A WHITE MOTORBOAT WITH BLUE SPEED LINES CAME TEARING along Riddarfjärden firth, hardly slowed down at all along the Karlberg canal and then increased speed further when it reached Ulvsunda Lake. There weren’t many boats out at this time of the year and with the Evinrude 250 H.O. they could zoom along. Scarves fluttered and Kenta and the Weasel seemed for once to be very pleased with themselves.
“Hang on!” shouted the Weasel as he took a wide swing out on the lake before slowing down and berthing at the newly built quay below Hornsberg. The Weasel threw out the anchor and Kenta climbed onto the quay with the rope, which he quickly tied to one of the bollards. Dusk was approaching and that suited them nicely. Without lanterns nobody would see them when they departed later in the evening. The Weasel climbed up onto the quay too and lit a cigarette. In silence they started to walk in the direction of the Silver Punk restaurant.
“Do you want one?” The Weasel held out the cigarette pack, twisted it around and pointed at the text: “Look at this! Smoking kills. What the fuck do they think we’ll do now? Give up? Not fucking likely.”
“Don’t smoke them all, we need them.”
“Ah, it’ll be enough with one or two for the fenders.”
“All right, then,” said Kenta, and he too took a Marlboro. He lit it from the Weasel’s cigarette and looked around. “But listen,” he said, pointing at the barge, “do we really have to go down into those weeds again? There’s a whole fucking jungle down there. And it’s fucking stupid, they can recognize us!”
“But don’t you get it? We go there, get really sweet with the seniors and then everybody will think we’re all the best of friends. Then when the barge meets with an accident nobody will suspect us.”
“But what if somebody is still on board? Fucking dangerous, could be arson.”
“That’s why we must go around the whole boat. And they’ve got good food and speed dating. Shit, that’s popular! Check it out. Might be something for your pizzeria.”
“Yeah, wow!” said Kenta and he brightened up. “Speed dating, we’ll snatch that.”
“Uh, look at that line!” said the Weasel when they had come closer. He threw away his cigarette butt and coughed. “We’re not fucking standing there.”
A long line with elderly gentlemen and dressed-up ladies with fancy hairdos was in the way. Kenta ditched his cigarette too, gave the Weasel a meaningful look and then they pushed past.
“We are standing in a line here, can’t you see?” complained a gentleman with a cap.
“Yeah, I hope you enjoy it,” replied the Weasel and with Kenta at his heels he pushed his way in through the entrance and went toward the bar.
“Two strong beers!” he said. He kept his leather jacket on.
“Nice place!” Kenta remarked, and he looked around.
They observed the speed dating and smiled at the couple who sat in the dating corner.
“Ah, isn’t that cute!” said Kenta.
“I wonder if they’ve got what it takes—the fellows, I mean,” said the Weasel with a grin. “And the old dears.” He shut up when he caught sight of Martha. “Well, now, what have we got there? It’s that old lady with the waist bag. Time for some straight talking,” he said and he nodded in Martha’s direction. “That ancient bitch will have one last chance.”
“Watch your balls man, danger ahoy!”
The Weasel put down his beer and slid off the bar stool just as Martha was going past. He stood in her way.
“We must have a talk!”
“Oh, how nice. Would you like a beer?”
“No, no, I fucking wouldn’t.” The Weasel sighed. Even though she fought, she was always so friendly.
“A man without a beer is like a bank without money.” She held up two fingers in front of the bartender and waited until he had filled two beer glasses. Then she put them together with a bowl of nuts in front of the two men. The Weasel and Kenta exchanged a quick look.
“Back to business. You wanted to talk about something?” she said and she smiled again.
“Yeah, the barge, like. We want to buy it.”
“The barge? Well, you don’t say! Regrettably, it is not for sale.”
“Yeah, but we’ll pay good.”
“Money isn’t everything, boys. Here at Silver Punk we want to make people nice and happy. Quality of life, you understand? That is much more important than money.”
Quality of life? The Weasel and Kenta looked blankly at each other.
“But you and your gang can take over a restaurant in the south of the city. Just as long as we get the barge,” the Weasel tempted her. He wanted to rid the area of these rebellious retirees, and had more than once regretted ever letting the walker gang in. He hadn’t in his wildest fantasy been able to imagine that they would gang up against him and he had seen the rent and the protection money as a guaranteed income. But had they paid? No! Time to get rid of them, no question about that.
“South? But my good man, what is the point of that?” Martha shook her head.
“A restaurant on firm land doesn’t sink, but, um, this barge isn’t safe. The hull is fucking ancient.”
