Mrado was sitting at a table under the vaulted ceilings on the cellar level of Café Piastowska, on Tegnérgatan. He’d ordered schnitzel Belwederski with sauerkraut and Okocim, Polish beer. He liked the venue. Brick walls and dark wood paneling. A flag with the Polish eagle hung at one of the short ends of the room. Beer ads were glued to the ceiling. Genuine feel to the waitress: middle-aged gray-haired woman with integrity.
He took out pen and paper.
Around him: a racket. It was the weekend. Someone was celebrating their thirtieth birthday—the tables were pushed together to form one long one. The birthday celebrators ordered beer and called down the troubadour from the upstairs level.
A longhaired toothpick with an acoustic guitar attached to a black sash around his neck came down the stairs. Sang a folksy classic with a soft voice. The thirtieth-birthday revelers hooted with joy.
Mrado shut them out. He was tired, had slept worse last night than in the trench in Bosnia.
Was trying to think. Compartmentalize. Analyze. Find leads. In front of him on the table: a ruled notebook. Wrote questions in a column on the left-hand side of the page. What’d Jorge done? Where’d he gone? Who would know where he was? Wrote down probable answers in another column on the right-hand side. The Latino’d asked for a passport; the call’d come from a Swedish pay phone. Conclusion: Jorge hadn’t left the country.
Jorge must’ve planned large parts on his own. In other words, he was on the run, without too many helpers. He wasn’t hiding at his sister’s, probably not at his mother’s. If he was in the Sollentuna area, the Latino was staying indoors at all times. He couldn’t have that much money stashed away, either. According to what Mrado remembered, the blatte’d been cleaned out worse than Lehman after closing when he’d been locked up at Österåker one and a half years ago. And now he was hitting up Rado for money, too.
In summation: Jorge was hiding somewhere cheap, in Sweden, probably in the Stockholm area. Alone.
Left in the middle of the page: a column for unanswered questions. Who’d last been in touch with Jorge? Where’d he gone directly after the breakout? Mrado underlined two central words: location now. He hadn’t really gotten anywhere in his search. Figuring out where the blatte was hiding was as easy as completing a jigsaw puzzle of a sky with all blue pieces.
He could wait for Jorge’s call and scare him then. Threaten to hurt the Latino’s sister, his mom. But those weren’t Radovan’s orders. Instead: Find him, hurt him, and make him understand who’s in charge. Also: Jorge’d broken with his family. In that case, threats wouldn’t help.
Mrado took a final swig of beer. Asked for the check. Paid. Tipped. On his way up the stairs from the lower level, he felt a vibration in his pocket. Service again. A text. He picked up his cell. Didn’t recognize the number. Read the text: Call me on this number at 8:00 p.m./Rolf. His cop connect. The pussy used his son’s or daughter’s cell when he got in touch with Mrado. The text: good news. Maybe Rolf knew something.
It was eight o’clock. Mrado was sitting in his car outside the shoot club, Pancrease, on Odengatan. Called Rolf. Was careful not to be explicit with his own name, Rolf’s name, or other details. Kept it brief, as usual.
“What’s up? It’s me.”
“Everything cool?”
“Yep. And you?”
“Sure, sure, but I’ve had a tough day. Sat hunched in the driver’s seat of a car all day. My back’s giving out.”
“You should work out more. Go running sometimes and do fifty back-ups every night and I’ll bet you’ll feel better. Whattya got for me?”
“I’ve checked up on what we talked about. The northern precinct brought a guy in for questioning a month ago. Sergio Salinas Morena, a troublemaker from Sollentuna. He’s cousins with your guy. Didn’t lead to anything, but apparently he was suspected of aiding.”
“Nice. I bow in thanks. Will check it out. That all?”
“That’s all. Later.”
Mrado started up the car. Drove to the intersection of Sveavägen/Odengatan. Turned up toward Norrtull. There wouldn’t be any working out at the club tonight. He called Ratko—needed his contacts in Sollentuna. Ratko was with his girl in Solna. Didn’t seem too hot on joining the hunt. Despite that: agreed to be picked up at Råsundavägen. What could Ratko do? The bottom line: When Mrado asks, you deliver.
