Mrado walked Ringvagen. Suddenly loved Nenad.
The blow pimp was in ecstasy. “When the shipment arrives-and trust me, it’s big as hell, more pounds than you can bench-press, Sweden’s biggest delivery ever-then we’ll be there. Ready to take back what belongs to us. Ready to roll.”
Mrado got chills.
“You’re amazing. When do we meet up and talk more, today?”
“Sure, meet me tonight at Hirschenkeller. I’m in the mood for some Budapest grill and a dark brew.”
Mrado laughed. Hung up. On the phone’s display: a seventeen-minute-long conversation. His ear: red and warm. Too much cell phone radiation, or excitement over the breakthrough?
Mrado was on his way home from the gym. Was gonna pick up Lovisa and go to a children’s theater on Atlasgatan in Vasastan. He ate a Gainomax Recovery energy bar.
Mrado and Nenad: new dynamic duo. Butch and Sundance. An unbeatable combination.
They’d talked every day; the planning continued. How would they break Rado? The Serbian Godfather wannabe.
Mrado’s headache: Lovisa had to switch schools. Annika hadn’t understood what Mrado was talking about. Thought he wanted to mess with her, as usual. What should he do?
Some days, his insomnia almost crushed him.
When Nenad called, Mrado understood what it was about right away.
He hit speakerphone in the car.
“I talked to him today.”
“And? What he say?”
Nenad-long-winded master. “We met for lunch at Texas Smoke-house. I just called and invited him. He recognized my voice immediately. But he helped me in London, so maybe that wasn’t so strange. I just told him I wanted to talk; maybe he got shook. Thought something’d gone to hell. Anyway, we met up.”
“What he say?”
“The dude’s a brat wannabe-squared. No, hell, he’s cubed. Sure, I could tell in London, but even more now. He said hi to every cute Ostermalm tail that sashayed past. Really pretty wild that him and the Arab jive.”
Mrado turned off toward where Lovisa’s after-school program was. She was waiting by the gate. Mrado’s heart skipped a beat. Thought, If anything happens to her, it’s over. Nenad jabbered on.
“Come on. Cut to the chase. I gotta go.”
“Chill. The JW guy’s cool. He’s with us. But it’ll cost. This is the deal. He’ll keep track of the big C shipment. Will report directly to me about any progress. When it’s expected to arrive. Where it’s expected to arrive. How it’ll be shipped. Stored. Who’ll be guarding it. When it’s time, we’ll do the rest. What’s more, he’ll develop sales channels on the side.”
“Sounds fantastic.”
“And that’s not all. He can rig big-league laundromats. For real. No shitty video-rental stores. No dry cleaners. Real stuff. Numbered accounts. Shelf companies. Tax paradise. Everything.”
“Sounds totally fucking amazing. What does he want?”
“Twenty-five percent of the pie.”
Mrado almost choked. This JW guy really thought highly of himself. He had to consider.
“Nenad, I gotta go. I’m picking up my daughter. We’ll talk later.”
Mrado had one night and one day with Lovisa.
Life.
Suck on the JW-boy’s offer-candy.
Lovisa opened the gate. Mrado couldn’t stand to talk to the teachers.
She walked toward his car.
Fuck, why did everything have to be so complicated?
49
He had to keep working on Project R. The visit with his sister’d felt good. Jorge perked up, even though Hallonbergen revisited him every night.
He planned the next step. The last thing that’d happened at the brothel’d been timely. Only right-after all those dull days staking out Radovan’s house. Something to work from-had invited himself, through Jet Set Carl, to some kind of luxury whore party. Gotten a password texted to the dead pimp’s cell. Written the password down that same night, after he went back to Fahdi’s. The apartment’d been empty. Jorge’d put the shotgun back. Wiped off the barrel. Tucked it into the closet. Then he’d thrown the pimp’s phone in a trash can, the SIM card in a sewer.
The gig he’d invited himself to was happening today. Questions: What, exactly, was it? He didn’t know if he was considered a guest or one of Nenad’s underlings. Maybe he’d be expected to guard, arrange, or herd whores. Worse: He didn’t know how to get there, the address.
He couldn’t care less about the first question. It would sort itself out once he got there.
The answer to the final question: He’d have to shadow Jet Set Carl all day.
Jorge knew the brat king’s address.
Rocked his old trick-by 8:00 a.m., he was already sitting in a stolen Saab with tinted back windows. Didn’t want to miss Jet Set Carl no matter how early he was. Sipped coffee. Peed in a soda bottle. Listened to the radio.
Maybe getting there as early as 8:00 a.m. on a weekend was exaggerated-the dude didn’t come out till 12:30.
Jorge thought, What a life. Jet Set Carl organizes parties, snorts coke, pounds hookers. Never has to struggle. Knows nada about concrete. Spoiled, carries daddy’s plastic, and has stinking self-confidence like crazy.
And yet it was Jorge’s dream-to be just like that. He knew every spliff-smoking blatte wanted to be Jet Set Carl. But negritos were never let in. They might as well stop dreaming.
Jet Set Carl was dressed in a black coat with a hoodie underneath. Hat. Stan Smith shoes. Jorge couldn’t help but notice the similarities in dress with the guy whose guts he’d shot out in Hallonbergen two weeks before.
He started the car. Unnecessary-Jet Set Carl only walked two blocks down to the 7-Eleven on Storgatan. Bought milk and toast. Disappeared back into his building.
Jorge chilled in the car. Ate a chicken salad he’d brought along. Thought about himself: I’m becoming a stakeout pro, even getting used to chick food. Maybe I should start my own biz.
Four o’clock. Jet Set Carl walked out again. Same clothes as before-in other words, not time for action yet.
Jorge got out of the car. Kept a good distance. The hood of his jacket over his head. A pair of mirrored sunglasses on his nose. Jorge these days: pure Fletch, disguise master.
Jet Set Carl didn’t venture far. Kept to his own pissed-in territory. Slipped into Cafe Tures in Sturegallerian, the exclusive indoor mall by Stureplan. Around 750 yards from where he lived. The geography within the golden rectangle was simple: Karlavagen-Sturegatan-Riddargatan-Narvavagen. The area practically had a velvet rope around it.
Jorge sat down at Grodan, the restaurant across the street. Read a newspaper. Drank a Coke. Saw Jet Set Carl through Sturegallerian’s large glass windows. The dude was having coffee with an Ostermalm mina. Maybe the prettiest Jorge’d ever seen.
The Jet Set guy ran his hand through his hair. Greased up his fingers. Jorge wondered how many chicks the player dated at once.
Two hours passed. They hugged good-bye. Did Jorge see what he thought he saw? Did the guy make an attempt to kiss her on the mouth? Did the girl pull back? Unclear.
The Jet Set dude went home alone.
Six-thirty.
Jorge still in the car. Wondered when something would happen.
Bored.
Thought about all the hours outside of Rado’s house.
Thought about all the people who’d helped him.
The blue glow of the digital clock read 7:00.
The door to the apartment building opened. Jet Set Carl walked out, now dressed more like Jorge remembered him. Same coat as before, but underneath he glimpsed a tailored shirt with the top buttons undone. The Stan Smiths had been traded in for a pair of polished, pointed leather kicks. His hair was slicked back.