Paola should’ve given birth by now.
Jorge lit a cig, leaned back. A rickety lounge chair. A beach umbrella with a Pepsi ad on it.
His foot felt considerably better.
Ko Samet: not one of the most popular islands. Farther up the bay than Ko Tao and Ko Samui. No Swedish charter trips, no German mass tourism, no families with children. Instead: cheap bungalows, solitary beaches, and backpackers with greasy hair. On top of that: single middle-aged men and Thai whores.
Half his stack exchanged into dollars was packed into the shoulder bag next to the lounge chair. The rest in an account at HSBC. The bank with offices all over the world.
Suited him well.
The beach was almost empty of people.
He groped with his hand to make sure the bag was still there.
He thought back.
He’d made it. Jorgius Maximus. Driven the car like a maniac despite his sprained ankle. Obvious comparison: like the escape from Österåker, except no planned escape route. They were less than a minute behind him. He drove into Midsommarkransen. A lot of houses and narrow streets. The cops couldn’t keep him in sight like on the freeway. He ditched the car by Brännkyrka Gymnasium. Boosted a new one in under thirty seconds. They didn’t clock shit. The Miracle Man strikes again. Shook the cops. Outbrained the 5-0.
First thing he did after that: drove to Fahdi’s apartment. Had the keys on him. Limped into the bedroom. To the closet. Took out the shotgun he’d used in Hallonbergen. Stuffed it in a paper shopping bag. Limped out.
Had second thoughts. Back into the bedroom. Grabbed the assault rifle and Fahdi’s other weapons, too. Wrapped them in his sheets.
Fahdi was a friend. If he survived, he wouldn’t have to do more time than necessary.
Went into the kitchen. On the kitchen table were, as usual, scales, Red Line baggies, manila envelopes, mirrors, and razor blades. Three hundred grams of blow in different dime bags.
Jorge put the bags in the paper bag.
Rummaged. Turned the place upside down, soundlessly. Gloved hands. Didn’t leave a trace. Found what he was looking for: the keys to the storage units.
Down to the street. Boosted a new bucket.
Threw the sheet with the weapons into Edsviken Bay.
Drove around for the rest of the day. Shurgard Self-Storage in Kungens Kurva, Högdalen, Danderyd. Emptied the stash spots.
The next day: the stashes in Rissne, Solna, and Vällingby. Total harvest: 2.7 pounds of blow.
The following three days were hectic. He sold it all off at a loco dumped price. Seven hundred a gram. Flew as fast as frosted bottles at a beer garden on a warm spring day.
Got a half-assed passport. Dished way too much for it, but there wasn’t any time to play cold.
Ordered tix on a charter flight to Bangkok. Chanced it.
It worked. No one checks passports too closely on an outbound flight.
He left the country within four days of the fiasco in the cold-storage facility.
Not the way he’d planned it.
If it was a boy, Paola’d promised him she’d name him Jorge. A real Jorgelito. Even if he could never live a Sven life, at least Paola could. Let Jorgelito grow up in peace. Without Social Services hags, racist teachers, cock-sucking cops, and Rodriguez. Jorge would create some structure, would send every cent he could to his sister’s baby.
A pale European man walked down the beach hand in hand with a young Thai woman.
Jorge closed his eyes. He’d had enough of johns, but still had a few left to pop.
Thought about JW back in the cold-storage facility. JW hadn’t wanted to understand at first. Jorge’d kept pushing. “I’ve seen your sister raped and beaten in a movie. By those guys. You gotta believe me.” JW stared straight ahead. Mumbled, “Shut up, Jorge. Shut up already.” Jorge kept going, whispered just loud enough for JW to hear him clearly, “Believe me. You’ve picked the wrong side. I get it if you can’t rethink this. You’ve invested in these guys. But your sister was some kind of prostitute. Those Yugo Mafia guys’ve murdered her.” It was then that JW seemed to react. He turned to Jorge. Said, “Shut up before I fucking club you.” Nenad and Mrado still didn’t seem to care about JW and Jorge—they were slicing cabbages, pouring bags of blow. Abdulkarim kept screaming. But Jorge could tell he was listening now. “JW, I’ve been watching those guys for months. I know what kind of business they’re in.” Jorge told him quickly about the brothel in Hallonbergen. He didn’t mention the shots at the pimp and the brothel madam. Instead, he described the whore party out at Smådalarö. The way the johns carried on, the way the girls looked, who was there. Underscored the latter by telling him about the parking lot outside the enormous mansion. The luxury rides in a row. And that’s when JW suddenly got in a hell of a hurry.
Jorge stubbed out his cigarette in the sand. Enjoyed the heat. The sun gave him a real tan. Nice not to have to deal with the nasty smell of the self-tanner. Except for that, his appearance was back to normal. Straight hair, trim body, no beard. Only his broken nose reminded him of Jorge Nuevo.
Safe.
At the same time, he had to keep moving.
The cash wouldn’t last forever.
Maybe worth going home soon. Get more kronor.
Meet Jorgelito.
***
The sound of a key scraping in the lock. The double doors opened.
Margareta began to cry. Bengt looked strained; his eyes were glued on the floor.
The CO closed the door behind them.
Margareta’s face had the same color as Österåker’s walls: bone white.
JW sat on the other side of the wooden table. Margareta and Bengt sat down. Margareta’s hands reached across the table and met JW’s. Held them tightly.
“How are things, Johan?”