They drove on the E4 highway toward Sollentuna. Ratko didn’t know anyone named Sergio Salinas Morena. Called Bobban. He recognized the name. Thought the guy still lived in the Sollentuna area. Didn’t know more than that.
The road was poorly lit. Ratko made calls to old friends from Märsta and Sollentuna, asked about Sergio. Mrado was strangely unfocused. Didn’t have the energy to listen to Ratko’s phone buzz. He was tired. Thought about Lovisa. His preparatory hearing in family court was coming up. Annika didn’t even want him to see his daughter every other week. So fuckin’ low.
They tore down the highway. Mrado’d busted the speed limit more times than he could count. He remembered one time in particular: when Lovisa was born. Immediate cesarean. He’d been at Solvalla with some buds. Gotten a call from Annika that the contractions’d started but that the water hadn’t broken. She called the hospital. They said, “Take it easy until the contractions come more frequently.” Mrado stayed at Solvalla. Why go home if it wasn’t time? When he was leaving, he called home. No answer. Worry. Had she gone without calling him? There was a note on the kitchen table. Went to Huddinge. Had to hurry. Mrado ran back out to the car. Gunned it. Drove 110 to Huddinge Hospital. Took the turns on two wheels. Worried more than he’d ever done in his entire life. Ran the entire way to the hospital’s main entrance. When he arrived, drenched in sweat, Lovisa’d already been plucked out. Her heart rate’d started to plummet—there’d been no time to spare. Before Annika went under, she heard the surgeon tell the rest of the team they had only five minutes of game time. From emergency to catastrophe. Mrado’d been late to his own daughter’s birth. He would never forgive himself for that. But the following two hours had been some of the best in his life—in an adjoining room with Lovisa, 6.9 pounds, lying on his chest. She folded her head in under his chin. Grazed his neck with her tiny mouth. Seemed to become calm. Annika was still not awake after the cut. Just Mrado and Lovisa—the way it should be, always. Maybe the way it could be if he threw in the towel. Stopped with this shit.
Ratko shoved him, “Hey, are you listening?”
Someone’d bitten the bait. Sergio Salinas Morena: worked as a courier driver, lived on Allévägen in Rotebro.
Mrado slammed his foot on the gas. They drove past Sollentuna. Continued on E4 north. Took a left by Staketvägen. His pulse was rising. The tension was soaring. Mrado was in the mood.
Salinas Morena lived on the fourth floor. They looked up at the windows. Six out of nine were lit on the fourth floor. Three apartments on that level. At least one window in each apartment was lit. Hopefully, people home in each of them. The house looked run-down. The sky was darkening, but the crap graffiti was still visible. The paint on the outer walls was peeling.
Ratko positioned himself down in the foyer. Mrado went up. Covered the peephole with his finger as he rang the doorbell.
A girl’s voice yelled something in Spanish inside the apartment.
Nothing happened. Mrado rang the bell again.
A guy opened. Mrado assessed him. Around twenty-five years old. Dressed in a black T-shirt with large white Gothic lettering: Vatos Locos. Faded jeans. Dark hair. Cocky look. Did he think he was a Los Angeleno, or what?
Sergio looked skeptically at Mrado. Didn’t say anything. Raised an eyebrow. Meaning: Who the fuck are you?
Mrado looked beyond Sergio, into the apartment. A hallway with three doors. TV sounds emanating from somewhere. No sign of the woman he’d heard through the door. Generally shabby and ugly. Bare linoleum on the floor. A couple of posters on the walls. Lined up and spread out in the hall: enough sneakers to fill a fucking sporting goods store.
“Are you Sergio? Can I come in?”
“Ey, WHO are you?”
Mrado thought, Kids, no respect these days.
“We can talk about that inside. Can I come in?” No chance in hell he’d repeat the question one more time.
Sergio remained standing. Staring.
Neither one looked away. The guy had to get that Mrado wasn’t a cop. But did he pick up that Mrado was one of the most feared men in the Stockholm underworld? Unclear.
Finally, Sergio threw open his arms, gesticulated. “Whaddya want with me?”
“Are you Sergio?”
The guy took a step back. Let Mrado in. The apartment smelled of burned onion.
“Sure. And who’re you?”
Mrado thought, What a stubborn motherfucker. Doesn’t quit gabbing.
