“Real pretty.”
Jorge told himself, Keep going, Jorge-boy, keep going. Lead the discussion, read Rolando. Get him to say how he feels about me and breakouts. Subtly.
“How’d they get him?”
“Respect to ’im, but dude ain’t real slick. Hung out at bars in Gothenburg. Partied. Guess he wanted to meet a new Hannah with fat tits. Felt like a baller. Only thing he did, dyed his hair white and wore shades. Like, homey wanna get locked up?”
Jorge silently agreed: totally loco to only dye your hair. Him, he was gonna play it safe. He said, “Had nothing to lose. Bet he thought, Fuck, even if they get me, I won’t get more months. They won’t add to seven and a half.”
“Playa almost made it. Got him in Helsingborg.”
“Pushing the exit?”
“’Parently. Checked into a hotel with a fake name. When the Five-Oh plucked him, playa had a fake passport. Coulda worked. First to Denmark, then on. Homeboy probably got a stash somewhere. But somebody snitched. Tipped the Five-Oh off where he be. Probably somebody saw him at the bars.”
“Anyone in the OG know he was gonna fly?”
“Sorry, Jorge, can’t talk about shit like that.”
“But wouldn’t you back an OG if he broke out?”
“Does Pamela Anderson sleep on her back?”
Bull’s-eye. Jorge-boy, get closer. Test him.
Jorge knew how it was: Friends on the inside are not like friends on the outside. Other rules apply. Power hierarchies are clearer. Time inside counts. Number of times inside counts. Smokes count; roaches count more. Favors grant relationships. Your crime counts: rapists and pedophiles worth zero. Junkies and alkies way down. Assault and theft higher. Armed robbery and drug kingpins on top. Most of all: Your membership counts. Rolando, a friend according to the rules on the outside. According to the principles of the slammer: Playa batted in the major leagues, Jorge in the minor.
Jorge swallowed a gulp of his soda. “One thing to support someone already out. But would you help someone escape?”
“Depends. On risk and shit. Wouldn’t help just anyone. Would always support an OG. Fuck, amigo, I’d help you, too. You know. Never I’d keep my mouth shut for some fucking skinhead or Wolfpack puto. They know it, too. They’d help me never, neither.”
Jackpot.
Three-second silence.
Rolando did something Jorge had never seen him do before. He put his utensils down properly on his plate. Slowly.
Then he grinned and said, “Ey, Jorge, got plans or what?”
Jorge didn’t know what to do. He just smiled back.
Hoped Rolando was a real friend, one who didn’t betray.
At the same time he knew: Friends on the inside play by different rules.
2
Four guys sat in a living room, pumped to party.
JW with a backslick. And yes, he knew a lot of trash resented his hairstyle. Looked hatefully at him and called it a “jerkoff coif.” But Communists like that were clueless, so why should he care.
The next guy had slicked-back hair, too. Boy number three sported a shorter style, every strand immaculately in place. A carefully chiseled side part cut through his hair like a ruler. The classic New England look. The last guy’s hair was blond, medium length, and curly-a tousled charm.
The guys in the room were fine, fair kids. Creamy white. Clean features, straight backs, good posture. They knew they were sharp-looking boys. Boys in the know. They knew how to dress, how to carry themselves, how to act appropriately. They knew all the tricks. How to get attention. Girls. Access to the good things in life-24/7.
The general vibe in the room-electric: We know how to party; it’s going no way but our way.
JW thought, This is a good night. The boyz are on top. Fit for fight.
As usual, they pregamed at Putte’s, the guy with the side part. The apartment, an attractive one-bedroom on swanky Artillerigatan, had been a gift from Putte’s parents on his twentieth birthday, the year before last. JW was familiar with the family. The father: a finance shark who brown-nosed his superiors and kicked down at anything and anyone beneath him. The mother: old money-the family practically owned half of Stockholm, in addition to hundreds of acres of farmland at a country estate in Sormland. As one ought.
They’d finished eating. The Styrofoam containers were still on the kitchen counter. Takeout from Texas Smokehouse on Humlegardsgatan: high-end Tex-Mex with quality meat.
Now they were drinking on the couches.
JW turned to the curly-haired boy, nicknamed Nippe, and asked, “Shouldn’t we go soon?”
Nippe, whose real name was Niklas, looked at JW. Replied in his shrill pretty-boy voice, “We’ve reserved a table for midnight. We’re in no hurry.”
“Okay. Then we have time for another round of Jack and Coke.”
“Yeah, well, when are we gonna taste the other coke?”
“Ha, ha. Clever. Nippe, relax. We’ll have our hits when we get there. It’ll last longer.”
The baggie with four grams burned in the inner pocket of JW’s jacket. The boyz usually took turns getting the weekend fix. The goods came from a darky, a blatte, who, in turn, bought from some Yugo gangster. JW didn’t know who the top dog was but guessed. Maybe it was the infamous Radovan himself.
JW said, “Boys, I really went for it tonight. I brought four grams. That’s at least half a gram for each of us and still enough to give the girls.”
Fredrik, the other guy with slicked hair, took a sip of his drink. “Can you imagine how much that Turk must make on us and all our friends?”
“I’m sure he makes out fine.” Nippe smiled. Pretended to count money.
JW asked, “What do you think his margins are? Two hundred per gram? Hundred and fifty?”
The conversation moved on to other, more familiar topics. JW knew them by heart. Mutual friends. Chicks. Moet amp; Chandon. Certain things were always a given. It’s not like they couldn’t talk about other things. They weren’t idiots; they were verbally well-bred winners. But their interests didn’t expand unnecessarily.
Finally, the talk landed on business ideas.
Fredrik said, “You know, you don’t need that much money to start a company. A hundred thousand kronor’s enough. I think that’s the lowest capital stock. If we come up with a sweet idea, we can totally do it. Try to do some business, register a cool company name, appoint a board and a CEO. But, above all, buy stuff tax-free. How awesome would that be?”
JW amateur-analyzed Fredrik. The guy was completely uninterested in people, which, in a way, was a relief. He’d never even asked where JW came from or anything else about his background. Mostly, he talked about himself, luxury brands, or boats.
JW downed his Jack and Coke. Poured himself a strong G and T. “Sounds supersweet. Who’ll get the hundred thousand kronor?”
Nippe interjected, “That’s easy enough, right? I like the idea.”
JW was quiet. He thought about where he could get a hundred thousand from and already knew the answer. Nowhere. But he didn’t say anything. Played along. Grinned.
Nippe changed the music. Putte put his feet up on the coffee table and lit a Marlboro Light. Fredrik, who’d just bought a new Patek Philippe, played with the wristband and recited aloud to himself, “‘You never actually own a Patek Philippe. You merely look after it for the next generation.’”
The latest hit gagaed from the stereo.
JW loved these pregames. The conversation. The mood. These were boys with class. Good-looking boys.
