“Damn. Hey, check out the one in the braids over there. Those are some fucking melons.”
“Your kind of cut.”
The man with the darting gaze stared. Drooled over the girl. Then he took a sip of his drink. Turned to the guy with the cigar.
“I’ve been wondering something. I know these parties are safe and all, but how do you know no civvies manage to get in? I wake up at night with cold sweats when I think about the party here last year. I mean, if Christina found out, well, you know.”
“Don’t worry. He’s in with the police. The guys who help him organize this thing are good. The people with the power in our dear police force wouldn’t touch these events. According to what I’ve heard, the guys who run this show would end Stockholm’s finest if they tried to interfere. Sometimes police chiefs do naughty things, too. You just have to know what.”
“So damn nice. I like this.”
The men clinked glasses.
Jorge almost in a state of shock. Was Radovan behind this? If so, he was a fucking genius.
The captains of industry supported by the Yugo Mafia. An unbeatable whore cocktail.
Until tonight-J-boy was on to them.
He stayed by the bar. Tried to see if Radovan or someone else he recognized was there.
After a while, the music was switched off. Someone shushed into a microphone.
The men next to Jorge stopped talking.
The chicks stopped dancing.
Spotlights were directed at the bar.
A man climbed up on the bar. Careful, scared of slipping. Not exactly a young athlete-overweight, suited up, but sin tie. Well-combed graying hair. Eyes: In the strange light of the room, they had a milky all-white look.
“Hello, everybody. It’s so great to see you here tonight.”
The old guy held a glass of champagne in one hand, a microphone in the other.
“As you know, I usually host these parties once a year. I think it’s pleasant when just us boys have a chance to get together.”
After the word boys, he paused dramatically. Awaited the laughter that followed.
“I hope that everyone’s going to have a nice night. I’ll shut up soon so we can turn the music back on and party all night long. Before I toast the night, I want to take the opportunity to thank those responsible for making this night possible. Radovan Kranjic and Carl Malmer. They organize events like these, among other things. Let’s give them a round of applause.”
The people around the room applauded. The men def with more enthusiasm than the women, Jorged noted.
The old guy on the bar raised his glass, toasted the night.
Was helped down.
The music blasted out once more.
A couple of daddies started dancing with the girls on the dance floor.
An hour later.
The party’d derailed. Eyes Wide Shut, but for real, Smadalaro version. No more talking. December was chasing spring. The old men wanted young pussy. The girls were ready to serve it up. It was obvious this was a marketplace.
Everywhere, old guys had their tongues down young girls’ throats. Hands inside bras, fingers between legs, tongues in ears. High school prom, with two exceptions: thirty-year age difference between the make-out partners and only the dudes were paying for the good stuff.
Throughout, the girls were willing.
Clear everywhere: The wolves were wild for fresh meat.
Jorge tried to keep moving. Not end up too long in one spot. Avoid calling attention to himself. Danced for fifteen minutes with a pretty, tall girl with an Eastern European accent and pupils the size of needle pins. High on blow or other uppers. He thought about Nadja. Parts of her story were starting to fall into place. The only thing that didn’t jibe was that he hadn’t seen Radovan anywhere.
For fifteen minutes, Jorge sat in an armchair and carried on an incomprehensible conversation with a guy involved in financial instruments. Worked reasonably well, despite all odds.
For fifteen minutes, he disappeared into the bathroom.
Picked up the name of the guy who was giving the party: Sven Bolinder. Who was that?
A couple of old guys and girls started disappearing from the room. Jorge, worried. Had they gone home? He asked the Eastern European chick he’d danced with. When she answered-Jorge almost yelled out his surprise-it was more hard-core than he’d expected.
“I guess they’ve gone up to the rooms. Want to take a peek up there?”
Joder.
The rooms.
The guy who organized the party hadn’t just brought the whores. He provided rooms, too.
That was some high-class shit. Nicely done. Commonest, dirtiest, simplest form of prostitution-you go to a place, you pay, and you get a room and a girl-remade to create the feeling: I’m invited to a party without my wife. I happen to meet a hot piece of ass there. I turn her on and we sneak up to an empty room in the house and have a little fun.
He declined her offer. No room for him.
Thought: What’ve I achieved? Nada. No further evidence against Radovan. I have to do something, now. Before everyone leaves to get what they came here for.
He got an idea.
Jorge approached the bartender. Played wasted.
“Excuse me. Is there somewhere I can make a call?”
“Don’t think so, sorry. Do you need a taxi? I’ll get you one.”
“No. I need to make another call. I left my phone in the coat check. Could I borrow yours for a sec?” Jorge waved a thousand-kronor bill. “I’ll pay, of course.”
The bartender averted his eyes from the money. Continued to mix his drink, crushed ice and strawberries in a blender.
Jorge was playing a high-stakes game. Possibly they had cell phone policies. Or they’d just asked him to leave his own phone in the coat check out of courtesy. It could work.
“It’s cool.” The bartender handed over his phone.
“I’ll step outside and make the call. Have to have quiet around me. Okay?”
“Cool.”
Beautiful, J-boy.
Jorge took the cell phone. Turned it around. As expected. Yugos and brats had something in common: They liked high-tech gadgets. No matter which category the bartender belonged to, Jorge’d guessed right. The dude had a cell phone with a high-def camera.
Jorge got going. The men weren’t paying any attention. Staff surveillance had decreased as people started disappearing from the party room to the separate rooms.
Jorge pretended to talk. Held the phone a few inches from his ear. Actually, the camera was snapping away- paparazzi-style. Didn’t give a shit if the bartender guy wondered what he was doing. Quickly scanned through some pictures. Crappy quality. He didn’t dare use the flash. Bad light and distance-the pictures were grainy and dark. Could hardly tell it was people in the pictures.
Didn’t work. He deleted the pictures.
Tried to get closer to the armchairs.
Hard to get a good angle.
Decided to take the risk. Held the phone up in front of him. Snapped new photos. Looked again. They were somewhat better, but still hard to make out much in them.
To be safe, he scrolled to the e-mail function. Typed in his own Hotmail address. Sent a picture. Then two more.