“But still you want to buy it?”
Martha tried to be tough, but the underlying threat was very clear. The mafia gang wanted to be rid of them, perhaps even sink the barge. But this was where they were going to have their Vintage Village. Martha weighed things up. Brains had installed automatic pumps so they ought to be safe, but even so, if there was a power cut, things could go wrong. But she certainly wasn’t at all keen on obeying these petty gangsters. Somebody had to stand up to the mafia. Crooks, greedy companies and oppressors who didn’t pay taxes, the whole pack of them must meet with opposition.
“Sorry, but we are not selling. You can try to rent out that restaurant in the south of the city to somebody else. I’m sure it will work out,” she said mildly and she pretended to be completely unaware of the setup.
“Lady, a lot of things can happen to a barge,” the Weasel said again, in an irritated tone.
“To a restaurant in the south of the city too,” Martha countered.
“Ah, come on, this is fucking ridiculous!” The Weasel gave a scornful grin. “Right, there isn’t much of a choice.” He jabbed her beer glass so that it fell to the floor. “Now, my old dear, let’s do this nice and—”
“Old dear! Nice! Aaaaghh!”
The Weasel saw Martha’s notorious waist bag come flying, but didn’t have time to cover himself. His crotch felt on fire, and he keeled over. He dropped his glass, the beer splashed onto his fly and the glass rolled off under the bar stool. Kenta rushed forward to intervene, but then Martha stuck her foot out. Her left Ecco Saunter shoe, which had been rated with five stars on the Internet, stood firmly on the floor and he tripped, swirled around half a lap and collapsed.
“You should be kind to old ladies!” Martha hissed and then turned on her heel (of soft rubber) with her waist bag in her hand, before walking off.
“Fuck! Fuck!” groaned the Weasel.
“Tweet, tweet,” could be heard from the loudspeakers in the ceiling because Brains, that same second, had turned on the background noise for the restaurant in an attempt to create a romantic mood. Betty particularly liked this little dicky bird, a blue tit at mating time—but the Weasel did not.
“Shut the fuck up! Turn that fucking bird colony off!”
“But look at those stains, wet your pants, did you?” said Kenta pointing at the Weasel’s fly.
“Ah, just spilt some beer. That old bitch! That whole damned gang has got to go, now, right away!”
The Weasel seethed and hissed as he limped off to the restroom, supporting himself on Kenta.
“Are you quite sure?” Kenta wondered a while later after the Weasel had tidied himself up and they were on their way into the bar again. “I mean, perhaps we can talk some sense into them?”
“If they’d sold us the barge, OK, but now . . . Time to do a reconnaissance. We’ll go over the barge now and then make a final check in the restaurant after they’ve closed. No bastard must still be on board.”
THERE WAS A LOVELY SMELL OF WOK-FRIED VEGETABLES AND oriental spices and there was a great atmosphere inside the restaurant. Quite a few people from the dating corner had gone on to the dining room and were now flirting for all they were worth, while the service staff swept through the greenery with food and drink. The sound level was high and nobody seemed to notice the guys who moved slowly between the tables looking all around them.
Kenta saw that many guests were in the sixty-five to eighty-five age range, but there were some younger ones there too. How on earth had the seniors managed that? He sighed and thought about his empty pizzeria and thought it was unfair. On the other hand, he couldn’t help but admit that this restaurant was nicely decorated. There were no straight lines, everything was softly rounded off and romantic and the forest path was bordered by cozy booths. It had that special quality, the right feeling and atmosphere.
“Look out!” Kenta called just as his friend was about to walk right into a wild boar. The Weasel swerved away at the last second, but wobbled and lost his balance. Swearing, he fumbled for something to hold on to and managed to break his fall on a tree trunk. He braced himself with both hands but his left hand landed right on top of one of the museum’s stuffed woodpeckers. Without a sound it imploded and fell down in a squashed lump in the greenery—except for the bird’s beak, which had pierced the Weasel’s palm.
“Out of this loony bin, this fucking second!” he screamed.
“What about the dating? Aren’t we going to try that?” Kenta wondered. “If I’m going to learn about it, I ought to try it out. Lots of time before midnight . . .”
“But this could be fucking sepsis!” roared the Weasel, lifting his hand up to his mouth to try to extract the remains of the beak with his teeth.
“OK, next stop the hospital,” said Kenta with a worried look at his friend.
“But when we come back, then all hell will break loose!” swore the Weasel.
Then he coughed heavily and turned bright red in the face. A bit of the beak had stuck in his throat.