The arrangements he’d made on the Isle of Man came in handy, even more than he’d thought at first.
The trip to England’d been nice, a relief. JW’d forgotten about his Camilla musings. The reality of Stockholm stressed him out. Sometimes he considered moving home again, when he’d put away enough money.
Abdulkarim was overjoyed about the enormous shipment that was coming; the London deal felt like a success. But it was three months until then. The cabbages had to grow nice and big first. The Arab, JW, and Jorge started preparing the organization for the large quantities that were going to flood the system. They didn’t want to cause too steep a price drop. They needed more dealers and stash spots. Above all, they needed a plan for transport and logistics.
Stockholm’s underworld was still shaken by the double homicide in Hallonbergen. Everyone was speculating. JW couldn’t have cared less about the whole thing. A pimp and a brothel madam shot in a brothel. So what? It didn’t have anything do to with his industry.
The next day, he grabbed a coffee at Foam Cafe with Sophie. The hot Sunday brunch spot for top-cream types. The place was decorated in an Italian Starck style. The day-after dank didn’t show. The chicks were primped more than was scientifically possible on a hungover morning. The dudes were cropped, showered, scented, fresh.
JW and Sophie ordered pancakes with maple syrup, bananas, and ice cream. A Foam specialty.
JW posed the question he’d been thinking about for a long time: “Why do you want to meet my other friends so badly?”
Sophie pushed the ice cream to the side with her spoon without answering. JW thought, Why’d she order ice cream if she wasn’t going to eat it?
“Hello? I’m talking to you.”
Sophie looked up.
“JW, stop. Of course I want to meet them.”
“Why? What does it matter?”
“’Cause I want to know all of you. We’ve been together for almost four months now and I thought we’d get to a higher level after a while. Now I’m starting to realize that this is the next level. Not to know anything about you. If you have a bunch of friends that you’re, like, hiding from me, it feels pretty weird.”
“I’m not hiding them. But they’re not interesting. They’re lame. Not worth your time.”
“I thought Jorge was really nice. We talked for hours. Okay, he’s not really like your or my other friends. He comes from a world we’re not familiar with. But I think that’s interesting. A guy who’s had to fight to get somewhere. For most of the people we know, silver spoons’ve been ladling sweets since birth. Right?”
“Sure, maybe.” JW thought about himself. How much did Sophie understand? He continued: “Nippe was wondering who the hustler was you were with at Sturehof. Did you have to go to Stureplan with Jorge?”
“Stop being so lame. Are you ashamed, or what? Stand up for who you are. I thought Jorge was awesome. A badass. He told me about his childhood, actually. Total ghetto, you know, like, there were only four Swedes in his class in elementary school. And I don’t even know anyone with parents born outside of Europe. I think Stockholm’s, like, a total Johannesburg.”
Sophie’s words seared. What did she know about him, really? JW wanted to change the subject. Usually, that was his expertise. But now he couldn’t think of anything to say.
They sat in silence.
Staring down at the melting ice cream.
51
A week’d passed since the night at Smadalaro. Jorge was lying low. The cops were still on high alert because of the Brothel Murders, as the evening press’d dubbed them. What bullshit-who the hell cared about some ubercriminal Serbs?
Jorge hung out at home. Sometimes he had to go out on the street to deal with immediate concerns regarding sales and distribution, but not often. He’d been outside a total of three times.
Abdulkarim was happy as long as the plan panned out-to spread the white gold in the boroughs. Lower the prices. Set the bar. Instead of: “Wanna grab a few beers?” make it: “Wanna snort a few lines?”
It worked. Jorge dealt to eight different contacts in the northern boroughs-from Solna to Marsta. Dudes who knew their turf. Knew the right people. Sold at pubs, pizza joints, discotheques, billiard halls, malls, parks, outside Social Services. And he also distributed to some of the city’s southern boroughs.
Jorge: a mini Abdul in his own territory. But he still wanted to avoid being seen.
Petter, the soccer hooligan, was his main man. Kept track of the dealers. Dealt with logistics. Drove around all day with baggies. Called himself “Mr. Icee.” The only thing missing was a catchy jingle as he drove past.
Peddled K-12. At house and apartment parties, outside hot dog stands and after-school programs. In common rooms, commuter rail stations, housing-project basements.
A competently cold-blooded coke invasion of the boroughs.
The money rolled in. Abdulkarim was generous. So far, Jorge’d collected over 400,000. Stored half the cash at home in six DVD cases on his bookshelf. Rolled the thousand-kronor bills side by side, like cigars. The rest he buried in a wooded area outside Helenelund-pirate-style.
He consumed some but saved most of it.
Couldn’t find peace. Woke up at least once an hour on the hour every night.
Disturbing images from his dreams: couches covered in brain matter, Osteraker’s walls from the inside, old guys with tongues like erect penises.
Didn’t need Freud to interpret that.
Jorge was scared.
If he was put away again, it’d probably be for life.
That wouldn’t fly now that he was gonna be an uncle.
He needed to act.
Exploit the positive sides of the situation.
Sodermalm, Stockholm’s south side. On the way to Lundagatan. Unknown territory for Jorge. The subway stop was Zinkensdamm.
Jorge got off the subway. A forceful wind struck him in the face as he walked up the stairs to the exit.
The weather outside, milder. Spring was on its way.
Lundagatan up. The Skinnarvik Park was snow-free. Jorge knew the rumor: Gay Central Station.
Street number: fifty-five.
He entered the key code he’d been given: 1914. Jorge thought, People have poor imaginations. Almost all building key codes begin with nineteen. Like dates.
Checked the list of tenants in the entry. Ahl-three flights. Jorge was in the right place.
He took the elevator up.
Heard music in the foyer.
Rang the doorbell.
Nothing happened.
Rang again. He heard the music stop.
Someone turned the lock from the inside.
A guy in sweatpants and a wifebeater opened. He had bedhead, round glasses, and mad acne issues. The caricature of a computer geek.
Jorge introduced himself. Was let in.
They’d spoken two days earlier. Arranged a time and place.
Richard Ahclass="underline" a twenty-one-year-old kid who studied film at Sodertorn College and worked nights at Windows XP tech support. According to him: a crack shot who spent at least eight hours a day in the world of Counter-Strike with a gun in his hand. Richard: online gaming’s unknown guru. “You gotta practice if you wanna be a pro. You know how much dough is in this industry?” he asked Jorge after he’d explained what he did.
Jorge couldn’t have cared less. He played Game Boy, Max; more advanced stuff wasn’t part of his repertoire.
Richard explained, “Counter-Strike, it’s the cash cow of the online gaming world. You know, that industry has a bigger turnover than Hollywood.” He buzzed on.
Jorge’d found Richard through Petter. According to Petter, the dude was a computer genius. Too bad he wasted his talent on games. The guy could easily hack into the Swedish Security Service, the CIA, or the Pentagon, if he’d only give it a whirl.
The apartment: a studio with a sleeping nook. Hardly any furniture save for a bed. Clothes and magazines all over the floor. Most striking, against one walclass="underline" the computer desk, completely cluttered. Two screens, one flat screen and one older model. Floppy discs, CDs and DVDs, cases, manuals, joysticks, controllers, keyboards, magazines, three mouse pads, each with a different pattern, one with a water-lily pond by Monet, two different mice, a laptop slightly ajar, cords, a Web camera, empty Coca-Cola cans, and empty pizza cartons.