Blank response. She didn’t know who he was talking about.
He kept asking around. Fahdi showed up with two beers in hand. Wondered what Jorge was up to.
No point in explaining.
Danced away from him.
Asked more people.
The broads were bronzed. The guys all looked like JW. Jorge walked up and down the stairs. Leaned over and yelled his question into people’s ears. Tried to look neutral. Didn’t want them to think he was making a move right now.
Kept at it for forty minutes.
Finally, a girl screamed in his ear-could hardly hear her over the music. “He’s pretty much always at Kharma.”
Jorge tried to find Fahdi in the crowd. Couldn’t see him. Tried to call his cell. Couldn’t even hear as he punched in the numbers. What were the chances that Fahdi’d hear his phone ring with that background music?
Gave up on him.
Jorge walked out onto the street. Up along Sturegatan. Texted Fahdi: Going to Kharma. Meet me there later.
The line looked like an organic mass disguised as human hope. The humiliation was even worse in the freezing cold-racism spat straight in the cara.
Right moment. Right look. In the bouncer’s hand, the money-five hundred kronor. Eyes locked. The bouncer’s hand waved past the line.
Jorge was in. Repeated it to himself: J-boy, you’re in.
Perfecto.
He ordered a bottle of Heineken in the bar. Checked out the scene. Recognized some other lucky blatte boys with bottle service. Jorge walked up to their table. They didn’t recognize him. Still, it was obvious that they felt some sort of camaraderie; they knew they were all in the same seat. In the wrong place and on cloud nine.
They chatted for a bit. Graded girls. Praised breasts. Appraised butts. Jorge treated them to a quick line each. Turned toward the wall. On the back of credit cards, sniff/sniff. It worked.
The world picked up speed. Jorge on top.
Asked the bartender about Jet Set Carl. “No worries,” the bar guy replied. “He always gets here around one, stands by the cashiers and welcomes people.”
Jet Set Carclass="underline" jizz set Carl.
Jorge waited. The immigrant boys by the drink table hit on high school girls from Djursholm-Orange County Scando-style. Culture clash of consequence. Those choice chicks’d probably never even talked to anyone from a non-European country before, except for the token adopted kid in school. The blatte boys’ viewpoint was simple: All Swedish chicks want me and therefore they’re whores.
Jorge watched the play unfold. The guys bought drinks. Did their best. The girls drank and let themselves be treated. Dissed them at the same time. According to Jorge, the niggers’ only chance was that one of the tarts got blackout.
The clock struck one.
A guy who could be Jet Set Carl was positioned behind the cash register near the entrance. Dressed in a pinstriped jacket, jeans, loafers with the Gucci buckle. Greeted the beautiful people on their way in.
All the vibes screamed, This dude never lets his self-confidence flag.
Jorge stepped up.
“Hey.”
Jet Set Carl turned around, surprised.
“Are you Jet Set Carl?”
The dude did his best to crack a smile.
“Yep. I’m called that by those who know me.” Emphasis on the words those who know me. Message to J-boy: Whoever you are, you do NOT know me.
“I’ve heard a lot of good things about you. Not just that you run this place and are a damn nice guy. Other stuff, too.”
Jet Set Carl laid his hand on Jorge’s shoulder. They were the same size.
“I’m sorry, but I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I’ve heard about you and Jonte. You run some sweet gigs together.”
Something in Jet Set Carl’s eye. A mischievous gleam. Then he returned to his jovial self.
“Excuse me, nice to meet you, but unfortunately I’ve got to keep working. We’ll have to chat more later. Have a good night.”
Jorgelito, snubbed. Still, he’d seen something in the jet set guy’s eye.
Jorge sent more texts to Fahdi. Got back: Blessed night. Allah with me. Going home with a smokin’ puma. Fahdi’d gotten lucky. Congrats to him.
Jorge hung out with the immigrant guys at their table.
The clock struck two. The blow-glow waned. He went into the bathroom. Poured out thirty milligrams of ice. Pulled a heavy line.
The kick kicked in. Energy fantasy. Gunning the highest gear.
Went back out into the venue.
Walked up to Jet Set Carl.
“Can we talk?”
Jet Set Carl put on an obviously uncomfortable face.
“Sorry, I have to work. Can we talk later?” He made a gesture with his hand.
Jorge wanted to talk now. Right now.
Too late.
Jorge felt himself being lifted from behind. He tried to turn around, but his head was fixed in a lock. Broad arms. Bouncer gloves.
He screamed. Was carried. Out.
Thought through the C fog, Where the fuck is Fahdi when you need him?
Jorgelito kicked out. He was a high loser with soiled honor. Blatte at Kharma, beware. You’re not really welcome here. Spread the word.
But he knew one thing: His dignity would never be shat on again by the Yugos or any of their allies.
The blow-flow he was in-deadly.
Jorge wouldn’t give up.
This night belonged to him.
This night belonged to the Project.
The Radovan fag was gonna get it. Jet Set Carl or no Jet Set Carl. Fuck him. Jorge would get his hands on enough info anyway.
He just needed to talk more with Nadja.
Had gotten Zlatko Petrovic’s number from Fahdi. Jorge’d tried to reach him several times, without success.
He stood in the middle of Stureplan. In the background: hot-dog hawkers, trashed teenagers, shivering brats, boozy forty-year-olds.
Picked up his phone. No new texts from Fahdi, which meant he’d gotten an away game.
He dialed the number to the pimp, Zlatko.
The signal went through.
Finally, for the first time on this number, someone picked up.
“Hello?”
“Hi, I wanna have some fun tonight.”
“Then I’m your man. Got a name?”
Jorge gave Fahdi’s alias.
Zlatko replied, “All right. Course we can arrange something.”
“Great. I wanna see Nadja.”
Silence on the other end of the line.
Jorge said, “Did you hear me, or what? I like that Nadja girl.”
“I don’t know what you want. But she’s not with us anymore. Sorry.” The chill in Zlatko’s voice was colder than freezer-kept vodka.
“So then where can I see her? She was so good.”
“Yo, listen up. Never ask about Nadja ever again. She’s not with us. I know who you are. One more word about that fucking Nadja and we’ll crush you.”
The call was cut off-Zlatko’d indexed red.
Jorge was in a cab on his way to Fahdi’s apartment. Racked with angst. Racked with blow.
On his retina: Paola and Nadja. And the others: Mrado, Ratko, Radovan. He was gonna burn them. Avenge himself. Avenge Nadja. Radovan was gonna have to pay with bullet holes in his eyes. Assault in a forest. Paola’s contorted face.
Chaotic fragments of reality.
Hate.
Paola.
Hate.
The Radovan fucker.
Pendejo.
The cabbie looked anxiously at him. “Want me to walk you upstairs, buddy?”
Jorge said no thanks. Asked the guy to wait.
Up to Fahdi’s. Jorge always carried a set of keys to his apartment-needed to be able to get at the stash, Red Line baggies, and scales they kept there. Opened. Called out. No one home. Fahdi was probably getting what he wanted most.
To the closet.
Jorge knew what he was looking for. Fahdi’d proudly exhibited his gear to him and JW a month earlier. He leaned in.
Rummaged around.
Got hold of the shotgun. Opened it by pressing the safety on the side. Put in two red shells the size of rolls of Life Savers. Stuffed a fistful of shells in the front pocket of his jeans. It bulged.