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.
22
The first thing Jorge wanted to do was eat.
McDonald’s in the Sollentuna Malclass="underline" Big Mac, cheeseburgers, extra fries, and ketchup poured into the small white cups. Jorge: in heaven. At the same time: anxiety masiva — he was out of money and there were two days left before he had to call Mrado. The word CASH pulsed through his body like blood.
He’d left the cottage. Brought a handle of whiskey from the cupboard. Fell asleep on the bus. So fuckin’ nice- one of the safest spots in town. Golden relaxation. Went straight to Sollentuna. Hadn’t dared be in touch with Sergio or Eddie. 5–0 might have eyes there. He’d called some homeboys from way back instead, Vadim and Ashur. Co-dees he used to push powder with in the good old days.
He shouldn’t have done it but couldn’t resist-thought he’d get the shakes, his withdrawal from actual human contact was so bad.
They welcomed him like a king. J-boy: the legendary fugitive. The blow myth. The lucky Latino. Lent him paper for McDonald’s. Reminded him of happier times, asphalt jungle bros, Sollentuna hos.
So ill.
Vadim and Ashur: international friends. Vadim’d come to Sweden from Russia in 1992. Ashur: Syrian from Turkey.
According to Jorge, Vadim could’ve gone far. The guy was driven, smart, and had a flush family-they ran computer stores outta every single mall in the area. But gangsta dreams got him. Thought dealing a little blow would make him king of the streets. Okay, the clocker’d made out all right, only been in for shorter stints, not like Jorge. But damn, look at the guy today. Worn down like a fuckin’ Sven with barrel fever. Tragic. Homeboy should curb his habits.
Ashur: always with a big silver cross around his neck. Stayed straight. Worked as a hairdresser. Kept his eye on the chicks in the area. Highlighting by day, riding by night. Charmed the bitches 110 percent with his talk of bangs and toning.