“Let’s put it this way: You don’t need to know who I am. I don’t need to know more about you than that you’re Sergio. I only want the answer to one question; then I’ll go. Where is Jorge?”
The guy’s left hand moved involuntarily. His neck muscles tensed.
The guy knew something.
“What Jorge?”
“Don’t play dumber than you are. You know where he is. You’ll tell me, whether you want to or not.”
“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talkin’ about.”
“Exactly which words didn’t you understand?”
“Pendejo, you think you can come here, to my house, and talk a lotta basura?”
Mrado, silent. Just stared. The guy was crazy. Might be king of his anthill, but a nobody in the real world. Clocked nada.
Sergio started yelling in Spanish. A girl came out of the TV room, wearing sweatpants and a black tank top. Sergio was freaking out. Mrado was standing calmly. Sergio raised his arms. Got into boxer pose with white-knuckled fists. One arm was out, the other guarding his face. The girl moved toward Sergio. Said something in Spanish. Seemed to be trying to calm him down. Looked at Mrado, her face twisted into a question mark.
Sergio yelled, “Come on, you fat Croat!”
Mrado took another step forward. Sergio struck with his left. His fist’d twitched a heartbeat earlier. Enough for Mrado—he blocked the punch. Put Sergio’s arm in a lock. Pressed Sergio’s hand up against the arm, his wrist at an unnatural angle. Forced the entire arm back. Sergio howled. Tried to strike with his free hand. Hit Mrado’s shoulder. Lost his balance. Fell. The girl screamed. Mrado, on top of him. Continued to force his wrist back.
“Sergio, listen. Tell your bitch to shut up.”
The girl kept shrieking. Mrado got up, grabbed hold of her arms. Pushed her down to the floor. She sat down with her back to the wall. Tried to get back up. Sergio, who was still on the floor, tried to kick Mrado’s leg. It hurt. Their mistake: to make Mrado lose it. The girl came at him. He slapped her. She fell down again. Hit her head against the wall. Sounded like someone’d bounced a tennis ball on wood. She lay still. The guy started to get up. Fucking mayhem. Mrado punched him in the stomach. The guy doubled over, mouth wide open. Gasped for breath. The girl cried. Mrado pulled a roll of duct tape from his jacket pocket. Had hoped it wouldn’t come to this. Gripped Sergio’s left hand, pinched between his thumb and index finger. Should hurt like hell. Bent his arm back. Taped his two arms together. Sergio kicked wildly. Mrado tackled him carefully, like it was a training session at Pancrease—but in slow motion. Taped his feet together.
Sergio hollered, “You fuckin’ cunt!”
Mrado ignored him. Worked efficiently. Taped up the girl. Dragged her into another room. Fuck. The situation’d derailed. Messier/more dangerous than planned. He called Ratko, asked him to come upstairs.
Leaned over Sergio, “Well, wasn’t that really fucking unnecessary?”
“Pendejo.”
“You seem to have a limited vocabulary. Don’t you know any other bad words?”
Sergio kept his mouth shut.
“It’s simple. You just have to tell me where Jorge is. We won’t turn him in.”
No answer.
“I think you’ve pretty much figured out what kind of guy I am. I won’t leave until you’ve dished. Don’t be an idiot. Why make this such an unpleasant night? Why not just talk?”
Ratko came in through the front door. Locked it behind him. Looked with disapproval at the hall. Clothes and shoes littered everywhere. Both posters torn down. A stool was turned over. A duct-taped loco Latino in a pile on the floor.
Mrado slapped Sergio across the face. Immediate effect: the guy’s cheek turned red as a blood orange. He still kept his mouth shut. Mrado delivered another slap across the face. Told him to talk. The Latino bit it.
They played good Yugo/bad Yugo. Mrado delivered three, four slaps. Yelled at him to talk. Ratko said it wasn’t their intention to hurt Jorge, that they’d take the tape off Sergio, that he’d be compensated if he told them where his cuz was hiding.
No answer.
Mrado took Sergio’s hand in his—looked like a baby’s hand in a father’s palm.
Sergio was rigid. The tape tightened.
Mrado snapped his pinkie finger.
Sergio howled. Lost his cool. The attitude: broken.
He sobbed. Cried.
“I don’t even know where he is,” he whimpered. “I have no idea. I swear.”
