The dude walked down the block. Unlocked an enormous car-a Hummer. Vodka ad in white lettering across the sides. The car was an ill marketing tool. Regular SUVs-hit the sack. This monster-broader than a truck.
Jet Set Carl drove south. Jorge stayed a few cars behind him. He could see the Hummer from afar. The hood was three feet above the roofs of the regular Sven vehicles. Jorge thought it was filthy sexy.
They drove Nynasvagen through Enskede. The Globe Arena was lit up like a giant ball of cocaine. Through Handen/Jordbro. Took a left. Road 227. The darkness grew more compact. Frigid fields lined the road. There was one car between Jorge and the Hummer. Hopefully, it prevented Jet Set Carl from seeing what cars were behind him.
Jorge had a carefully folded suit in the backseat. On a hanger hooked into the back window: an ironed, striped, tailored shirt and a tie. To be safe-if there was a dress code where he was going.
More houses. They drove across a bridge. On a sign: WELCOME TO DALARO.
The Hummer took a left after the bridge. The car that’d been sandwiched between them took a right. Jorge at a mental crossroads: Did he dare continue to follow Jet Set Carl? A huge fuckin’ chance/risk. He took the chance. Tried not to think about the risk.
They drove on Smadalarovagen.
After five minutes, the Jet Set guy slowed down. Blinked: to the right. Drove up a small gravel path and seemed to stop. Jorge slid on past. Got as good a look as he could. Hard to see anything. No light lit up the road.
He kept driving. The road ended at a cul-de-sac. All around: a golf course. Jorge parked the car. Turned up his hood. Looked around. Got out.
Farther off was a large house. A gravel road led up to it. A sign: SMADALARO INN. A couple of cars parked outside. Jorge walked back on the same road he’d driven. Kept to the side. Up to the place where Jet Set Carl’d turned off. Jorge clocked right away where he’d gone-a black metal gate blocked off the small road. On one side of the gate was a camera and a big sign: PRIVATE PROPERTY. GUARDED BY
FALCK SECURITY.
Jorge kept his distance. Walked up into the woods alongside the gate. Woods-reminded him of what he couldn’t forget: Mrado’s lashes with the rubber baton. One thing was certain, J-boy never gave up. They’d already had a taste of him. Two Yugo pigs shot to pieces. Look out, Radovan, now Jorgelito’s coming to get you.
After shivering in the woods for an hour, Jorge saw a car turn off toward the gate, but he couldn’t see if the driver identified himself to the camera before the gates opened.
Then nothing happened for forty minutes.
Nine o’clock.
Dark in the woods.
Jorge saw someone moving inside the gate. Stared. He could see clearly now. Two people. Behind the gate. With baseball hats. Obvious-they were guards of some sort.
Twenty minutes later, the cars started trickling in. Beamers. Benzes. Jags. A couple Porsches. A few Volvos. One Bentley. A yellow Ferrari.
In some cases, the camera recognized the arrivals. The gates slid soundlessly open. The car rolled in. In other cases, one of the guards came out through a side entrance. Exchanged a few words with the people in the car. The gates opened.
The procedure was repeated with each car. At least twenty of them. Jorge knew what he had to do. Tried to see what the men in the cars were wearing. Glimpsed someone-definitely a suit jacket.
J-boy: pro of pros- divinas — he was prepared.
Went back to his car. Changed into the dress shirt and suit. Hesitated over the tie. Finally, skipped it.
Drove back toward the gate. Up to the camera. The butterflies in his stomach fluttered like crazy. Sweat invaded the space between his hands and the wheel. His car-the only Saab. Second-rate and suspicious.
Rolled down the window. Looked up at the camera.
Nothing happened.
He remained seated. Tried to relax.
Saab. Blatte. No tie.
One of the guards came out through the gate.
Round, pale cheeks leaned down. “Can I help you?”
Jorge turned down the treble on his ghetto accent. “Well yeah. Is there a long wait to get in here, or what? Is the parking lot swamped?”
“Excuse me. This is a private area. Do you have some business here?”
Jorge smiled broadly.
“You can say that again. It’s gonna be a niiiice night.”
The guard seemed to consider. Appeared affected by Jorge’s confidence.
“What is your name?”
“Tell Carl, Daniel Cabrera says hello.”
The guard took a few steps back. Talked on a phone or a walkie-talkie. Returned. The patronizing chill was back.
“He doesn’t know who you are. I am going to have to ask you to leave the premises now.”
Jorge remained ice-cold.
“Are you fucking with me? Call him again. Tell him it’s Daniel Cabrera and that Moet is on the way. He can check his cell if his memory’s failing.”
The guard took a few steps back again. Talked on his phone.
Jorge hoped for luck.
After twenty seconds, the gates slid open.
J-boy was in.
He parked the car alongside the others. Counted five Porsches. What kind of place was this anyway?
The house in front of him was big. Three stories. Pillars around the entrance. Ill Beverly Hills style. Supersized McMansion. Did Sweden have stuff like that? Pretty clear: Yup.
Music could be heard from inside.
A man had just gotten out of his BMW. Walked toward the entrance. Jorge followed the guy, who glanced quickly over his shoulder. Saw Jorge. Ignored him. Kept walking. Jorge caught up with him. Extended his hand.
“Hi. My name is Daniel. This gonna be a good night, or what?” Laughed.
The man looked back at him. “It’s usually pleasant. I haven’t seen you before.”
“No, I just got back from New York after a few years. Damn nice city. Already miss it.”
They reached the entrance. Jorge had time to think: I don’t even know in what capacity I’ve been invited. The door was opened from the inside before they’d even reached it. A dude in a suit, with a side part and a strong jaw, held it open for them. Another guard, but better dressed. Greeted the man Jorge’d just been talking to. He slid past. The guard eyed Jorge. Suspicious.
Held out his arm. Jorge stopped just inside the door. The guard asked for his name. Jorge rocked a confident VIP-born attitude. “I’m Daniel Cabrera.”
The guard said, “Do you know Claes?”
Jorge assumed he meant the man Jorge’d tried to talk to on the way in. The dude’d just checked his coat, disappeared in through a dark wood door. Jorge chanced it. “Sure I know Claes.”
The guard: still suspicious. Called someone on his cell.
Nodded.
To Jorge: “Pardon me. I hadn’t been informed that you were invited. Welcome.”
J-boy-James Bond, through and through.
The organizers seemed as confused as Jorge was. He’d thought he was gonna work for Nenad. Now he appeared to be a guest.
Just play along.
A coat-check girl came to take his coat. Nice to lose it. It didn’t fit in. She asked him for his cell phone. Jorge didn’t think about why. Handed it over. Anyway, unnecessary to make a fuss.
He hadn’t reacted at first. Not when the old guy, Claes, had checked his coat or when the girl took his. But now he looked at the coat-check girl one more time. A miniskirt so short, the bottom of her ass cheeks peeked out. Black stay-ups that ended in a lace border halfway up her thigh, left eight inches of provocative skin bare. The pink top-not whorishly cheap, but low-cut enough for her cleavage to form an obvious bull’s-eye for the gazes of the coat-check customers.
Obvious-this was no ordinary coat-check chick. She was some sort of spiced-up call girl.
Jorge opened the dark wood door though which Claes’d disappeared into the house.