now, we’ve got an expansion plan that’s been a huge hit so far. To deal to the boroughs at cut prices. The others can keep selling one gram at a time at the inner-city clubs or the millionaire parties. A thousand kronor a gram. But we, we sell twenty grams at a time. Seven hundred a gram. Volume. That’s what’s up.”
“You told me that the day before yesterday. What’s happening with it now?”
“Good question. How do I maintain control over Abdulkarim now that Radovan’s demoted me? Abdul is loyal to Rado and won’t listen to me. Won’t take orders. Keeps truckin’ like I don’t exist. But listen to this. I usually don’t know what guys the Arab’s using, but in London, Abdul sent a special guy, a real brat actually, to help me with negotiations. Superb guy. Sharp. Has worked for Abdul for less than a year. Knows the C biz well. Reliable. Talkin’ to the Arab, says the guy’s a wannabe. A bumpkin who wants up. Hungry as hell. Drove a gypsy cab for Abdul just so he could rage with his buds and booze the extra cash in bubbly. Party at Kharma, Koket, joints like that. The boy’s playin’ two hands. According to Abdul, his friends don’t even know who he really is. The whole thing sounds kinda tragic, but good for us.”
Mrado sometimes tired of Nenad. So much damn jaw. He pinned the phone between his head and shoulder. Tied his shoes. Realized he didn’t have a hands-free.
He didn’t want to be at home during these kinds of conversations. Went out.
“Get to the point, Nenad.”
“Chill. JW-that’s the guy’s name-knows everything about the deal I made in London. Calculated every pound and krona. Went over freight routes, useful people, pushers. We can use him.”
“Now it’s getting interesting.”
“He wants the same thing as everyone else-dough. But more. According to Abdulkarim, he’s even rigged accounts on some Channel Island. Get this. The dude thinks he’s gonna be a multimillionaire. Says something about his ambition.”
“I’m with you. The dude’ll do anything for dough.”
“Bingo! You and me, we lay low. Continue what we talked about at Clarion. Play with the Radovan swine. Pretend to allow ourselves to be humiliated. Abdulkarim’ll take over the wheel, drive the blow. Think I’m outta the game. We keep working for Rado, no matter the shit he has us do. You’re cut off from the coat checks; I’ll be cut off from the blow. When the shipment arrives, Rado’ll already have put someone else in charge of the Arab, probably Goran. But that doesn’t matter. The point is that our man’ll be in the game, the brat boy. Just gotta make sure JW gets an offer he can’t refuse. He’ll be our Trojan horse.”
Mrado walked Ringvagen. Suddenly loved Nenad.
The blow pimp was in ecstasy. “When the shipment arrives-and trust me, it’s big as hell, more pounds than you can bench-press, Sweden’s biggest delivery ever-then we’ll be there. Ready to take back what belongs to us. Ready to roll.”
Mrado got chills.
“You’re amazing. When do we meet up and talk more, today?”
“Sure, meet me tonight at Hirschenkeller. I’m in the mood for some Budapest grill and a dark brew.”
Mrado laughed. Hung up. On the phone’s display: a seventeen-minute-long conversation. His ear: red and warm. Too much cell phone radiation, or excitement over the breakthrough?
Mrado was on his way home from the gym. Was gonna pick up Lovisa and go to a children’s theater on Atlasgatan in Vasastan. He ate a Gainomax Recovery energy bar.
Mrado and Nenad: new dynamic duo. Butch and Sundance. An unbeatable combination.
They’d talked every day; the planning continued. How would they break Rado? The Serbian Godfather wannabe.
Mrado’s headache: Lovisa had to switch schools. Annika hadn’t understood what Mrado was talking about. Thought he wanted to mess with her, as usual. What should he do?
Some days, his insomnia almost crushed him.
When Nenad called, Mrado understood what it was about right away.
He hit speakerphone in the car.
“I talked to him today.”
“And? What he say?”
Nenad-long-winded master. “We met for lunch at Texas Smoke-house. I just called and invited him. He recognized my voice immediately. But he helped me in London, so maybe that wasn’t so strange. I just told him I wanted to talk; maybe he got shook. Thought something’d gone to hell. Anyway, we met up.”
“What he say?”
“The dude’s a brat wannabe-squared. No, hell, he’s cubed. Sure, I could tell in London, but even more now. He said hi to every cute Ostermalm tail that sashayed past. Really pretty wild that him and the Arab jive.”
Mrado turned off toward where Lovisa’s after-school program was. She was waiting by the gate. Mrado’s heart skipped a beat. Thought, If anything happens to her, it’s over. Nenad jabbered on.
“Come on. Cut to the chase. I gotta go.”
“Chill. The JW guy’s cool. He’s with us. But it’ll cost. This is the deal. He’ll keep track of the big C shipment. Will report directly to me about any progress. When it’s expected to arrive. Where it’s expected to arrive. How it’ll be shipped. Stored. Who’ll be guarding it. When it’s time, we’ll do the rest. What’s more, he’ll develop sales channels on the side.”
“Sounds fantastic.”
“And that’s not all. He can rig big-league laundromats. For real. No shitty video-rental stores. No dry cleaners. Real stuff. Numbered accounts. Shelf companies. Tax paradise. Everything.”
“Sounds totally fucking amazing. What does he want?”
“Twenty-five percent of the pie.”
Mrado almost choked. This JW guy really thought highly of himself. He had to consider.
“Nenad, I gotta go. I’m picking up my daughter. We’ll talk later.”
Mrado had one night and one day with Lovisa.
Life.
Suck on the JW-boy’s offer-candy.
Lovisa opened the gate. Mrado couldn’t stand to talk to the teachers.
She walked toward his car.
Fuck, why did everything have to be so complicated?
49
He had to keep working on Project R. The visit with his sister’d felt good. Jorge perked up, even though Hallonbergen revisited him every night.
He planned the next step. The last thing that’d happened at the brothel’d been timely. Only right-after all those dull days staking out Radovan’s house. Something to work from-had invited himself, through Jet Set Carl, to some kind of luxury whore party. Gotten a password texted to the dead pimp’s cell. Written the password down that same night, after he went back to Fahdi’s. The apartment’d been empty. Jorge’d put the shotgun back. Wiped off the barrel. Tucked it into the closet. Then he’d thrown the pimp’s phone in a trash can, the SIM card in a sewer.
The gig he’d invited himself to was happening today. Questions: What, exactly, was it? He didn’t know if he was considered a guest or one of Nenad’s underlings. Maybe he’d be expected to guard, arrange, or herd whores. Worse: He didn’t know how to get there, the address.
He couldn’t care less about the first question. It would sort itself out once he got there.
The answer to the final question: He’d have to shadow Jet Set Carl all day.
Jorge knew the brat king’s address.
Rocked his old trick-by 8:00 a.m., he was already sitting in a stolen Saab with tinted back windows. Didn’t want to miss Jet Set Carl no matter how early he was. Sipped coffee. Peed in a soda bottle. Listened to the radio.
Maybe getting there as early as 8:00 a.m. on a weekend was exaggerated-the dude didn’t come out till
