Fishnets.
“I was supposed to see someone else. Nadja?”
The girl answered in quasi-intelligible English.
“I not understand.”
Jorge said in English, “I want to see Nadja.”
Maybe it was instinct. Jorge wasn’t just anyone-he was the chainbuster on the run, after all-was always tensed to the max. Usually, his nerves were pricked for cop fuckers. But also for Radovan.
He turned in the door. Ran out through the wait room. Heard the man in the blazer y hoodie yell his alias. Didn’t turn around. Jorge already through the door. Ran across the exterior balcony. Down the stairs. Out. Away.
Jorge’d never seen a face contort as gruesomely as when the new chick in Nadja’s room understood who he was asking about. Obvious: The name Nadja equaled terror.
Something wasn’t right.
Something was revoltingly wrong.
The next day. Jorge was on the toilet, doing number two. Incoming call on his cell-restricted. Not unusual on Jorge’s cell. Those who called him often hid their numbers. He decided to pick up despite his embarrassing position.
“Hi, my name is Sophie. I’m JW’s girlfriend.”
Jorge, surprise squared. Had heard about Sophie from JW. But why was she calling him? And how’d Sophie gotten his number after all of Abdulkarim’s strict rules about not giving numbers to strangers?
“Yeah, hi. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
She laughed. “So, what’ve you heard?”
“How much he dreams about making a family.”
A short silence on the other end of the line. She hadn’t gotten the joke.
“Hey, JW’s in London, so this might sound strange, but I was wondering if you’d want to get together. Grab a coffee or something?”
“Without JW?”
“Yes. I want to get to know you, his other friends. But he’s such a clam. You know how he is-doesn’t talk about certain stuff.”
Jorge knew what she was talking about. JW played two games.
“Come on, let’s get together sometime before JW gets back? It’s nothing weird, promise.”
Jorge’s instinct said no. But the curiosity, really, why not? He was interested in knowing more about JW, too. Maybe one day get the chance to go with him to his other world.
“He’ll be back in four days, I think. Want to meet up tonight?”
They set a time. Sophie sounded pleased.
He remained seated, finished his thing.
Ruminated. Had to be careful. Something off about Nadja’s disappearance. Something off about the hoodie man’s behavior. They knew he wanted to see Nadja. Why didn’t they tell him she was gone? The biggest question: Where was she? And now: suddenly JW’s polola calls. Was there a connection?
Conclusion: Don’t take any risks with the Sophie chick. Could be a bluff.
That night, he took the commuter rail to T-Centralen. Jorge still didn’t have a car. Top priority when Project Rado was completed: Buy a fine ride.
Was gonna meet the girl who claimed she was Sophie. He walked from T-Centralen. The streets were clear of snow.
Jorge remembered his guarded parole from Osteraker, when he’d walked the exact same street. Warm day in August. Three COs in tow. If they’d only known what he was gonna use the Asics shoes for. Tools.
Took a right on Birger Jarlsgatan. Neon signs blinked above the Sturegallerian shopping center. Endless repeats of the Nokia logo.
Ten yards outside Cafe Albert, he took hold of a young dude. Sideways baseball hat. Blatte kid on the wrong turf. Offered him a hundred kronor for a favor.
The guy went into the cafe.
Came back out a minute later.
Another minute.
Sophie came out.
Jorge stared. Sophie: matchless mina. Sex appeal personified. Black knit scarf nonchalantly wrapped. Tight black leather motorcycle jacket, without reinforced elbows or shoulders. Tight jeans.
He knew JW belonged to Stureplan. But this- abbou, what a cat.
Sophie looked questioningly at him.
She was clearly alone. Jorge was satisfied. Felt safer. Sonrisa’ d up.
They said hi. She suggested Sturehof. No problem getting in. Reason was obvious: Sophie always got in.
Walked past the restaurant and entered the bar area.
Jorge ordered a beer for himself and a glass of red for Sophie.
“So, Sophie, good to meet you. Sorry if I was weird outside Cafe Albert. I get a little wigged-out sometimes.”
She tilted her head at him. Jorge thought, Did she understand why he hadn’t wanted to meet at a place she’d decided?
“You don’t like it there, or what?”
“Nothing wrong with Cafe Albert, but it’s so loud in there.”
“And you don’t think it’s loud here?”
“Just joking.” Jorge careful. Spoke the words as un- blatte as he could. The Swedish sounds at the front of his mouth. No ghetto pronunciation.
They dropped the subject. Sophie started questioning him. What did he do? How long had he known JW? In between answers, he asked control questions. Wanted to be sure that Sophie was who she said she was. She seemed green.
Jorge’s impression: Sophie, genuinely interested in JW’s life. But also something else-she was interviewing him. Digging. Wanted to know things Jorge wasn’t sure JW wanted her to know. Not sure Abdulkarim would’ve liked it, either. No matter how smokin’ this someone looked.
He held back. Told her he and JW hung out, chilled. Watched movies. Played video games. Drank beer. Played soccer. Partied sometimes. But nothing about the C biz.
“Party?” Sophie asked. “Where?”
Jorge without a good answer. Mumbled something about a bar in Helenelund.
Sophie asked, “You guys do a line now and then?”
Jorge took a big gulp of beer, thought about what he should say. Chanced it. “It happens. You?”
She winked with one eye. “It happens. Sometimes I wonder if JW does one too many now and then.”
“Don’t think so. He’s got it on lock. Guy with style. With class. You know, he’s schooling me about your world.” Jorge surprised himself. Opened up to a stranger.
Sophie opened up in return, told him about her thoughts. That JW’d gotten all twitchy lately. Wasn’t studying. Kept a weird schedule. Slept badly. That she wanted to get to know JW in order to be able to help him.
Jorge listened. Understood why she’d wanted to meet up.
Time flew. They talked about other stuff: film, the bars around Stureplan, Sophie’s studies, JW’s way of dressing, Jorge’s family.
Strange combination: the fake-Zambo fugitive, the borough blow baron. Together with the city’s hottest brat broad.
Even stranger-they had a good time.
The clock struck midnight. They’d been talking for over three hours.
Afterward, Jorge thought, Chance plays strange tricks. You meet someone for the first time in your life. One day later, you see the same person again. You hear a word you’ve never heard before. A few hours later, that same word is used for the second time in your life. Or, turns out someone you know is related to someone else you know, and you’d never talked about it before. Or, at the very moment you’re thinking about a person, that very person