“It’s cool. Much better than jail. I can study here.”
Bengt kept staring down at the tabletop. “And what kinds of jobs did you have in mind?”
JW thought, He will never forgive. Bengt: the honest Swede in a nutshell. And, yet, he came. Maybe Mom made him.
“I’ll get a job.”
Bengt didn’t reply.
They talked more about other stuff—the food in the prison, the lawyer’s visit, and JW’s schoolwork.
They discussed the final days of the trial. The prosecutor’d tried to get JW convicted for attempted murder. He’d told his parents about the drugs. But the bullet to Nenad—never. Wished he’d been better with a gun—he’d only hit Nenad in the shoulder. The court’d believed his explanation, that he’d been scared when the cops stormed in, scared by Mrado’s threats, by Fahdi’s death, that he’d let a shot slip. Without the intent to kill or even harm.
The court bought that stuff. JW confessed to his involvement with the cocaine. His line throughout was that he’d been there only to help boost the gear. They lowered the sentence a few years on account of that and of his age. Still, he’d have time to rot, to decompose ten times over, before he was let out.
The boyz’d turned their backs on him. Pretended like they never knew him. That was to be expected. Those who wade through shit would rather not look down—too nasty. But he’d set his hopes on Sophie. Without success.
There was only one thing left to do—create an okay existence for himself on the inside. He could always sell his money-laundering scheme to other inmates. Do business as usual.
His parents didn’t mention Camilla. And JW refrained from telling them. The cops wouldn’t get much out of Jan Brunéus. He probably hadn’t done anything illegal. JW carried the burden alone. Spared Margareta and Bengt from the truth. That made him sleep a little less badly.
Margareta said, “We got a postcard last week that was alarming, I think.”
JW’s interest started churning. “From who?”
“Didn’t say from who. But it was signed ‘El Negrito.’ ”
“So, what’d it say?”
“Not much. That the person was having a nice time in Southeast Asia, the beaches were beautiful, that there was coral. And then he said he sent three hundred thousand kaley hugs from his island to yours.”
JW looked indifferent. “Huh.”
“Johan, is there something strange about that?”
“No, just a friend of mine who’s having a nice time. He doesn’t even know I’m in prison. When I get out of here, I’m going to head to the sun, too.”
Bengt opened his mouth. Closed it again.
Margareta turned to him. “What, Dad? Were you going to say something?”
Bengt looked at JW for the first time today. JW stared back and thought, Maybe this is the first time ever that my dad’s really looked at me.
“When you get out, you’re not going to the sun. You’re going to get a real job. Far from Stockholm.”
Bengt lowered his eyes to the table again. He didn’t say anything else.
The silence was heavy in the room.
“Johan, can’t you describe what a day is like in here?”
JW let his mouth run. In his head, he let go of Bengt. Gave Jorge eternal thanks. Three hundred thousand deposited into his account on the Isle of Man. The Chilean was a good person. Didn’t forget who’d picked him up in the woods, even though JW’d betrayed them all, gone behind Abudlkarim’s back, sold his soul to the Yugos. Jorge must’ve understood that JW’d double-gamed them, but he’d also understood that JW didn’t know whom he’d been dealing with. That he’d been naïve.
Visiting hours were over.
The CO led his parents out.
Margareta cried again.
JW remained seated at the table in the visiting room.
Knew what he was going to do with the money.
Didn’t know what he was going to do with his daddy issues.
***
The rec yard at Kumla, a maximum-security prison: close-cut grass, no trees. Cement blocks with a polished surface and relatively fresh metal rods—the outdoor gym. Mrado and the other Serbs were pumping iron.
A silent agreement governed. The morning was for the Serbs. The Arabs bulked postlunch.
Life on the inside was better for him than for many others. In the joint, he was someone. His reputation protected him. Still, the climate was harsher than he remembered it from his last turn. Understood his own and Stefanovic’s lectures in a hands-on way. The gangs ruled. The mobs governed. Either you were with them or you were fucked.
What ruined everything: He was gonna lose Lovisa. Annika’d made the case right after the dope sentence’d fallen against Mrado. Demanded sole custody and visitation for one hour once a month for Mrado in a shitty little visiting room with a chaperone present. Strangled him psychologically. Killed him slowly.
Mrado’s luck was that Bobban’d ended up in the same place. Someone to talk to. Someone who had his back.
How could the Nenad fucker’ve been dumb enough not to see the resemblance between the JW guy and that whore he’d been pumping a few years back? Everything’d been so perfect. They would’ve ruled. Spat Rado in the face. Sold blow for millions.
And now: Radovan continued to maneuver Stockholm’s most powerful network, to control the coat checks in the city, to sell C, to push smuggled booze, to sit in his worn leather armchair in Näsbypark, to drink whiskey and just smile.
Fuck.
This wasn’t Serbian justice. One day, Mrado would have his time with Rado. Rub out his smile. Slowly.
A half hour left till lunch. The other Yugos went inside. Mrado and Bobban lingered.
Bobban sat down on a cement block that served as a bench press.
“Mrado, I heard this morning. They’ve put a price on your head.”
Mrado’d known that it would come. Rado didn’t forget. Had to uphold the code.
“Who told you?”
“Some dude on my hall. Sven. Doing time for armed robbery and assault. He heard it from some Latino hustlers.”
Mrado sat down next to Bobban.
“Latinos?”
“Yeah, it’s weird. High price, too. Three hundred grand.”