey into another. Not his thing to drink straight, but what the hell. He drained the glass.
The house was spinning. Poorly built. Crooked corners. Tilting windows. He laughed at himself-the countryside’s new urban architect. The buzz washed over him.
Joy. At the same time: little Jorgelito, so alone.
Drunken rush. At the same time: He had to be vigilant.
He sat down on the floor to steady himself.
Suddenly, he remembered something he hadn’t thought about in a very long time. How he and Mama’d been walking together from the grocery store. He might’ve been six or seven. Paola was already at home, waiting for them. Preparing dinner. Everything but the rice-they’d run out and so Jorge and Mama’d had to go buy some. Rodriguez’d refused to help out, and Jorge’d been scared to go alone. He saw his mother’s face now, clearly: the dark furrows under her eyes and the lines in her forehead that made her look like she was always wondering about something but never could find the answer. He’d asked, “Mama, are you tired?” She’d set the bag of rice down on the sidewalk. Lifted him up into her arms. Smoothed back his hair and said, “No, Jorgelito. If we sleep well tonight, I’m going to be wide-awake tomorrow. That’ll be nice.”
Jorge reached for the bottle. Poured out more Mortlach.
The living room was spinning like crazy.
He stood up.
Lost control.
Passed out on the floor.
Three days later. Jorge had some serious problems. He’d been out of food for twenty-four hours already and he had only four hundred kronor left. Couldn’t even muster sit-ups. Too tired to go to a new cottage. Unfortunately, you couldn’t live on whiskey and water.
He needed to get to a store and buy food.
He needed to get cash. The question: Would Radovan agree to his proposition? If not, his need for cheddar would grow even more.
But worst of all: He felt so alone.
He needed to talk to someone-meet some old friend or relative. Human contact.
Was he already fried?
He had to get to the city. Eat. Scrape up some extra dough while he waited to call the Yugos. That’s just the way it was.
