12:30.
Jorge thought, What a life. Jet Set Carl organizes parties, snorts coke, pounds hookers. Never has to struggle. Knows nada about concrete. Spoiled, carries daddy’s plastic, and has stinking self-confidence like crazy.
And yet it was Jorge’s dream-to be just like that. He knew every spliff-smoking blatte wanted to be Jet Set Carl. But negritos were never let in. They might as well stop dreaming.
Jet Set Carl was dressed in a black coat with a hoodie underneath. Hat. Stan Smith shoes. Jorge couldn’t help but notice the similarities in dress with the guy whose guts he’d shot out in Hallonbergen two weeks before.
He started the car. Unnecessary-Jet Set Carl only walked two blocks down to the 7-Eleven on Storgatan. Bought milk and toast. Disappeared back into his building.
Jorge chilled in the car. Ate a chicken salad he’d brought along. Thought about himself: I’m becoming a stakeout pro, even getting used to chick food. Maybe I should start my own biz.
Four o’clock. Jet Set Carl walked out again. Same clothes as before-in other words, not time for action yet.
Jorge got out of the car. Kept a good distance. The hood of his jacket over his head. A pair of mirrored sunglasses on his nose. Jorge these days: pure Fletch, disguise master.
Jet Set Carl didn’t venture far. Kept to his own pissed-in territory. Slipped into Cafe Tures in Sturegallerian, the exclusive indoor mall by Stureplan. Around 750 yards from where he lived. The geography within the golden rectangle was simple: Karlavagen-Sturegatan-Riddargatan-Narvavagen. The area practically had a velvet rope around it.
Jorge sat down at Grodan, the restaurant across the street. Read a newspaper. Drank a Coke. Saw Jet Set Carl through Sturegallerian’s large glass windows. The dude was having coffee with an Ostermalm mina. Maybe the prettiest Jorge’d ever seen.
The Jet Set guy ran his hand through his hair. Greased up his fingers. Jorge wondered how many chicks the player dated at once.
Two hours passed. They hugged good-bye. Did Jorge see what he thought he saw? Did the guy make an attempt to kiss her on the mouth? Did the girl pull back? Unclear.
The Jet Set dude went home alone.
Six-thirty.
Jorge still in the car. Wondered when something would happen.
Bored.
Thought about all the hours outside of Rado’s house.
Thought about all the people who’d helped him.
The blue glow of the digital clock read 7:00.
The door to the apartment building opened. Jet Set Carl walked out, now dressed more like Jorge remembered him. Same coat as before, but underneath he glimpsed a tailored shirt with the top buttons undone. The Stan Smiths had been traded in for a pair of polished, pointed leather kicks. His hair was slicked back.
The dude walked down the block. Unlocked an enormous car-a Hummer. Vodka ad in white lettering across the sides. The car was an ill marketing tool. Regular SUVs-hit the sack. This monster-broader than a truck.
Jet Set Carl drove south. Jorge stayed a few cars behind him. He could see the Hummer from afar. The hood was three feet above the roofs of the regular Sven vehicles. Jorge thought it was filthy sexy.
They drove Nynasvagen through Enskede. The Globe Arena was lit up like a giant ball of cocaine. Through Handen/Jordbro. Took a left. Road 227. The darkness grew more compact. Frigid fields lined the road. There was one car between Jorge and the Hummer. Hopefully, it prevented Jet Set Carl from seeing what cars were behind him.
Jorge had a carefully folded suit in the backseat. On a hanger hooked into the back window: an ironed, striped, tailored shirt and a tie. To be safe-if there was a dress code where he was going.
More houses. They drove across a bridge. On a sign: WELCOME TO DALARO.
The Hummer took a left after the bridge. The car that’d been sandwiched between them took a right. Jorge at a mental crossroads: Did he dare continue to follow Jet Set Carl? A huge fuckin’ chance/risk. He took the chance. Tried not to think about the risk.
They drove on Smadalarovagen.
After five minutes, the Jet Set guy slowed down. Blinked: to the right. Drove up a small gravel path and seemed to stop. Jorge slid on past. Got as good a look as he could. Hard to see anything. No light lit up the road.
He kept driving. The road ended at a cul-de-sac. All around: a golf course. Jorge parked the car. Turned up his hood. Looked around. Got out.
Farther off was a large house. A gravel road led up to it. A sign: SMADALARO INN. A couple of cars parked outside. Jorge walked back on the same road he’d driven. Kept to the side. Up to the place where Jet Set Carl’d turned off. Jorge clocked right away where he’d gone-a black metal gate blocked off the small road. On one side of the gate was a camera and a big sign: PRIVATE PROPERTY. GUARDED BY
FALCK SECURITY.
Jorge kept his distance. Walked up into the woods alongside the gate. Woods-reminded him of what he couldn’t forget: Mrado’s lashes with the rubber baton. One thing was certain, J-boy never gave up. They’d already had a taste of him. Two Yugo pigs shot to pieces. Look out, Radovan, now Jorgelito’s coming to get you.
After shivering in the woods for an hour, Jorge saw a car turn off toward the gate, but he couldn’t see if the driver identified himself to the camera before the gates opened.
Then nothing happened for forty minutes.
Nine o’clock.
Dark in the woods.
Jorge saw someone moving inside the gate. Stared. He could see clearly now. Two people. Behind the gate. With baseball hats. Obvious-they were guards of some sort.
Twenty minutes later, the cars started trickling in. Beamers. Benzes. Jags. A couple Porsches. A few Volvos. One Bentley. A yellow Ferrari.
In some cases, the camera recognized the arrivals. The gates slid soundlessly open. The car rolled in. In other cases, one of the guards came out through a side entrance. Exchanged a few words with the people in the car. The gates opened.
The procedure was repeated with each car. At least twenty of them. Jorge knew what he had to do. Tried to see what the men in the cars were wearing. Glimpsed someone-definitely a suit jacket.
J-boy: pro of pros- divinas — he was prepared.
Went back to his car. Changed into the dress shirt and suit. Hesitated over the tie. Finally, skipped it.
Drove back toward the gate. Up to the camera. The butterflies in his stomach fluttered like crazy. Sweat invaded the space between his hands and the wheel. His car-the only Saab. Second-rate and suspicious.
Rolled down the window. Looked up at the camera.
Nothing happened.
He remained seated. Tried to relax.
Saab. Blatte. No tie.
One of the guards came out through the gate.
Round, pale cheeks leaned down. “Can I help you?”
Jorge turned down the treble on his ghetto accent. “Well yeah. Is there a long wait to get in here, or what? Is the parking lot swamped?”
“Excuse me. This is a private area. Do you have some business here?”
Jorge smiled broadly.
“You can say that again. It’s gonna be a niiiice night.”
The guard seemed to consider. Appeared affected by Jorge’s confidence.
“What is your name?”
“Tell Carl, Daniel Cabrera says hello.”
The guard took a few steps back. Talked on a phone or a walkie-talkie. Returned. The patronizing chill was back.
“He doesn’t know who you are. I am going to have to ask you to leave the premises now.”
