JW glanced at Fahdi and laughed. Had Abdulkarim sucked a nose before breakfast?
The driver remained impassive. Abdulkarim’s behavior was probably nothing compared to the really rich and famous people he’d chauffeured around.
They drove on. The sidewalks were crammed and the streets teeming with cars. Classic double-deckers squeezed past, pulled up to bus stops.
The limo stopped outside Harvey Nichols.
They walked into the department store and quickly found the men’s section. It was gigantic. For JW, the shopping freak, the luxury leech, this was one of life’s happier moments.
He drooled, dug, danced the consumer dance. Merch Mecca. Brand Bethlehem: Dior, Alexandre of London, Fendi, Giuseppe Zanotti, Canali, Hugo Boss, Cerruti 1881, Ralph Lauren, Comme des Garcons, Costume National, Dolce amp; Gabbana, Duffer of St. George, Yves Saint Laurent, Dunhill, Calvin Klein, Armani, Givenchy, Energie, Evisu, Gianfranco Ferre, Versace, Gucci, Guerlain, Helmut Lang, Hermes, Iceberg, Issey Miyake, J. Lindeberg, Christian Lacroix, Jean Paul Gaultier, C. P. Company, John Galliano, John Smedley, Kenzo, Lacoste, Marc Jacobs, Dries Van Noten, Martin Margiela, Miu Miu, Nicole Farhi, Oscar de la Renta, Paul Smith, Punk Royal, Ermenegildo Zegna, Roberto Cavalli, Jil Sander, Burberry, Tod’s, Tommy Hilfiger, Trussardi, Valentino, Yohji Yamamoto.
It was all there.
Abdulkarim had a sales rep guide him around the store and drove around with his own little shopping cart. He plucked suits, shirts, shoes, and sweaters off the racks.
JW made the rounds by himself. Chose a club blazer by Alexandre of Savile Row, a pair of Helmut Lang jeans, two shirts-one from Paul Smith and one Prada-and a Gucci belt. Total damage: one thousand pounds.
Fahdi looked lost. He was most comfortable in a simple leather jacket and blue jeans and so he bought a pair of Hilfiger jeans and a leather jacket from Gucci. Price of the leather jacket alone: three thousand pounds. Gucci-all luxury lovers’ favorite feature.
JW thought about how much easier it all would be when he had clean fleece. The ability to use proper credit cards: a dream on the British horizon. The feeling he longed for: to be able to toss an American Express platinum card on the counter.
They got help lugging all the bags out to the limousine. The salesclerks seemed used to this kind of thing. London was the place for the disgustingly rich.
The limo kept driving along Sloane Street, the flagship stores’ mainline: Louis Vuitton, Prada, Gucci, Chanel, Hermes in a row.
JW’s eyes were glued to the logos’ luring lines. After a minute or so, Abdulkarim started yelling.
They got out.
Abdulkarim ran toward the Louis Vuitton store. JW saw his billowing pants and too-short jacket over his blazer and thought, Dressing like that ought to be a criminal offense.
At first the bouncer at the boutique looked skeptically at Abdulkarim-a swarthy maniac? Then he saw the limo. Waved him in.
They spent another hour and a half pillaging the street.
JW’s final count was four thousand pounds, not including what he’d dropped at Harvey Nichols. Trophies to show the boyz back home: a leather briefcase from Gucci, a coat from Miu Miu, a shirt from Burberry. Not bad.
A thought flitted through his head: Is this Life, or is this a sham? JW felt elated, almost ecstatic. Still, he couldn’t help but connect it to how Camilla must’ve felt when she’d been given a ride in the man from Belgrade’s yellow Ferrari. How similar were she and JW?
They had lunch at Wagamama, at the end of Sloane Street, a trendy Asian restaurant chain with minimalistic interiors. Abdulkarim complained that too many dishes contained pork.
“Tomorrow night, we gonna celebrate,” he said, “by eating at some halal place.”
Fahdi looked surprised. “What’re we celebrating?”
Abdulkarim grinned. “Buddy, tomorrow we gonna meet the guys we came here to meet. Tomorrow we gonna know if we gonna be millionaires.”
39
Mrado was sitting on the couch at home postgym. Tired muscles. Wet hair. And full-he’d gorged on two tins of tuna with pasta, plus a protein powder cocktail. To top it off: Ultra Builder 5000, two tablets-Metandeinon, grade-A anabolic-androgenic steroids.
He vegged, watched Fight Club, Europsport. K-1, Elimination Tournament. The former K-1 champion, Jorgen Kruth, was the commentator. Analyzed the punches, kicks, and knees. The message his dragging, nasal voice sent was crystal-clear-the guy’d taken too many hits to the nose.
One of the masters, Remy Bonjasky, was crushing his opponent in the ring. Got the guy up against a corner. Kneed him in the gut. Low-kicked to his shins. His opponent screamed in pain. Bonjasky, two rapid left jabs. The guy didn’t get his guard up in time. Mouth guard went flying. Before the ref had time to call it, Bonjasky finished with a round kick, impact on the left ear. Pure knockout: the opponent unconscious before he hit the floor. Mrado couldn’t have done it better himself.
The past few days, Mrado’d been in a fantastic mood. He’d kicked his training into high gear. Serotonin surged. He was sleeping better. The gangs were under control-he’d succeeded. Most of them were in agreement enough for the idea to work. They knew the drill: As long as everyone kept to their own playpens, biz would soar. Cops lose. Cash flow.
His cell phone rang.
On the other end of the line: Stefanovic.
“Hey, Mrado, how are you doing?” He sounded formal. Mrado wondered why.
“All’s good with me. And you?”
“Good, good. Where are you right now?”
“At home. Why’re you asking?”
“Stay there. We’ll pick you up.”
“What, what’s going on?”
“It’s your turn, Mrado. To see Radovan. Bilo mu je sudeno. ” Then he hung up.
Bilo mu je sudeno — it is your fate, Mrado.
His head spun. The couch felt uncomfortable. He stood up. Lowered the volume on the TV. Made a loop around the couch.
Gangster code: If you get picked up, you’re never coming back. Like in Mafia movies. The Brooklyn Bridge with a rainy backdrop. They drive you across it. You don’t return.
Thoughts like in wind turbine. Should he jump ship? If so, where could he disappear to? His life was here. His apartment, his business, his daughter.
What was Radovan’s problem? Was it that he couldn’t forget that Mrado’d asked for a bigger cut of the coat- check profits? Did he know Mrado’d rigged the market division in a way that curried his coat-check business? Worse: Did the Yugo boss sense his low loyalty? No, that was impossible.
Mrado’d just served Radovan Stockholm’s criminal market on a silver platter. The Yugo boss should be grateful. Maybe everything was okay, after all. Maybe R. wasn’t planning on hurting him.
He sat back down on the couch. Tried to think clearly. No point in leaving. Better to take it like a man. Like a Serb. Mrado still had some kind of advantage; his businesses were the ones that were protected with the market division. He should be safe.
Twelve minutes later, his home phone rang. Stefanovic again. Mrado put his holster on, slipped his knife in place under his pants, against the inside of his shin. Walked down the stairs.
Out on the street was a Range Rover with tinted windows. Mrado’d never seen the car before. Not one of Radovan’s or Stefanovic’s vehicles.
The passenger door was open.
Mrado got into the passenger seat. At the wheel: a young Serb. Mrado’d seen him before, one of Stefanovic’s boys. In the backseat: Stefanovic.
