The grand opening had brought in 425,000 kronor after the wages paid to the teenagers from Mälar Upper Secondary School. In other words: 21,250 kronor each to the security team, Hitman Anders, the general expenses fund, and charitable purposes. The remaining 340,000 kronor was placed in the priest and the receptionist’s yellow suitcase in the eighteenth-century cabinet in the sacristy. They didn’t need the red one yet (the suitcases were probably not the safest deposit boxes in the world, but the receptionist insisted that all their assets should be kept there so that, in an emergency, it would take less than thirty seconds to flee).
That evening, as a reward for a job well done, Hitman Anders received an extra bottle of red and the promise that he wouldn’t have to wait longer than about twenty weeks before he could hand out his next half-million to the recipient of his choice.
“Fantastic,” he said. “But I would like a bite to eat. Can I borrow five hundred for some food?”
The receptionist realized they’d forgotten to inform the hitman that he would actually be drawing a salary, and since he wasn’t asking for one, they could just as well leave that matter as it was. Forgotten.
“Of course you may borrow five hundred,” he said. “Heck, you can have it! But don’t waste it all at once, please. And take Jerry the Knife with you if you’re going anywhere.”
Unlike Hitman Anders, Jerry the Knife could count: 21,250 kronor would not cover the costs for him and his staff.
“Then let’s double it,” said the receptionist.
The guards received what the hitman didn’t understand he should have had, so no budgetary harm was done.
But before Hitman Anders was able to leave with Jerry the Knife, yet another person entered the scene. “What a wonderful evening in the service of the Lord,” lied the man who had been delegated the heavenly task of putting everything to rights.
“Who are you?” asked the priest.
“I’m Börje Ekman, churchwarden of this congregation for the past thirty years. Or thirty-one. Or twenty-nine, depending on how you count. The church lay fallow for some time.”
“Churchwarden?” said the receptionist.
Trouble, thought the priest.
“Dammit! That’s right. I forgot to tell you about him,” said Jerry the Knife, who in his rush had also forgotten to watch his language.
“Welcome home,” said Hitman Anders, who was feeling blissful because he had received praise from two different sources in the span of one minute. He gave Börje Ekman a hug on his way out. “Come on, Jerry, let’s go. I’m thirsty. I mean hungry.”