Gothic lettering: Vatos Locos. Faded jeans. Dark hair. Cocky look. Did he think he was a Los Angeleno, or what?
Sergio looked skeptically at Mrado. Didn’t say anything. Raised an eyebrow. Meaning: Who the fuck are you?
Mrado looked beyond Sergio, into the apartment. A hallway with three doors. TV sounds emanating from somewhere. No sign of the woman he’d heard through the door. Generally shabby and ugly. Bare linoleum on the floor. A couple of posters on the walls. Lined up and spread out in the hall: enough sneakers to fill a fucking sporting goods store.
“Are you Sergio? Can I come in?”
“Ey, WHO are you?”
Mrado thought, Kids, no respect these days.
“We can talk about that inside. Can I come in?” No chance in hell he’d repeat the question one more time.
Sergio remained standing. Staring.
Neither one looked away. The guy had to get that Mrado wasn’t a cop. But did he pick up that Mrado was one of the most feared men in the Stockholm underworld? Unclear.
Finally, Sergio threw open his arms, gesticulated. “Whaddya want with me?”
“Are you Sergio?”
The guy took a step back. Let Mrado in. The apartment smelled of burned onion.
“Sure. And who’re you?”
Mrado thought, What a stubborn motherfucker. Doesn’t quit gabbing.
“Let’s put it this way: You don’t need to know who I am. I don’t need to know more about you than that you’re Sergio. I only want the answer to one question; then I’ll go. Where is Jorge?”
The guy’s left hand moved involuntarily. His neck muscles tensed.
The guy knew something.
“What Jorge?”
“Don’t play dumber than you are. You know where he is. You’ll tell me, whether you want to or not.”
“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talkin’ about.”
“Exactly which words didn’t you understand?”
“ Pendejo, you think you can come here, to my house, and talk a lotta basura?”
Mrado, silent. Just stared. The guy was crazy. Might be king of his anthill, but a nobody in the real world. Clocked nada.
Sergio started yelling in Spanish. A girl came out of the TV room, wearing sweatpants and a black tank top. Sergio was freaking out. Mrado was standing calmly. Sergio raised his arms. Got into boxer pose with white- knuckled fists. One arm was out, the other guarding his face. The girl moved toward Sergio. Said something in Spanish. Seemed to be trying to calm him down. Looked at Mrado, her face twisted into a question mark.
Sergio yelled, “Come on, you fat Croat!”
Mrado took another step forward. Sergio struck with his left. His fist’d twitched a heartbeat earlier. Enough for Mrado-he blocked the punch. Put Sergio’s arm in a lock. Pressed Sergio’s hand up against the arm, his wrist at an unnatural angle. Forced the entire arm back. Sergio howled. Tried to strike with his free hand. Hit Mrado’s shoulder. Lost his balance. Fell. The girl screamed. Mrado, on top of him. Continued to force his wrist back.
“Sergio, listen. Tell your bitch to shut up.”
The girl kept shrieking. Mrado got up, grabbed hold of her arms. Pushed her down to the floor. She sat down with her back to the wall. Tried to get back up. Sergio, who was still on the floor, tried to kick Mrado’s leg. It hurt. Their mistake: to make Mrado lose it. The girl came at him. He slapped her. She fell down again. Hit her head against the wall. Sounded like someone’d bounced a tennis ball on wood. She lay still. The guy started to get up. Fucking mayhem. Mrado punched him in the stomach. The guy doubled over, mouth wide open. Gasped for breath. The girl cried. Mrado pulled a roll of duct tape from his jacket pocket. Had hoped it wouldn’t come to this. Gripped Sergio’s left hand, pinched between his thumb and index finger. Should hurt like hell. Bent his arm back. Taped his two arms together. Sergio kicked wildly. Mrado tackled him carefully, like it was a training session at Pancrease-but in slow motion. Taped his feet together.
Sergio hollered, “You fuckin’ cunt!”
Mrado ignored him. Worked efficiently. Taped up the girl. Dragged her into another room. Fuck. The situation’d derailed. Messier/more dangerous than planned. He called Ratko, asked him to come upstairs.
Leaned over Sergio, “Well, wasn’t that really fucking unnecessary?”
“Pendejo.”
“You seem to have a limited vocabulary. Don’t you know any other bad words?”
Sergio kept his mouth shut.
“It’s simple. You just have to tell me where Jorge is. We won’t turn him in.”
No answer.
“I think you’ve pretty much figured out what kind of guy I am. I won’t leave until you’ve dished. Don’t be an idiot. Why make this such an unpleasant night? Why not just talk?”
Ratko came in through the front door. Locked it behind him. Looked with disapproval at the hall. Clothes and shoes littered everywhere. Both posters torn down. A stool was turned over. A duct-taped loco Latino in a pile on the floor.
Mrado slapped Sergio across the face. Immediate effect: the guy’s cheek turned red as a blood orange. He still kept his mouth shut. Mrado delivered another slap across the face. Told him to talk. The Latino bit it.
They played good Yugo/bad Yugo. Mrado delivered three, four slaps. Yelled at him to talk. Ratko said it wasn’t their intention to hurt Jorge, that they’d take the tape off Sergio, that he’d be compensated if he told them where his cuz was hiding.
No answer.
Mrado took Sergio’s hand in his-looked like a baby’s hand in a father’s palm.
Sergio was rigid. The tape tightened.
Mrado snapped his pinkie finger.
Sergio howled. Lost his cool. The attitude: broken.
He sobbed. Cried.
“I don’t even know where he is,” he whimpered. “I have no idea. I swear.”
Mrado shook his head. Grabbed onto Sergio’s ring finger. Bent it back.
Far.
About to snap.
Sergio cracked. It ran out of him. He told them almost everything. “Okay, Okay. You fucking cocks. I helped him a little. When he’d gotten out. He stayed at my aunt’s. For five days. Then he started wiggin’ out. Thought there were civvies in every car parked on the street. Totally freaked, yo. Made me drive him outta there. I lent him cash. Don’t know where he went. Jorge let me down. He owes me for all the help I gave. I haven’t seen a fuckin’ cent. He’s worth less than a bag o’ dog shit.”
“That’s it, there you go. You know where you drove him, don’t you?”
“Fuck, man. Yeah, I know. He crashed with this guy, Eddie. Then the cops called me in. That’s when he peaced. I swear on my father’s grave, I don’t know where he went. I swear.”
Mrado looked at Sergio. He wasn’t lying.
“Great. Now you’re gonna go call that Eddie. You’re gonna tell him that you need to know where Jorge is. Play it like all’s cool. Say you promised to help him with some stuff. And my friend here”-Mrado pointed at Ratko-“understands Spanish. So no tricks.”
Mrado pulled out Sergio’s cell phone. Told the Latino: “One peep from you about what happened and you can forget all about your left hand.”
No one picked up at the first number Sergio called. Mrado checked the contacts list. There were three numbers: “Eddie cell,” “Eddie home,” “Eddie work.” Sergio tried “Eddie home.” Someone picked up. Spoke in Spanish. Mrado tried to understand. Hoped his lie wouldn’t show. Ratko understood as much Spanish as Sergio understood Serbian. But he picked up a word here and there. The talk was going in the right direction. Sergio wrote something that Eddie said down on the back of an envelope. Ratko was sweating. Was he nervous? The girl stayed
