what Swedish men’ve been longing for during all these years of political correctness. They’re ready to pay anything. And this faggy law against purchasing sex, it’s only strengthened us. The indoor brothels are as big as in Vegas; the luxury hookers are at every potbelly party in the suburbs. It’s glorious. You were a part of building up our call- service biz. Remember?”
“Radovan, what you’re saying is interesting. But I already know this stuff, and where exactly are you saying I come into it?”
“Thanks for bringing it up yourself. You’ve served the organization well. Served me well. Served Jokso well, too. But times change. You’ve got no place in what I’m describing. Unfortunately. Sorry. What you’ve done, the market-division agreement, it’s wonderful. Thanks to your contacts. Your image. But that’s all over now. I can’t trust you. Why? Deep inside, you know the answer. It’s been brewing in you for years. The answer is: because you don’t trust me. You don’t see me as our leader. As the one whose word should be followed without compromise. You demand too much. In the new market, individuals must act on their own. But never, ever act against their Radovan’s interests.”
Radovan’s tone hardened.
“Mrado, look out the windows. Out over Stockholm. This is my fucking city. No one can take it away from me. That’s the point of everything I’ve been talking about just now. This is my market. That’s what you haven’t understood. You think it’s thanks to you that the money’s rolling in, that you and I still work side by side. Forget that. I’m the new Jokso. I’m your new general. You have only me to thank for your livelihood. Your little life. Your pathetic position. And still, you’ve got the balls to demand a bigger cut of the coat-check profits. Demand. That’s when it stops working. But worst of all is that you’ve tried to two-time me. Your only motivation for the market division has been your own self-interest. It’s okay to work for your own self-interest, but never against me.”
Mrado tried to interrupt Radovan. “Radovan, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I haven’t two-timed you.”
Radovan cut him off, almost screamed. “Don’t bullshit me! I know what I know. You’re out of the game. Don’t you get it? No one challenges Radovan. You’re out of the coat-check business. Sent off. Benched. You know me after all these years. I’ve had my eye on you. Know how you think. Rather, know that you don’t think. Don’t see me as your boss, your officer, your fucking president, as you should. But that’s all done now. Game over. Fatso.”
Mrado expected a bullet to the back of the head.
Nothing happened.
Radovan waved in the woman with the food cart.
She served the main course.
That’s when Mrado knew he would live.
In a new situation. Demoted.
Shamed.
Radovan said, in a normal tone of voice, “Isn’t this steak fantastically tender? I fly it in straight from Belgium.”
40
Not counting the Radovan Revenge Project, Jorge was on top. Living large. Making fat stacks. Liked Abdulkarim, Fahdi, Petter, and the others lower on the dealing totem pole. He’d liked Mehmed, too, and now the guy was in trouble-still unclear if the cops were gonna muster a wrapping. He even liked the Ostermalm brat, JW. But the dude was weird. Seemed to be double-dipping. Hanging in different worlds. Rocked a snooty style. At the same time, obviously horny for Jorge’s know, honestly curious. Most of all, the guy desired dirty dough.
At the same time, Jorge had the hots for JW’s other life-Stureplan. Jorge’d partied at the bars around there tons of times. Champagne- chinga’ d chicas. Palmed some bills and the bouncer’d let him glide past the line. Brought some prime rib home from the meat market.
But still, something was missing. He saw the Swedish guys. No matter how much money he spent, he’d never be at their level. Jorge could feel it. Every blatte in the city could feel it. No matter how hard they tried, waxed their hair, bought the right clothes, kept their honor intact, and drove slick rides, they didn’t belong with Them.
Humiliation was always around the corner. You could see it in the salesclerks’ reactions, in old ladies’ sidewalk detours and cops’ stares. It appeared in the bouncers’ gazes, the bitches’ grimaces, the bartenders’ gestures. The message clearer than the city of Stockholm’s segregation politics: In the end, you’re always just a blatte.
JW, Abdulkarim, and Fahdi were in London. Doing something big. Jorge’s job at home was to hold down the fort. Make sure to move the gorgeous gear Silvia’d brought in. No problem. It’d melt faster than Popsicles in the sun.
Jorge’d gotten an apartment in Helenelund. The proximity to his old hood felt good. Sublet from one of Adbulkarim’s contacts. Tricked it out with crib capital: forty-two-inch flat-screen, DVD, stereo, Xbox, laptop.
Loved life as Jorge Nuevo. Zambo Jorge rolled with flow.
Loved his new friends. Habits. The beautiful bills.
What ate away at him-the hate.
Three days ago, he’d met the hooker, Nadja. There were still some unanswered questions. Who was the giant, Micke, really, and how could he help Jorge? Who were the guys she’d mentioned? Jonas and Karl, alias Giant Karl. How could he weasel his way into Radovan’s whore trench?
He was stressed-out. Hadn’t gotten anywhere. Had stopped sitting in cars outside Rado’s house, since it was pointless. Maybe he should rethink things. Invest in info about Radovan’s dealer biz instead. Still, no. That was too much of a threat to Jorge himself and to the people he cared about.
The whore trail was better. Anyway, the job for Abdulkarim was taking more and more of his time. Mehmed had to be replaced. Fresh meat had to be recruited. Jorge’s ideas: maybe his cousin, Sergio. Maybe Eddie. Maybe his bro Rolando, when he caged out of Osteraker. Sergio was the hero who’d helped Jorge out of Osteraker. So far, he’d been repaid in a few measly moneys. Should be paid better. Jorge wanted to offer him the chance on an in of the C profits. Same with Eddie. And Rolando-player’d been the most competent coke coach J-boy’d had. Should pay off. He’d called the brothel madam at least twenty times over the past few days. Wanted to book a time with Nadja. See her again. Didn’t need a walk. Just needed ten minutes to ask more questions. And something else-maybe get sucked off again. He thought, No, that felt fucked even before I knew her. There was another reason he wanted to see her.
Finally, Jorge got hold of the hooker mama. Gave the alias he’d been given the first time he was there. She okayed him, said he could come that same night.
Took the subway to Hallonbergen.
It rained. Warmer in the air. Smelled like a halal cart. Last time, Jorge’d come by car, but now the map master’d quested it. Memorized. Could find the way with a blindfold on.
The red apartment building with the brown external balconies was haloed by a rose-colored sunset glow.
He entered the combination for the front door. Took the elevator up. Out onto the balcony. Rang the doorbell. Dark in the peephole-someone’s eye on the other side. He gave his alias aloud.
The door was opened by the man that Fahdi’d been talking to the last time he was there. Same clothes. Blazer over hoodie.
Jorge gave his alias again. Was let in.
Asked for Nadja.
Same music in the wait room. Shitty imagination in this joint.
The man just nodded and led Jorge to the room. Opened the door. Let him in.
Same bed. As poorly made as last time he’d been there. Same armchair. Same drawn blinds.
On the bed: a different whore.
Jorge stopped short in the door, turned around. The dude wasn’t standing behind him anymore.
He looked at the girl on the bed. She was pretty, too. Bigger tits than Nadja’s. Miniskirt. Tight, low-cut top.
