She unlocked the door. It was her, the brothel madam in her strange outfit-the blazer with the slit in the back. Clown-painted. Scary.
Jorge slammed the door shut behind him. Cut right to the chase. “I wanna see Nadja.”
The brothel madam stiffened. On her guard 100 percent.
She said in her shitty Eastern Bloc Swedish, “Listen, she not here anymore. If you the one call me hundred million time, you can piss off.”
Unanticipated aggression. Determined menace.
J-boy felt close to the breaking point. Pent-up waves of explosive blow-temper crashed against the inside of his skull. This’d be the last time a Serb fucked with him.
Took a step toward the brothel madam. “You fucking cunt. Either you tell me where Nadja is or I’ll take you out.”
The brothel madam cranked up her volume fiercely. “Who the fuck you think you are?”
The effect of the raised voice: From the shadows, from the hallway, Zlatko appeared.
The brothel madam freaked. Kept yelling at Jorge to scram. That he’d regret his behavior.
Zlatko positioned himself a foot from Jorge. His breath smelled like hell. He said in a calm voice, “What did I tell you on the phone just now? Are you slow? Stop digging around in this thing. Just leave.”
Super Serbian-style. Reminded him of Mrado.
He could feel the abuse in his back. Legs. Arms.
Jorge tore out the shotgun.
One shot at Zlatko.
Guts gone. Replaced with a gaping hole.
Ground tripe on the wall behind him.
The brothel madam screamed.
Another shot-her head disappeared. Brain matter on the velvet couches.
The recoil slammed into Jorge’s shoulder. Hurt.
Jorge opened the weapon. Stuck his hand in his pocket. Reloaded, two new shells.
From the hall came a man. Sheet-white face. Bare chest. Unbuttoned pants. In shock.
Jorge shot. Missed. Forty-square-inch hole in the plaster wall. A cloud of dust.
He ran toward him. The man stumbled on his sagging pants.
Cried. Begged.
Jorge stood over him. The double barrel against his head.
Checked his pockets. Found a wallet. Pulled out a driver’s license.
Read aloud, “Torsten Johansson. You’ve never seen me.”
The old trick remained where he was, sobbing on the floor.
Other than that, the apartment was quiet.
“Give me your cell phone. Get on your stomach. Hold your hands above your head. I’ve got some stuff to take care of.”
The man didn’t move. He lay with his head folded between his arms, his knees pulled up in a fetal position.
“Don’t you understand Swedish, or what? Do what I told you. Now.”
The man stretched out. Fumbled in his pants pocket. Brought out a cell phone. Gave it to Jorge. Put his hands on his head.
Jorge, again: “You’ve never seen me.”
He checked the whore rooms. In one of them was a girl, crouching against the wall, her head between her knees. It wasn’t Nadja.
Jorge walked out into the hall. Didn’t look at the bodies. Stepped right through the chaos. Into the kitchen.
It was dirty in there. A little table of white wood and a chair with a steel frame and a soft seat cushion. Coffee stains everywhere. Ads from Hallonbergen’s pizza joints were pinned on the fridge with free Social Democratic party handout magnets from the 2002 election.
On the table was a laptop. Pretty much what Jorge’d suspected.
Best of all: It was turned on. Jorge sat down on the chair. The computer was plugged into the wall. Question: If he pulled the plug, would the battery kick in or would it die? Jorge wasn’t exactly a computer geek. But he did know one thing: If the computer died, there was a risk that it’d demand some sort of password in order to start back up. Could fuck the whole thing up if he couldn’t get into it again.
Cocaine-lit assessments: He couldn’t stay in the apartment many more seconds. Had he touched anything?
No.
He took the risk-pulled the power cord.
Checked the screen.
God loved Jorge.
The computer was still on.
He ran toward the front door. Through the hall. Was about to grab the door handle, when a phone rang. Sony Ericsson’s “Old Phone” ringtone-sounded like an ancient spin-dial telephone. Someone’s cell was ringing. Probably the john’s, the madam’s, the pimp’s, or one of the prostitutes’. He checked the john’s. Wasn’t the one making the noise. Jorge listened. Saw the blood. The clotty substance on the ceiling and floors. Finally heard. It was coming from the pimp’s pocket.
He was holding the shotgun in one hand, the computer in the other. Difficult to maneuver. He put the computer down. Groped in the pimp’s jacket pocket. The vibrations, unmistakable.
Got hold of the phone. A letter combination on the display: JSC. Only one person it could be-the Carl fucker.
Jorge picked up. “Yes.”
“Yo, it’s me. Could you put the one with the big tits in a cab to my house?”
Jorge, perplexed. The dude sounded trashed. What to say? Try to imitate Zlatko?
Instead, he mumbled as much as he could. “Sorry, she’s not here.”
“Damn, that’s too bad.”
A single thought: Have to say something smart. Something that will lead somewhere.
“Eh, so when is the next big thing happening again?”
“You ought to know, Mr. Fix. The twenty-ninth, in two weeks. The one with the tits really isn’t there?” Jet Set Carl was slurring worse than a heavyweight postknockout.
Jorge got a lightning rod-hot idea. “Sorry, no. Hey, one more thing. Had a guy here today who definitely has to come on the twenty-ninth.”
“Come on, get real. Not possible.”
“Fuck it is. Nenad okayed him. Just wanted to let you know, too. His alias is Daniel Cabrera.”
“All right, fine. You need a password?”
“Yeah, that’d be dope. Would you forward it to me?”
“I’ll forward it to you. You’re talking like a fucking lawyer. I’ll text you a word right now. Later.”
Jorge put the phone in his pocket. The shotgun under his jacket. The computer in his hand.
Threw a quick glance at the bodies. Felt sick.
Thought he’d be immune after all the video gore he’d watched as a kid. Really, it was just the opposite. He felt worse because of all the shit he’d seen on TV. Or it was just the effect of the blow-rush.
Pulled the sleeve of his sweater down over his hand in order to grip the handle to the front door. Nope, no CSI team would find his thumbprint.
He walked out. Felt Zlatko’s cell vibrate in his pocket-the text from Jet Set Carl.
It was dark out.
Hallonbergen by night.
Deserted.
