Walked through a hallway. The noise grew. Party music. Giggles and chatter.
At the end of the hall, another dark door. Just as Jorge was about to open it, he smelled cigar smoke.
On the other side of the door.
Unreal.
A roomful of people.
Old guys. Well dressed, many in suits and ties. Some, like Jorge, in suits with no ties, a couple of buttons on the shirts leisurely undone. Others in blazers and slacks. Gray hairlines. Deep wrinkles in their cheeks when they smiled. They all looked to be somewhere between forty and sixty.
A few guards/organizers. All younger. Men. Soberly dressed-blazers, light-colored pants, dark turtlenecks or shirts without ties. Jet Set Carl flitted past, a glass of champagne in each hand.
Striking-all the girls were a variation on the coat-check chick. Miniskirts, hot pants, tights. Tops, tank tops, blouses that revealed more than they covered. Garter belts that showed, fake tits that bulged, stilettos, gleaming, glossy lips.
A girl for every taste. Thin, lanky, tall girls. Superbusty broads. Blacks, blondes, Asians. Girls with gripping gazes. Girls with empty eyes.
Still, not a filthy feel. Jorge was astonished. There was something else-a homey feeling. He pushed into the crowd. Counted heads. At least forty men and as many, probably more, women, and then another dozen or so staff. Pounding music. Glowing cigars in wrinkled hands.
Obviously some sort of brothel business, even if he hadn’t quite figured out how yet. Still, the mood was like at a large private party. Purely theoretically: Could’ve been the house owner’s invited friends and their significant others. But not a chance that all these geezers had girlfriends this young. Too good to be true. Or, the house owner’s male acquaintances plus some party chicks who’d been delivered to lighten the mood. But there was something more than that in the air.
Jorge looked around again.
The room was large. An enormous crystal chandelier was hanging from the ceiling. Spotlights were suspended from the walls. Speakers in a corner. One part of the room was made up of a bar manned by a guy and four girls. Busy mixing drinks. Most of the men stood in clusters with one another or surrounded by girls. Five girls were dancing right underneath the chandelier-at any other place, their moves would’ve been considered unnecessarily provocative.
Jorge positioned himself by the bar. Ordered a gin and tonic. Felt insecure. How should he act? What did he really want to achieve with this? WHERE THE HELL WAS HE?
Gulped the drink. Asked for a cigar, Habana Corona. Buena onda. The girl behind the bar held up a cigar lighter. Small, extra-hot flame. She pouted. Jorge looked away. Sucked the cigar.
Tried to think clearly. Couldn’t let the panic take hold.
Tranquilo.
Did he recognize anyone? Could anyone recognize him? The men: Swedish, well groomed. Posture, poise, attitude. Obvious signals of power. Jorge didn’t recognize a single face. So, no one should recognize him, either. The staff: Yugo meatheads and Jet Set Carl, plus some of his peeps, the party organizers. The brats. Jorge didn’t think the Jet Set dude would recognize him from Kharma; the guy’d been totally trashed. The biggest risk: that Jet Set Carl was extra vigilant because of the shots in Hallonbergen. On the other hand, he’d apparently chosen to organize this party. Chico wasn’t the cautious type.
Jorge hadn’t seen Radovan or Nenad. He should find out if they were here.
He took it chill-one out of about one hundred people. The guests probably thought he was a guard. The guards thought he was a guest.
Jorge gazed out at the room. Considered his next move. Listened to two men next to him at the bar.
One: darting gaze. Relentlessly checking out the girls in the room. The other: calmer. Took deep drags on a thick cigar. They seemed to know each other well.
“These events just get better and better.”
The man with the cigar laughed. “Damn well arranged this year, I think.”
“Just look at the women he gets. I’m going crazy over here.”
“That’s the point. You weren’t at Christopher Sandberg’s two months ago, were you?”
“No, I don’t know him. Was it nice?”
“Wow. Amazing. Christopher is as honorable a guy as Sven here.”
“I heard Christopher bought a new house near you guys.”
“That’s right. On Valevagen. Company must be doing well, because it was a nice shack he landed.” The old guy grinned.
“I understand he’s been doing a good job in Germany.”
“Yes, the market has shot straight up there. Apparently, they’ve grown by thirty percent in one year.”
“Damn. Hey, check out the one in the braids over there. Those are some fucking melons.”
“Your kind of cut.”
The man with the darting gaze stared. Drooled over the girl. Then he took a sip of his drink. Turned to the guy with the cigar.
“I’ve been wondering something. I know these parties are safe and all, but how do you know no civvies manage to get in? I wake up at night with cold sweats when I think about the party here last year. I mean, if Christina found out, well, you know.”
“Don’t worry. He’s in with the police. The guys who help him organize this thing are good. The people with the power in our dear police force wouldn’t touch these events. According to what I’ve heard, the guys who run this show would end Stockholm’s finest if they tried to interfere. Sometimes police chiefs do naughty things, too. You just have to know what.”
“So damn nice. I like this.”
The men clinked glasses.
Jorge almost in a state of shock. Was Radovan behind this? If so, he was a fucking genius.
The captains of industry supported by the Yugo Mafia. An unbeatable whore cocktail.
Until tonight-J-boy was on to them.
He stayed by the bar. Tried to see if Radovan or someone else he recognized was there.
After a while, the music was switched off. Someone shushed into a microphone.
The men next to Jorge stopped talking.
The chicks stopped dancing.
Spotlights were directed at the bar.
A man climbed up on the bar. Careful, scared of slipping. Not exactly a young athlete-overweight, suited up, but sin tie. Well-combed graying hair. Eyes: In the strange light of the room, they had a milky all-white look.
“Hello, everybody. It’s so great to see you here tonight.”
The old guy held a glass of champagne in one hand, a microphone in the other.
“As you know, I usually host these parties once a year. I think it’s pleasant when just us boys have a chance to get together.”
After the word boys, he paused dramatically. Awaited the laughter that followed.
“I hope that everyone’s going to have a nice night. I’ll shut up soon so we can turn the music back on and party all night long. Before I toast the night, I want to take the opportunity to thank those responsible for making this night possible. Radovan Kranjic and Carl Malmer. They organize events like these, among other things. Let’s give them a round of applause.”
The people around the room applauded. The men def with more enthusiasm than the women, Jorged noted.
The old guy on the bar raised his glass, toasted the night.
Was helped down.
The music blasted out once more.
A couple of daddies started dancing with the girls on the dance floor.
An hour later.
The party’d derailed. Eyes Wide Shut, but for real, Smadalaro version. No more talking. December was chasing spring. The old men wanted young pussy. The girls were ready to serve it up. It was obvious this was a marketplace.
Everywhere, old guys had their tongues down young girls’ throats. Hands inside bras, fingers between legs, tongues in ears. High school prom, with two exceptions: thirty-year age difference between the make-out partners and only the dudes were paying for the good stuff.
Throughout, the girls were willing.
Clear everywhere: The wolves were wild for fresh meat.