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 naive.
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 Nasbypark, 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.”