Mrado shook his head. Grabbed onto Sergio’s ring finger. Bent it back.
Far.
About to snap.
Sergio cracked. It ran out of him. He told them almost everything. “Okay, Okay. You fucking cocks. I helped him a little. When he’d gotten out. He stayed at my aunt’s. For five days. Then he started wiggin’ out. Thought there were civvies in every car parked on the street. Totally freaked, yo. Made me drive him outta there. I lent him cash. Don’t know where he went. Jorge let me down. He owes me for all the help I gave. I haven’t seen a fuckin’ cent. He’s worth less than a bag o’ dog shit.”
“That’s it, there you go. You know where you drove him, don’t you?”
“Fuck, man. Yeah, I know. He crashed with this guy, Eddie. Then the cops called me in. That’s when he peaced. I swear on my father’s grave, I don’t know where he went. I swear.”
Mrado looked at Sergio. He wasn’t lying.
“Great. Now you’re gonna go call that Eddie. You’re gonna tell him that you need to know where Jorge is. Play it like all’s cool. Say you promised to help him with some stuff. And my friend here”—Mrado pointed at Ratko—“understands Spanish. So no tricks.”
Mrado pulled out Sergio’s cell phone. Told the Latino: “One peep from you about what happened and you can forget all about your left hand.”
No one picked up at the first number Sergio called. Mrado checked the contacts list. There were three numbers: “Eddie cell,” “Eddie home,” “Eddie work.” Sergio tried “Eddie home.” Someone picked up. Spoke in Spanish. Mrado tried to understand. Hoped his lie wouldn’t show. Ratko understood as much Spanish as Sergio understood Serbian. But he picked up a word here and there. The talk was going in the right direction. Sergio wrote something that Eddie said down on the back of an envelope. Ratko was sweating. Was he nervous? The girl stayed calm. The neighbors were chill. Time stood still.
Sergio hung up. His face was expressionless.
“He said Jorge disappeared from his place the same day I was called in for questioning. Said he didn’t know where he was going. That he was gonna sleep in parks or shelters and then get dough.”
“How can I be sure you’re not lying?”
Sergio shrugged. The attitude was back.
“If you want insurance, call a fuckin’ corporate boojie, fatso.”
Mrado grabbed his ring finger.
Snapped it.
“Don’t call me that. Give me something I can trust or I’ll break your whole hand.”
Sergio screamed. Wailed. Cried.
After a couple of minutes, he calmed down. Seemed apathetic. Spoke quietly, in starts. “Jorge gave Eddie a piece of paper. Coded. Jorge and me came up with the system. A couple of months ago. Eddie read it to me. You can check it with him. If you don’t believe me. Just don’t hurt me anymore. Please.”
Mrado nodded. Sergio showed the letters he’d written down on the back of the envelope: Pq vgpiq fqpfg kt. Bxgtoq gp nc ecnng. Sxg Fkqu og caxfg. Incomprehensible letter combinations. Some kind of code. Shouldn’t be impossible to crack, Sergio explained. It was simple. “Every letter is really the one two steps further up in the alphabet. It says: No tengo donde ir. Duermo en la calle. Que Dios me ayude.” Mrado asked him to translate. Sergio glanced at Ratko.
Mrado said: “He doesn’t understand a word.”
The Latino translated, “I have nowhere to go. Sleep on the street. God help me.”
Mrado and Ratko were silent on the ride home. Mrado’d made a big-enough tear in the tape that Sergio’d be able to free himself in a couple of minutes.
Mrado said, “You thought that was unnecessary?”
Ratko’s answer was filled with irritation, “Is there rice in China?”
“Don’t worry. He won’t say anything. If he does, he’ll have to turn himself in.”
“Still, risky behavior. The neighbors might’ve heard.”
“They’re used to shit goin’ down around there.”
“Not like that. The blatte screamed worse than a Bosnian whore.”
“Ratko, can you do me a favor?”
“What?”
“Never second-guess me again.”
Mrado kept driving. Dropped Ratko off in Solna. Back with his girl. Mrado thought, Congrats, you’ve got a life.
New useful information: The Latino fugitive’d left. Planned to sleep outside or at a homeless shelter. But it was colder now. Jorge’d have to be stupid to sleep on the street this time of year. Odds were he stayed at shelters.
