Mrado waited until Jorge rounded the corner toward the path leading to the station before he stepped out of the car. Put on a pair of shades. Wound the scarf a couple more times around his chin. Sent off a prayer to the big Car God: Let my car be left untouched, unscratched, unstolen here on Sollentuna’s most dangerous street.
Walked to the corner where Jorge’d turned off.
Jorge didn’t turn up the stairs to the station. Kept walking straight. Toward the Sollentuna Mall. Mrado kept his distance, but he didn’t want to lose sight of his target.
Into the Sollentuna Mall. Mrado waited a couple of seconds outside the automatic doors before he followed Jorge in. As soon as he stepped inside, he saw Jorge disappear into the grocery store. Mrado sneaked into the photo store across the way. He was such a scout-combat-trained. He called Ratko. In Serbian: “Ratko, where are you? It’s important.”
In past conversations, Ratko’d been whiny about the over-the-top treatment of Sergio. Now he heard that something real was up.
“I’m home. Watching TV. D’you find him?”
“Yeah. He spent the night at some guy’s in Sollentuna. On his way outta here now. Get ready. Go to your car.”
“Damn, I was getting so comfortable. Where am I going?”
“Don’t know yet. Just get ready for the starting shot.”
“Already out the door.”
“Nice. I’ll call you. Bye.”
Jorge walked out of the store. Had two bags in each hand. Looked like they were full of food. The Latino was probably on the way to his hideout.
He trailed him up to the train station. Ground rule: no sudden movements when you’re following someone. A guy like Jorge was electrified with tension-would react right away.
Jorge walked out on the platform. Mrado stayed inside the station house. Hoped the outside light turned the glass doors into mirrors. Jorge seemed watchful.
The train headed to the city rolled in. Jorge got on. Mrado got on another car.
He called Ratko again. Told him to drive toward the city.
Mrado looked out the doors at every stop. Jorge didn’t get off.
The train slowed down. Rolled slowly into the Stockholm Central Station.
Came to a stop. Mrado looked out. Saw Jorge get off.
Mrado waited outside the train till Jorge walked down the stairs toward T-Centralen, the subway station. He followed. Jorge walked farther up, mixed with the crowd. Mrado concentrated, couldn’t lose him now.
They walked the underground passage toward T-Centralen.
A South American band was blowing into pan flutes and banging on drums. A woman in a trench coat standing by a pillar was peddling the Watchtower.
Jorge: down toward the subway track. Mrado followed at a measured distance.
Jorge got onto the train toward Morby Centrum. Mrado boarded another car on the same train.
The car was half-empty. Two punks in baseball hats and windbreakers-potential future recruits-were sitting with their feet propped up on the seats. A misplaced Stureplan brat: blond, knee-length coat, narrow jeans, backslick. Was listening to his MP3 player.
Jorge got off at the Royal Technical Academy, KTH, station. Mrado: same.
Jorge walked out past the turnstiles. Stood and checked out the bus schedules. Went into the bodega. Bought something. His bags looked heavy. He walked up to the bus stop. Mrado followed. The Stureplan brat from the train was there, too, positioned himself at the same bus stop as Jorge. Probably just a coincidence.
Mrado eyed the bus number: 620. Jorge was clearly waiting for a ride to the Norrtalje area.
Mrado called Ratko. Told him, “Drive to KTH.”
The 620 bus pulled up. Ratko hadn’t shown. Mrado walked over to the hot dog stand by Valhallavagen. Beside it: a taxi stand.
Jorge got on the bus. It pulled out. Drove off.
Mrado told the taxi driver, “Follow the six twenty bus.”
They drove for thirty minutes. Mrado was worried. The Jorge-guy was smart. On his guard. Might start wondering why the same taxi kept driving two to five cars behind the bus.
Mrado kept in touch with Ratko.
Switched to his car at Akersberga.
They kept their distance. Nothing strange about it. There were several cars backed up behind the bus. It didn’t make many stops.
The Latino stayed on.
Finally: Dyvik. The bus stopped. Jorge got off.
The Stureplan brat did, too. Weird, but no time to think about that now.
Mrado yelled, “Turn, goddamn it!”
Ratko turned off in the direction Jorge was walking. Mrado ducked in the passenger seat. They passed Jorge at a ten-foot distance. Drove as slowly as they dared. Like people who didn’t really know their way around. Looked in the rearview mirror, saw him walking. Worked for a minute or so. Then it got shady. They had to keep driving. Lost sight of Jorge behind them.
They stopped the car. Got out. Mrado walked up into the the woods. Couldn’t be seen from the road. Ratko started walking in the opposite direction. Toward Jorge.
Two minutes later, Ratko called. “He’s a little over two hundred yards away from me on the road. Still coming at you. What do I do if he recognizes me, gets jittery, and runs?”
“Keep going toward him. Just pass him like it’s nothing. Then turn around when you know he can’t see you. Start following him. I’ll take care of him here.”
Mrado waited. No houses nearby. No people. No problems.
His cell was on. Ratko on speed dial. Poised to call him.
Jorge came walking. Bags in hand. Looked tired. He was twenty yards away, down on the road. Mrado called Ratko. Whispered. Told him to run.
Mrado charged out of the woods like an evil Boy Scout, size XL.
Jorge knew right away. Panic in his eyes. Dropped the bags. Turned around. Saw Ratko running from the other direction. In a game of pickle. Tried to run-too late. Mrado grabbed him by the jacket.
Return of the Yugos. Fall of the blatte.
Mrado punched Jorge in the gut with full force. Jorge doubled over. Fell. Ratko came up behind, grabbed hold of him, and, with Mrado’s help, dragged the Latino up into the trees. Away from the road. Mrado snatched the bags. Jorge puked. Sour stink. Vomit on Mrado’s shoes. What a pig. Mrado, with the baton in hand, hit Jorge across the back. Jorge fell to the ground. Stood on all fours. Mrado kept beating him. Jorge screamed. Mrado was carefuclass="underline" didn’t break anything. No fractures. No bloodshed. No life-threatening injuries. Nothing that necessarily required medical attention. Just struck with the rubber baton. Across his thighs, arms. Hit across his back, neck, stomach. Whacked. Thrashed. Crushed.
Jorge tried to get on his knees. Folded. Protected his head. Curled into a ball.
Mrado let the baton dance. It bounced up and down over the Latino’s body.
Finally, Jorge was a puddle. Destroyed. Almost passed out.
Mrado knelt down.
“Can you hear me? Faggot.”
No reaction.
Mrado lifted his head by the hair. “Blink if you can hear me.”
The Latino blinked.
“You know what this is about. You tried to fuck with the wrong people. Radovan doesn’t dig your style. You only have yourself to blame. Who the fuck do you think you are? Blackmailing Rado. Remember this: We’ll find you, always. Wherever you are, on the run, in the joint. With your mom. We never forget. We always punish. If you tell anyone so much as a peep about us, I won’t be as nice next time.”
Mrado released his grip on Jorge’s hair. His head fell back down.
“Oh, and one more thing.” Mrado pulled out his cell phone. Scrolled to his photos. Held up the screen in front of Jorge’s face.
“You know this chick? I’ve talked to her about you. Go ahead, ask her. I know her well. Know where she lives. Where she goes to school. What classes she’s in. Don’t fuck shit up for her. That’d be a shame for such a pretty girl.”
25
J-boy, gone/with it. Flashed in and out.