When he found out what’d happened to her-Radovan would have to pay for that, too. Project R. just became more and more important.
Abdulkarim and Fahdi were back from London. Apparently, they had a massive deal in the works there. Abdulkarim’d called. Been restrained. Still, it was obvious-his voice verging on ecstasy. Bare brief: A shipment would arrive within a few months. He didn’t say with what, how much, from whom, not exactly when, not how. Until then, they’d move the grams that Jorge’d recently pocketed via the Brazilian. Plus other smaller shipments coming up. Above all, they were gonna keep expanding the market. More sales channels, corners, enlisted bodies.
Blow was blowing up. Jorge was happy he’d stayed in Svenland. Thought back to when JW’d stood bent over him in the woods. Explained Abdulkarim’s grand borough expansion. And now, the kale was being harvested faster and thicker than for a big publicly traded company. A project player’s predetermined track.
In Jorge’s mind, the money increasingly became a means rather than an end. A potent instrument in the enactment of Project R.
Next phase: work on Giant Karl.
Jorge knew the following: Radovan ran a prostitution business. Nenad was in charge. Girls were imported from the former Yugoslavia and other Eastern Bloc countries. Pure fucking Lilya 4-Ever. And there were Swedish women involved, too. Nadja’s brothel was a part of the business. The place was run by the brothel madam, Jelena Lukic, and the dude with the hoodie. Jorge’d looked him up: Zlatko Petrovic. Nadja’d had her own pimp or boyfriend-the giant, Micke. The latter’s role was somewhat unclear. More interesting: The apartment brothel wasn’t the only one in Radovan’s whore empire. There were more. Further fucking in finer places with finer females. Nadja’d told him: Swedish men’d partaken in parties whose only purpose was for the poor suckers to dip their wicks. Probably paid Radovan handsomely. Gave the Yugo boss contacts and protection, too. The crux: Nothing pointed straight to Radovan, not even to Nenad. Everyone knew who was behind it, but no one’d seen anything. With one exception: Nadja’d met Radovan at one of the pussy parties. He had to see her. Know more.
According to Nadja, there were two people involved in organizing the parties and fixing up the girls: a Jonte and a Giant Karl.
According to Sophie: a Jet Set Carl-Stureplan’s golden god, party pasha, scenester supreme.
According to Jorge: The names were too similar to be a coincidence.
Evening. Jorge, ready to go. Sitting with Fahdi at home in the gorilla’s lair. Vodka, Schweppes tonic, and weed on the table. IKEA glasses, half-melted ice cubes in a deep bowl, Rizla papers, and a lighter. On the TV: Jenna Jameson being mounted by two American musclemen, on mute. From the speakers: Usher. Fahdi informed him matter-of-factly, “He first Negro ever with three hits on Billboard lists in States. Racist pigs.” Fahdi’d clearly been influenced by Abdulkarim. Generally believed that USA spelled Satan. Took every opportunity to hate on the place.
Jorge’s idea for the night was simple. They’d hit the town. Raid Stureplan. Find Jet Set Carl. Then Jorge would have a talk with the guy. Finally: Jorge and Fahdi would each find a blonde. With luck, get to play an away game.
Fahdi kept talking about London. Proudly exhibited his Gucci jacket. Described hot strippers, glam boutiques, thick crowds. Described the gun he’d had there.
Jorge wasn’t too impressed. Remembered the arsenal Fahdi kept hidden in his closet. The dude was a traveling army.
They downed their drinks.
Jorge rose. “Should we bring some fun?” He pointed toward the kitchen, where scales and envelopes were spread out alongside Red Line baggies of blow.
Fahdi got up, as well. “For us or sell?”
“Not to sell. I’ve pretty much stopped selling retail. Anyway, that’s JW’s turf. We don’t compete with our own. When’s he coming home?”
“No clue. Had stuff to take care of in England. Staying a couple extra days.”
Jorge thought, Fahdi-the guys in Dumb amp; Dumber were smart in comparison. He didn’t get the rules of the game. The pyramid: Some sold on the streets, some sold to dealers, and some sold to the dealers’ dealers. Nowadays, Jorge was almost on top. But Fahdi had strengths-a certain kindness and, obviously, his muscle power.
They called for a cab. Automatic recording on the other end of the line: “Would you like a taxi to come to ROSENHILLSVAGEN right away? Press one.”
Jorge said, “Why do they always gotta yell the street name double as loud as the rest of the sentence, so you get tinnitus for the rest of the night?” Jorge pressed one.
They went down to the street. Jumped in the cab. The Stockholm night down to town.
Stureplan in full swing.
They got out by Svampen. Looked around. Where to begin?
The places around Stureplan’s party aorta had their own particular caste system. Kharma, Laroy, Plaza, and Koket-on top. Richest/brattiest/best. Sturehof, Sturecompagniet, the Lydmar Hotel-next tier. Select/bratty/somewhat older scene. Spy Bar, Clara’s-YugoMafia/bodybuilder/celeb locus. The Lab, East-had their own clientele. Undici, Crazy Horse-regular honest-to-goodness Sven dank dives.
Easy equation: Jorge and Fahdi had to get into a top-caste place. Hardest. Especially for two male immigrants with the word blatte written across their foreheads in neon letters.
They started at Koket. Killer line. Seventeen-year-old girls with threads so bare, they would’ve caught a chill even on a summer night. Downy Ostermalm boys in tailored coats and slicked hair. Older, randy slimesters in even more deluxe coats, same slicked hair. Dudes who spent their entire lives within a one-mile radius. Worked at the stockbrokerage firms that framed Stureplan, ate lunch/dinner at the restaurants on the adjacent streets, Biblioteksgatan, Birger Jarlsgatan, and Grev Turegatan, lived a stone’s throw away on Brahegatan, Kommendorsgatan, Linnegatan. And, of course, partied here.
They glimpsed the legendary Toad at the front of the line. Real name, Peter Stromquist. Stockholm profile. Silver spoon-born. Pompous. Had a standing invitation to all the parties any self-respecting brat dreamed of being invited to. Knew everyone and anyone who mattered. Good sign that he was on his way into Koket.
From Jorge’s perspective: marginalization accentuated. The human mass was a rerun of the feudal system. Some harbored the right to sweep on past the plebs. Some played princes in the Stockholm territory. Others were kings, like the Jet Set guy. Some sold their souls as mercenaries: the bouncers. The blattes, at the very bottom. With luck, they might be able to beg their way in.
Only trick he knew was bribery.
Fahdi cleared the way. Swept the little girls to the side. Five-hundred-kronor bill rolled up in his hand. At first, the bouncer looked at him coldly. Message: Even you must understand that YOU’RE not getting in here. Saw the bill. Eyed Jorge.
Let them in.
Crowded.
The music was pumping, something that mostly sounded like a medley of cell phone ringtones.
At the bar, a group of guys were advancing on two chicks with the help of bubbly in ice buckets. The chicks danced in place. Winked. Let themselves be treated.
Fahdi went to the bar. Ordered two beers.
Jorge made his way down the stairs to the lower level. Past the DJ booth. Tonight, DJ Sonic was playing. Mr. Main Street, who’d become an adorable mascot for the Ostermalm brats. The next step on the class ladder in sight. Smiled in recognition at 90 percent of all the dames who walked past.
Jorge recognized faces. No one recognized him. Had Abdulkarim and self-tanner to thank. Despite that, J-boy was still a nigger. Market value: zero.
Grabbed hold of a random girl.
Terrified look.
“Relax, girlie. I’m just wondering if you’ve seen Jet Set Carl tonight?”