“Let’s work out an NHL-style draft with the other gangs.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Look. Every gang will get their turn to pick one eighteen-year-old. The weakest group goes first and so on.”
Larsson wondered what Steiner had been smoking this time. “Uh-huh,” he managed.
Steiner peered over at him with his squinty eyes. “I think you spent too much time in your cell. Read too many damn books.”
“Any time in a cell is too much time,” Larsson said. Steiner was right, though. Larsson’s strategy was simple. Most people had some knowledge of the Skulls, and the more they were feared, the better. That way, recruits would perceive them as a more attractive option.
The Skulls didn’t have a problem with name recognition, they were well known. But the quality of their product, at least in Larsson’s opinion, was mediocre at best. They had to become more professional. And what about their image? The Skulls were associated with violence, but more so through prison sentences than by being successful at what they did. Larsson wanted to give recruits the impression that this gang was successful, and joining would mean money and power.
“So tell me, why don’t we have recruits lining up at the door?” Larsson asked.
“Because we’re too boring,” Steiner said. “When’s the last time we had a bash here-where we invited candidates and prospects? We had one last summer, but it’s been pretty quiet since. No? And next time we better have a living buffet.”
In a living buffet, a naked woman lies on the table covered in whipped cream and fruit, which the guests get to eat-with the bulk of the goodies piled on her breasts and bikini area.
Larsson was in agreement and Aronen nodded too. “So how come you’re in this gang, then?”
Steiner’s jaw muscles rippled. “We got a problem?”
“No. I just want to know.”
The question was difficult for Steiner and he took a moment.
“It’s not because it’s fun. Anyone afraid of prison doesn’t belong here. We get money, and of course, trust is the most important thing. I have to be able to trust every man here. No betrayals. That’s what it’s all about. Respect.”
Now it was Larsson’s turn to laugh. “So that’s our brand.”
Steiner lunged to his feet and a stiletto appeared in his hand. “You wanna go?” he snarled. He looked serious.
Aronen crept up from the side and kicked the knife out of Steiner’s hand. He landed a straight right on the man’s jaw and Steiner collapsed on the couch.
“Don’t we have enough to do around here without fighting each other?” Aronen said calmly.
No sooner had he said it than Larsson walked from the table and threw a quick left hook into his gut. Aronen instinctively started to strike back, but he managed to stop himself.
“Conversations between Steiner and myself are none of your business,” Larsson growled. “Remember that.”
Aronen clenched his teeth.
* * *
The Skulls’ toilet was literally shitty and it stunk. Salmela had hung his leather jacket in the broom closet, leaving only jeans and a T-shirt. The ex-con scoured the bowl with a toilet brush soaked in detergent. He was no stranger to this, having worked as a custodian in the brig in his younger days.
Salmela breathed through his mouth to keep from vomiting again. The toilet bowl took five minutes and he moved on to the floor and then the tiled walls. Last would be the sink and mirror.
Fuck this, he thought. Well, at least it came clean.
He drank some rusty-tasting water from the tap. The pipes were due for replacement.
Salmela stepped out of the bathroom and wondered what to do next. He caught sight of Niko at the bar, divvying up fifty-euro notes between Roge and Osku, but quickly looked away. Salmela decided to clean the sticky glass on the pinball machine as he had been ordered.
* * *
A fifty-something maintenance man stood in front of the stairwell in his overalls. The light-brown stucco apartment building, located behind the Central Fire Station, was built in the latter half of the fifties. Above the door, illuminated by the light from the stairwell, was a sign with the number 6. The lamp was crooked. The building was situated perpendicular to the street, and in front of the building was a rocky outcropping with a few pines growing on it.
A blue and white Volvo police station wagon pulled up to the front door. Leaning up against the wall was an orange bicycle with a large chain and padlock hanging from the frame.
Suhonen got out of the passenger side. Johan Strand, an immense uniformed officer sporting a mustache, circled back to the hatch and let out Esko, his German shepherd. The dog immediately heeled beside its handler. Suhonen had requested the help of a drug-sniffing dog.
Further off on the outcropping, a man in a baseball cap walking his collie was closely following the events in front of the building.
Strand also lifted out a heavy pipe, about three feet long and six inches in diameter, with hand grips in the middle.
“I see you brought your own key,” the maintenance man rasped. Strand nodded, a dark wool hat stretched over his bald head.
Suhonen had explained the matter over the phone so the maintenance man asked no questions, just led the policemen into the stairwell.
The dog’s claws scraped on the marble stairs. Karjalainen’s apartment was on the third floor. The maintenance man got out his keys, but Suhonen stopped him.
“Let’s ring the doorbell first.”
It was possible that the police database was out of date and someone other than Vesa Karjalainen was living in the flat.
They heard the muffled chime of the doorbell. Instinctively, the cops took their positions on both sides of the door.
A moment passed before the sound of shuffling came from behind the door. The dog shifted anxiously at its handler’s side.
The maintenance man was standing directly in front of the door and Strand jerked him out of the potential line of fire.
The door cracked open a couple of inches. The security chain was engaged.
“Who’s there?” a woman’s voice asked.
“Helsinki police,” Suhonen announced and showed his badge through the crack in the door. A woman with tangled blonde hair and a black hooded sweatshirt peered out. Suhonen estimated her age at forty.
“What do you want?”
Suhonen immediately concluded that they were dealing with a repeat customer. An ordinary citizen would open the door without any further questions.
“May we come inside?”
“Why?”
Suhonen wondered how to put it. He couldn’t really say they were looking for Vesa Karjalainen, because if the woman was his wife or girlfriend, he’d end up delivering the bad news. “Vesa Karjalainen?” he uttered.
“Not me,” she said.
“Is this Karjalainen’s apartment?”
“Sometimes. He’s somewhere downtown now.”
Suhonen had a warrant signed by Takamäki to search the residence used by Karjalainen. In Finland, the police could search homes based on warrants executed by a lieutenant, with no further authorization from a judge. In principle, even though he was already deceased, the man could be suspected of drug use. Determining the cause of death also granted them the right to search the premises.
“Will you please let us inside? This is an important matter.”
The door moved no further than the end of the chain. “What is?”
Suhonen’s patience was beginning to wane. Given Karjalainen’s background with drugs, the woman’s conduct was making her look very suspicious. Her listless eyes vouched for that, too.
“Ma’am, I’m sorry. Vesa Karjalainen was found dead this morning in a bathroom in downtown Helsinki. That’s why we’re here to search the apartment.”
The woman closed the door, but the noises inside indicated she had left the entryway. Suhonen guessed what was happening. “Open up,” he said.