Obvious-something’d happened to her.
Jorge’d called the brothel madam at least fifteen times a day for the past two days. The effect: She’d stopped picking up her phone. The rings went unanswered. She’d probably gotten a new number. Before she’d stopped picking up, he’d gotten the same answer every time: “I’m sorry, I have no idea where Nadja is.” Fat chance- mentirosa.
In summation, the situation was clear: Nadja’s disappearance, the terror in the eyes of the hooker in her room, the brothel madam’s lies.
The tough question: Was it his fault? The thought ate away at him. Ordinary Jorge’s basic philosophy: No one is responsible for anyone else. Life’s too short to wait around for cash flow. Serve yourself and let others take care of themselves. Worked for blow biz. Worked for cigarette deals at Osteraker. Worked when there were direct material gains for J-boy to collect. But now there was something else driving him.
Jorge saw himself as the Yugos’ nemesis. And the war against them entailed dangers for others. He already knew that. They’d threatened to hurt Paola. Now Nadja was gone. Where was she? What did she know?
When he found out what’d happened to her-Radovan would have to pay for that, too. Project R. just became more and more important.
Abdulkarim and Fahdi were back from London. Apparently, they had a massive deal in the works there. Abdulkarim’d called. Been restrained. Still, it was obvious-his voice verging on ecstasy. Bare brief: A shipment would arrive within a few months. He didn’t say with what, how much, from whom, not exactly when, not how. Until then, they’d move the grams that Jorge’d recently pocketed via the Brazilian. Plus other smaller shipments coming up. Above all, they were gonna keep expanding the market. More sales channels, corners, enlisted bodies.
Blow was blowing up. Jorge was happy he’d stayed in Svenland. Thought back to when JW’d stood bent over him in the woods. Explained Abdulkarim’s grand borough expansion. And now, the kale was being harvested faster and thicker than for a big publicly traded company. A project player’s predetermined track.
In Jorge’s mind, the money increasingly became a means rather than an end. A potent instrument in the enactment of Project R.
Next phase: work on Giant Karl.
Jorge knew the following: Radovan ran a prostitution business. Nenad was in charge. Girls were imported from the former Yugoslavia and other Eastern Bloc countries. Pure fucking Lilya 4-Ever. And there were Swedish women involved, too. Nadja’s brothel was a part of the business. The place was run by the brothel madam, Jelena Lukic, and the dude with the hoodie. Jorge’d looked him up: Zlatko Petrovic. Nadja’d had her own pimp or boyfriend-the giant, Micke. The latter’s role was somewhat unclear. More interesting: The apartment brothel wasn’t the only one in Radovan’s whore empire. There were more. Further fucking in finer places with finer females. Nadja’d told him: Swedish men’d partaken in parties whose only purpose was for the poor suckers to dip their wicks. Probably paid Radovan handsomely. Gave the Yugo boss contacts and protection, too. The crux: Nothing pointed straight to Radovan, not even to Nenad. Everyone knew who was behind it, but no one’d seen anything. With one exception: Nadja’d met Radovan at one of the pussy parties. He had to see her. Know more.
According to Nadja, there were two people involved in organizing the parties and fixing up the girls: a Jonte and a Giant Karl.
According to Sophie: a Jet Set Carl-Stureplan’s golden god, party pasha, scenester supreme.
According to Jorge: The names were too similar to be a coincidence.
Evening. Jorge, ready to go. Sitting with Fahdi at home in the gorilla’s lair. Vodka, Schweppes tonic, and weed on the table. IKEA glasses, half-melted ice cubes in a deep bowl, Rizla papers, and a lighter. On the TV: Jenna Jameson being mounted by two American musclemen, on mute. From the speakers: Usher. Fahdi informed him matter-of-factly, “He first Negro ever with three hits on Billboard lists in States. Racist pigs.” Fahdi’d clearly been influenced by Abdulkarim. Generally believed that USA spelled Satan. Took every opportunity to hate on the place.
Jorge’s idea for the night was simple. They’d hit the town. Raid Stureplan. Find Jet Set Carl. Then Jorge would have a talk with the guy. Finally: Jorge and Fahdi would each find a blonde. With luck, get to play an away game.
Fahdi kept talking about London. Proudly exhibited his Gucci jacket. Described hot strippers, glam boutiques, thick crowds. Described the gun he’d had there.
Jorge wasn’t too impressed. Remembered the arsenal Fahdi kept hidden in his closet. The dude was a traveling army.
They downed their drinks.