Mrado called information. Got the telephone number and address of three homeless shelters in Stockholm. Stadmissionen had two locations: the Night Owl and the Evening Cat. The third: KarismaCare near Fridhemsplan.
He drove to KarismaCare.
Rang the doorbell. Was buzzed in. A small waiting area. A large bulletin board across from the reception desk was covered with handouts published for Situation Stockholm, a newspaper whose proceeds went to the homeless: opportunities to sell newspapers. Information on community college courses: discounts for the homeless. Information packets about welfare. Pictures from soup kitchens. Ads for yoga classes in the city.
A thin, dark-haired woman was sitting behind the counter. She was dressed in a navy blouse and a cardigan.
“How can I help you?”
“I was wondering if you know if anyone named Jorge Salinas Barrio has slept here in the past four weeks,” Mrado said in a matter-of-fact voice.
“Unfortunately, I can’t answer that. We have a privacy policy.”
Mrado couldn’t even get pissed. The woman seemed too nice.
There was only one thing to do. He walked back to the car. Prepared to sleep. Folded down the backseat as far as it would go. He wanted to get the opportunity to talk to all the homeless guys, even the earliest birds, tomorrow morning when they left the shelter.
He slept better than at home. Dreamed he was walking on a beach and was denied entrance to a shelter that was built inside a set of monkey bars at the edge of a forest. Tried to throw sand up at the people in the monkey bars. They laughed. Bizarre.
He woke up. It was 6:00 a.m. He bought coffee and a pastry at a 7-Eleven. Stayed awake from then on. Listened to the radio. The seven o’clock news: anti-U.S. demonstrations in the Middle East. So? Guaranteed they got less beat up by the Americans in Iraq than by their own leaders. Europe didn’t get it, as usual. But the Serbs knew. Despite that, all Yankee critique was good. The swine’d bombed the shit out of Yugoslavia.
No movement on the street. Mrado was about to fall asleep again.
Ten minutes past seven: The first homeless guy stepped out. Mrado opened the car door and called out to him. The guy, wearing several layers of jackets and old snow boots, his face covered with gray stubble, seemed uneasy at first. Mrado sugared his tone. Showed the guy pictures of Jorge. Explained that he’d probably changed hair color or something else about his appearance. Explained that the Latino’d stayed at the shelter at some point over the past four weeks. Explained that he’d be served grilled cheese if he said something good. The homeless guy knew nil. Seemed to try hard, especially when he heard about the cheddar.
Mrado waited. After ten minutes, two other homeless guys came out. He pulled the same move on them as on the first one. They didn’t recognize J-boy.
He continued. Counted off twelve people. It was now eight thirty. KarismaCare closed in half an hour. No one knew shit, and the worst was that they didn’t seem to be lying.
Finally, a middle-aged man stepped out. Shitty teeth. Otherwise, relatively well-kempt appearance. Coat, black pants, gloves. Mrado called out to him. Same routine: explained, exhibited, enticed. Offered one grand. He could see the man was thinking. He knew something.
“I recognize that thug.”
Mrado pulled out two five-hundred-kronor bills. Rubbed them together.
The man continued, glanced at the bills. “I’ve seen that clown at least three times up at KarismaCare. You know, I noticed him; he was always on the floor doing sit-ups. Then he’d shower and smear himself with lotion. Self-tanner. What a damn hustler.”
“So he was tanner than in the picture?”
“You know, blacks wanna be white, like that player Mikey Jackson. Whites, like, wanna be brown. That hustler in your picture, he was also kinda coffee-colored, so it was strange. By the way, his hair is curlier in real life. A beard, too. I tried to talk to the guy once. Not much of a conversation. But he knew about other shelters in the city, so maybe you’ll find him there.”
“How do you know?”
“How do I know? He used to whine so damn much. Claimed the standard was better at other places, like the Night Owl. What an ass. You can’t complain when you get a bed, breakfast, and dinner for two hundred. There’re a lotta whiners out there, ya know. Don’t know what gratitude is.”
Mrado thanked the old-timer. Felt genuinely happy. Gave him the two bills. Told him to spread the word: Anyone who knows anything about the nappy, dark thug can report to Mrado and cash in.