Harris. At the public library, over there. You with me?” Jorge pointed.
Sergio: not the sharpest tool in the shed, but he understood this kinda shit. Jorge would be indebted to him forever, even though he had to take care of the planning himself. Sergio would do the best he could to deliver.
Jorge asked about his sister. The smell of McDonald’s in combination with memories of Paola. Junk food equaled nostalgia.
The rest of their conversation was nonsense. They talked about their family, old friends from Sollentuna, and chicks. Put on a show for the screws.
It was time to roll.
Jorge kissed Sergio four times on each cheek when they parted ways. Exchanged Chilean pleasantries.
It was already four o’clock. At seven o’clock, he and the screws had to go back.
Next stop: He was gonna buy shoes. Had ordered catalogs. Read up. Called the stores. Researched the hell out of it. Gel, Air, Torsion, and the rest of the techniques for comfy kicks. God knows how much crap/fake technology there was. You had to see through the bull. Really buy good stuff. The two desired features: good running shoes-important; best shock resistance ability on the market-even more important. The screws thought it’d be fun to check out lame sporting goods stores. Jorge in the know. Stadium on Kungsgatan had the biggest inventory.
They drove the minivan into a parking garage on Norrlandsgatan. Jorge asked to drive the last short bit. The screws said no.
They got out of the car. One of the screws asked a guy who’d just parked if he had change for a twenty. Needed coins for the meter. The screw bought a parking pass.
They went out into the street.
Sweet feeling. Downtown. Kungsgatan. The pulse. August heat. Jorge remembered. He’d rolled down K- street in a BMW 530i, also known as a cocaine sled. That was two days before he’d been picked up. Sure, the car’d been on a long-term loan from a friend, but still. He’d been stylin’. Livin’ life. Livin’ cash. Livin’ booty. Livin’ his reputation.
And now: Jorge was back in town.
What’d he learned since then? At least he knew this: The next gig he did would be well planned. That’s when he realized what made him different from so many others. He felt biggest/best/ballin’. But that’s exactly what everybody else in his hood thought about themselves, too. The difference was that Jorge, deep inside, felt that maybe it wasn’t so-and that was his strength. That would always make him think twice in the future. Always plan, prepare-make the impossible possible.
He kept dreaming.
Looked around. The screws were positioned around him.
The crowd was moving on the street. To the rhythm of free life. He stared. Hot chicas. He’d almost forgotten-the bitches were so much more caliente in the summer than in the winter. But they were the same chicks. How was that possible? A mystery.
And soon Jorge’d be out. Would roll down Kungsgatan. Grab a lot a boot ay. Fix all the chicks. Be Jorge again.
Joder, he longed to be out. He’d been given parole. Just that was superfly. Alone with three COs on Kungsgatan. What an opportunity. All you had to do was book it. He was fit. Strong. Knew the city like the back of his hand. He was a naughty, naughty little boy. On the other hand, the risk was too great. The screws were being nice today, but they knew their job. They were tense, hyperaware. Kept careful watch over him. Were in total control. Could lose it over nothing. Would have free rein. Cancel the parole. Make it impossible for him to complete his actual plan.
He wasn’t prepared. Couldn’t escape now. The fuckup risk was too big.
The salesclerk was hot. Jorge: horny. But the shoes were more important than pussy. They had the model he wanted. He already knew that. Asics 2080 DuoMax with gel in the heel. Still, he wandered around the store for a while. It was big. Him and his bros used to lift shit here when they were thirteen and Sollentuna grew too small for them. Again: flashbacks from his teenage years. First at McDonald’s and now in the sports store. What the hell was going on?
He looked around the other departments for show. Bought a pair of track pants and a basketball jersey in addition to the shoes.
Five o’clock rolled around. Cool on time. Just one more thing. He was meeting a friend, a former screw from the prison, Walter Bjurfalk. The dude’d resigned of his own accord a year ago. The COs thought it was gonna be nice. Didn’t think it was strange that Jorge and the ex-screw were meeting up. Some screws become friends with inmates; that’s just how it goes. The surveillance COs had no idea why Walter’d really quit.
They were sitting in Galway’s on Kungsgatan: Sven hangout. Swedeville. The place was decorated like a typical Irish pub. Signs on the wall: HIGHGATE amp; WALSALL BREWING CO LTD. Trying to be clever: IN GOD WE TRUST. ALL THE REST, CASH OR PLASTIC. It reeked of beer. Felt homey.
The screws sat down a few tables away and ordered coffee. Jorge ordered a seltzer, light on the bubbles. Beer wasn’t allowed on guarded parole. Walter ordered a Guinness. It took ten minutes for the bartender to pour it.
They chatted. Memories from last summer, when there’d been mini riots at Osteraker. How the guys who’d gated out were doing. How the ones who’d gone straight back in were doing. Finally, after a half an hour, Jorge lowered his voice, asked what he’d come here to ask.
“Walter, I’ve something serious to discuss with you.”
Walter looked up from his beer. Looked intrigued. “Shoot.”
“I’m gonna fly. No way I’m gonna rot three more years in prison. I’ve got an idea that might work. I trust you, Walter. You were always a good CO. I know why you asked to resign. We all know. You were good to us. You helped us. Would you help me now? I’ll make it worth your while, claro. ”
Jorge was 99 percent about Walter. The last percent: Walter could double-game him. In that case, J-boy was a goner.
Walter leapt right in: “Breaking out of Osteraker is hard. Only three guys’ve done it in the past ten years. Each one of them’s been picked up within a year of the escape. ’Cause that’s the hardest part, to lay low after the escape. Just see what happened to Tony Olsson and those other guys. Your plan’s got to be damn solid. Or else you’re fucked. You know, those guys were lying doggo under some bridge when the military forces plucked ’em. They didn’t have a chance in hell. On the other hand, they were violent sons of bitches, so whatever. Fuck ’em. I’m not in that field anymore, so to speak, so I don’t know if I can help you. But I’ll give it a try for some jingle. Tell me what you need. I never snitch; you know that.”
Jorge’d made up his mind. He was gonna put his chips on Walter.
“I need to know a couple of things from you. Five large if you can help.”
“Like I said, I’ll try.”
Weird feeling. Sitting in a pub-with the screws only a few feet away-talking escape plans with an ex-screw. Had to strain his face. Control his body movements. Make sure you couldn’t tell how stressed he was by looking at him. Jorge put his hands in his lap under the table. Crossed his legs. Picked at a napkin. Tore it to shreds. Tried to focus.
“Two questions. First, I want to know what routines the COs have to check on us when we’re in the rec yard. Second, I need to know how fast the COs could pick up a chase if someone skipped over one of the walls, probably one on the south side, by D Block.”
Walter sipped his beer. Got foam on his upper lip.
Started talking about what he’d done last summer. Uninteresting chatter.
Jorge looked at him. Walter was thinking, calculating, but he wanted his mouth to run in case the screws looked over.
Jorge glanced at them. The screws were talking. Chilling.
It was cool.
He calmed down.
Walter knew a lot. Went over it. Good info. Useful. For example: the placement of the guard towers, escape preparation plans, communications codes, established routines. Times for guard change, schedules for frisking, alarm systems. Plans A and B, where A was in case of an individual inmate’s escape attempt, and B in the case of
