thick crowds. Described the gun he’d had there.
Jorge wasn’t too impressed. Remembered the arsenal Fahdi kept hidden in his closet. The dude was a traveling army.
They downed their drinks.
Jorge rose. “Should we bring some fun?” He pointed toward the kitchen, where scales and envelopes were spread out alongside Red Line baggies of blow.
Fahdi got up, as well. “For us or sell?”
“Not to sell. I’ve pretty much stopped selling retail. Anyway, that’s JW’s turf. We don’t compete with our own. When’s he coming home?”
“No clue. Had stuff to take care of in England. Staying a couple extra days.”
Jorge thought, Fahdi-the guys in Dumb amp; Dumber were smart in comparison. He didn’t get the rules of the game. The pyramid: Some sold on the streets, some sold to dealers, and some sold to the dealers’ dealers. Nowadays, Jorge was almost on top. But Fahdi had strengths-a certain kindness and, obviously, his muscle power.
They called for a cab. Automatic recording on the other end of the line: “Would you like a taxi to come to ROSENHILLSVAGEN right away? Press one.”
Jorge said, “Why do they always gotta yell the street name double as loud as the rest of the sentence, so you get tinnitus for the rest of the night?” Jorge pressed one.
They went down to the street. Jumped in the cab. The Stockholm night down to town.
Stureplan in full swing.
They got out by Svampen. Looked around. Where to begin?
The places around Stureplan’s party aorta had their own particular caste system. Kharma, Laroy, Plaza, and Koket-on top. Richest/brattiest/best. Sturehof, Sturecompagniet, the Lydmar Hotel-next tier. Select/bratty/somewhat older scene. Spy Bar, Clara’s-YugoMafia/bodybuilder/celeb locus. The Lab, East-had their own clientele. Undici, Crazy Horse-regular honest-to-goodness Sven dank dives.
Easy equation: Jorge and Fahdi had to get into a top-caste place. Hardest. Especially for two male immigrants with the word blatte written across their foreheads in neon letters.
They started at Koket. Killer line. Seventeen-year-old girls with threads so bare, they would’ve caught a chill even on a summer night. Downy Ostermalm boys in tailored coats and slicked hair. Older, randy slimesters in even more deluxe coats, same slicked hair. Dudes who spent their entire lives within a one-mile radius. Worked at the stockbrokerage firms that framed Stureplan, ate lunch/dinner at the restaurants on the adjacent streets, Biblioteksgatan, Birger Jarlsgatan, and Grev Turegatan, lived a stone’s throw away on Brahegatan, Kommendorsgatan, Linnegatan. And, of course, partied here.
They glimpsed the legendary Toad at the front of the line. Real name, Peter Stromquist. Stockholm profile. Silver spoon-born. Pompous. Had a standing invitation to all the parties any self-respecting brat dreamed of being invited to. Knew everyone and anyone who mattered. Good sign that he was on his way into Koket.
From Jorge’s perspective: marginalization accentuated. The human mass was a rerun of the feudal system. Some harbored the right to sweep on past the plebs. Some played princes in the Stockholm territory. Others were kings, like the Jet Set guy. Some sold their souls as mercenaries: the bouncers. The blattes, at the very bottom. With luck, they might be able to beg their way in.
Only trick he knew was bribery.
Fahdi cleared the way. Swept the little girls to the side. Five-hundred-kronor bill rolled up in his hand. At first, the bouncer looked at him coldly. Message: Even you must understand that YOU’RE not getting in here. Saw the bill. Eyed Jorge.
Let them in.
Crowded.
The music was pumping, something that mostly sounded like a medley of cell phone ringtones.
At the bar, a group of guys were advancing on two chicks with the help of bubbly in ice buckets. The chicks danced in place. Winked. Let themselves be treated.
Fahdi went to the bar. Ordered two beers.
Jorge made his way down the stairs to the lower level. Past the DJ booth. Tonight, DJ Sonic was playing. Mr. Main Street, who’d become an adorable mascot for the Ostermalm brats. The next step on the class ladder in sight. Smiled in recognition at 90 percent of all the dames who walked past.
Jorge recognized faces. No one recognized him. Had Abdulkarim and self-tanner to thank. Despite that, J-boy was still a nigger. Market value: zero.
Grabbed hold of a random girl.
Terrified look.
“Relax, girlie. I’m just wondering if you’ve seen Jet Set Carl tonight?”
Blank response. She didn’t know who he was talking about.
He kept asking around. Fahdi showed up with two beers in hand. Wondered what Jorge was up to.
No point in explaining.
Danced away from him.
Asked more people.
The broads were bronzed. The guys all looked like JW. Jorge walked up and down the stairs. Leaned over and yelled his question into people’s ears. Tried to look neutral. Didn’t want them to think he was making a move right now.
Kept at it for forty minutes.
Finally, a girl screamed in his ear-could hardly hear her over the music. “He’s pretty much always at Kharma.”
Jorge tried to find Fahdi in the crowd. Couldn’t see him. Tried to call his cell. Couldn’t even hear as he punched in the numbers. What were the chances that Fahdi’d hear his phone ring with that background music?
Gave up on him.
Jorge walked out onto the street. Up along Sturegatan. Texted Fahdi: Going to Kharma. Meet me there later.
The line looked like an organic mass disguised as human hope. The humiliation was even worse in the freezing cold-racism spat straight in the cara.
Right moment. Right look. In the bouncer’s hand, the money-five hundred kronor. Eyes locked. The bouncer’s hand waved past the line.
Jorge was in. Repeated it to himself: J-boy, you’re in.
Perfecto.
He ordered a bottle of Heineken in the bar. Checked out the scene. Recognized some other lucky blatte boys with bottle service. Jorge walked up to their table. They didn’t recognize him. Still, it was obvious that they felt some sort of camaraderie; they knew they were all in the same seat. In the wrong place and on cloud nine.
They chatted for a bit. Graded girls. Praised breasts. Appraised butts. Jorge treated them to a quick line each. Turned toward the wall. On the back of credit cards, sniff/sniff. It worked.
The world picked up speed. Jorge on top.
Asked the bartender about Jet Set Carl. “No worries,” the bar guy replied. “He always gets here around one, stands by the cashiers and welcomes people.”
Jet Set Carl: jizz set Carl.
Jorge waited. The immigrant boys by the drink table hit on high school girls from Djursholm-Orange County Scando-style. Culture clash of consequence. Those choice chicks’d probably never even talked to anyone from a non-European country before, except for the token adopted kid in school. The blatte boys’ viewpoint was simple: All Swedish chicks want me and therefore they’re whores.
Jorge watched the play unfold. The guys bought drinks. Did their best. The girls drank and let themselves be treated. Dissed them at the same time. According to Jorge, the niggers’ only chance was that one of the tarts got blackout.
The clock struck one.
A guy who could be Jet Set Carl was positioned behind the cash register near the entrance. Dressed in a pinstriped jacket, jeans, loafers with the Gucci buckle. Greeted the beautiful people on their way in.
