He started walking toward SEB and hit play on his MP3 player: the Swedish band Kent. Bitter Swedish security: “I am going to steal a treasure. The one hidden at the end of the rainbow. It is mine, it is you.” He thought about his parents. How would they react if they found out about the Jan Bruneus business? Would they keep doing nothing? Drown in self-pity and tedium? Maybe they’d act. Do something about the whole situation. The ball was really in their court. To put pressure on the police. To find out what’d actually happened.
He walked up Nybrogatan. A new boutique’d opened where the hairdresser’s used to be. JW thought, This has to be the city’s most bankruptcy-dense street. No store survived more than a year.
It was noon. He should study and was vacillating about wanting to see Sophie later that night or not, couldn’t decide.
Thought, Really, I’m a social genius. The Talented Mr. Ripley, Swedish-style. Fit in with the boyz-studied the mannerisms of the upper class, played along, laughed at the right beats, volleyed with their slang. But he also fit in with Abdulkarim and the dealer collective, their ghetto jargon, fist romance, drug finance. Tight with Fahdi-a soft, lethal gorilla. He was smooth with Petter and the other dealers. And he had a special thing with Jorge.
The other day, it’d crystallized. JW and Jorge were hanging out at Fahdi’s, as usual. The kitchen table was laden with scales, Red Line baggies, manila envelopes. They were measuring out, scraping into baggies, lacing with granulated fructose-easy way to increase the margins by 10 to 20 percent-while they discussed Jorge’s success in the boroughs and JW’s London trip.
After a while, Jorge said, “I’ve never been saved by anyone before. I would’ve died out there if you hadn’t come.”
JW thought, It’s true. If I hadn’t picked Jorge up in the woods-beaten to smithereens, crushed-the Chilean would’ve died. He didn’t recognize himself, sentimental about having done something that was actually good.
JW grinned. “It’s cool. We do everything on orders from Abdul, right?”
“Honestly, hombre, you saved my life. I’ll never forget it.” Jorge looked up. His gaze steady, serious, solemn. He said, “I’ll do anything for you, JW. Always. Never forget that.”
JW hadn’t thought a lot about it at the time. But today, on his way to the bank on Nybrogatan, it came back to him. It made him feel good, somehow, that there was someone in the world who’d do anything for him. It was security. Maybe even true friendship.
He decided to grab something to eat before his visit to the bank. Stepped into Cafe Cream on Nybrogatan and ordered a ciabatta sandwich with salami and Brie, plus a Coke.
He sat alone on a high stool by the window, looking out. The world of high society was small. He recognized more than every third passing Ostermalms chick in the age range of nineteen to twenty-four. Same deal with the Yuppie players around twenty-five-men in suits he usually bumped into at Kharma or Laroy, but then they’d be wearing jeans, open button-down shirts, jackets, sporting coke-craving in their eyes. The only thing that remained the same now-the back-slicks. He thought, What world’d Camilla lived in? Stureplan by day or by night?
His sandwich was brought over. JW opened it and discovered his bad luck. Usually, he was an omnivore. When he moved away from home, he quickly learned to like most things, stuff that lots of people nixed: herring, sushi, caviar, pickled onions. Now there were just two things he couldn’t handle: capers and celery. Inside the ciabatta: salad and capers. In the salad, celery bits.
Damn it.
He spent ten minutes picking the crap out.
Then he ate quickly while he played a game of chess on his phone.
He drained the Coke, left half the ciabatta, and walked out.
Hi’ed two guys walking in the opposite direction. Club buds.
He continued up Nybrogatan. Saluhallen, the indoor luxury food market, was on his left. JW shopped there more and more these days.
The revolving doors leading into SEB’s offices were not automatic. Had to push your way in.
As soon as he was inside, JW groped in his bag for the other plastic folder, another fifty grand.
He took a queue number. The place was almost empty, even though there were ATMs and change machines on the premises.
The stock market feeds on the screens were being updated. JW eyed them.
Then it was his turn.
He glanced around. There could be police or other suspicious types there, but it all looked okay.
The cashier had henna-red hair.
JW asked for his contact person, a woman in this office, as well.
The cashier informed him that his contact wasn’t there but that he could pay her instead. It wasn’t great, but it’d have to do.
“What’s up?” said a voice behind him.
JW turned around. Saw Nippe with some chick. Nippe looked down at the wad of cash that JW’d just handed over to the cashier.
Fuck.
JW checked himself. Put on the calm, unaffected veneer. In his head: Holy fuck, how embarrassing. Nippe saw the stash in the cashier’s hands. What was he going to do?
“Hey, Nippe.” Looked at the chick.
Nippe introduced her. “This is Emma.”
JW sighed heavily.
Nippe looked quizzically at him.
“ Emma only exists in fantasy, but she’s looo-oovely.”
They looked like question marks.
JW gave it another go. “You don’t remember that TV show, Kalle’s Climbing Tree, from when we were kids?” He hummed and ended with another deep sigh.
JW grinned, regretted it right away, was ashamed-he was such a tool.
A loser, a nerd.
Nippe said, “I haven’t heard that song before. But hey, so, I have to deal with this stuff. Take care. See ya.”
Nippe reached the cashier he’d been in line for.
JW got his receipt of payment from the lady behind the glass.
He started walking out.
Nippe didn’t nod when JW stepped out of the revolving doors.
Was a new cold front moving in?
On the way home, he thought about what’d been most embarrassing: that Nippe’d seen the wad of cash or his lame joke?
48
Nenad called from a new number-apparently, he’d also begun making security changes in his life. Mrado and he made small talk; then they discussed the murders of the pimp and the brothel madam. What the fuck’d happened? Shot to bits. The perp unknown. Nenad was jumpy. Before Radovan’d cut him off, Zlakto and Jelena were some of his best pimps. The questions bounced between Nenad and Mrado. Radovan wanted to purge his ranks? A john who didn’t want marital problems? Someone else?
Mrado’s suspicion: Either a panicked john or, worst-case scenario, a competing stable. Could also be the Russians. Could be the HA. In that case, the shots were unmistakable acts of war.
Nenad’s problem: What did this mean for him? If it wasn’t Radovan’s doing, would the shadow fall over him?
Made it even more important to keep moving on their own plans.
Nenad explained his idea: It was like Serbian folk music to Mrado’s ears. “You know, I’ve got a guy under me, an Arab, Abdulkarim. He basically serves up the whole blow banquet on his own. Has reported to me at steady intervals. I’ve negotiated all the bigger deals, drawn up the guidelines and done the top-down organizing. Right