Jorge rose. “Should we bring some fun?” He pointed toward the kitchen, where scales and envelopes were spread out alongside Red Line baggies of blow.
Fahdi got up, as well. “For us or sell?”
“Not to sell. I’ve pretty much stopped selling retail. Anyway, that’s JW’s turf. We don’t compete with our own. When’s he coming home?”
“No clue. Had stuff to take care of in England. Staying a couple extra days.”
Jorge thought, Fahdi-the guys in Dumb amp; Dumber were smart in comparison. He didn’t get the rules of the game. The pyramid: Some sold on the streets, some sold to dealers, and some sold to the dealers’ dealers. Nowadays, Jorge was almost on top. But Fahdi had strengths-a certain kindness and, obviously, his muscle power.
They called for a cab. Automatic recording on the other end of the line: “Would you like a taxi to come to ROSENHILLSVAGEN right away? Press one.”
Jorge said, “Why do they always gotta yell the street name double as loud as the rest of the sentence, so you get tinnitus for the rest of the night?” Jorge pressed one.
They went down to the street. Jumped in the cab. The Stockholm night down to town.
Stureplan in full swing.
They got out by Svampen. Looked around. Where to begin?
The places around Stureplan’s party aorta had their own particular caste system. Kharma, Laroy, Plaza, and Koket-on top. Richest/brattiest/best. Sturehof, Sturecompagniet, the Lydmar Hotel-next tier. Select/bratty/somewhat older scene. Spy Bar, Clara’s-YugoMafia/bodybuilder/celeb locus. The Lab, East-had their own clientele. Undici, Crazy Horse-regular honest-to-goodness Sven dank dives.
Easy equation: Jorge and Fahdi had to get into a top-caste place. Hardest. Especially for two male immigrants with the word blatte written across their foreheads in neon letters.
They started at Koket. Killer line. Seventeen-year-old girls with threads so bare, they would’ve caught a chill even on a summer night. Downy Ostermalm boys in tailored coats and slicked hair. Older, randy slimesters in even more deluxe coats, same slicked hair. Dudes who spent their entire lives within a one-mile radius. Worked at the stockbrokerage firms that framed Stureplan, ate lunch/dinner at the restaurants on the adjacent streets, Biblioteksgatan, Birger Jarlsgatan, and Grev Turegatan, lived a stone’s throw away on Brahegatan, Kommendorsgatan, Linnegatan. And, of course, partied here.
They glimpsed the legendary Toad at the front of the line. Real name, Peter Stromquist. Stockholm profile. Silver spoon-born. Pompous. Had a standing invitation to all the parties any self-respecting brat dreamed of being invited to. Knew everyone and anyone who mattered. Good sign that he was on his way into Koket.
From Jorge’s perspective: marginalization accentuated. The human mass was a rerun of the feudal system. Some harbored the right to sweep on past the plebs. Some played princes in the Stockholm territory. Others were kings, like the Jet Set guy. Some sold their souls as mercenaries: the bouncers. The blattes, at the very bottom. With luck, they might be able to beg their way in.
Only trick he knew was bribery.
Fahdi cleared the way. Swept the little girls to the side. Five-hundred-kronor bill rolled up in his hand. At first, the bouncer looked at him coldly. Message: Even you must understand that YOU’RE not getting in here. Saw the bill. Eyed Jorge.
Let them in.
Crowded.
The music was pumping, something that mostly sounded like a medley of cell phone ringtones.
At the bar, a group of guys were advancing on two chicks with the help of bubbly in ice buckets. The chicks danced in place. Winked. Let themselves be treated.
Fahdi went to the bar. Ordered two beers.
Jorge made his way down the stairs to the lower level. Past the DJ booth. Tonight, DJ Sonic was playing. Mr. Main Street, who’d become an adorable mascot for the Ostermalm brats. The next step on the class ladder in sight. Smiled in recognition at 90 percent of all the dames who walked past.
Jorge recognized faces. No one recognized him. Had Abdulkarim and self-tanner to thank. Despite that, J-boy was still a nigger. Market value: zero.
Grabbed hold of a random girl.
Terrified look.
“Relax, girlie. I’m just wondering if you’ve seen Jet Set Carl tonight?”
Blank response. She didn’t know who he was talking about.
He kept asking around. Fahdi showed up with two beers in hand. Wondered what Jorge was up to.
No point in explaining.
Danced away from him.
Asked more people.
The broads were bronzed. The guys all looked like JW. Jorge walked up and down the stairs. Leaned over and yelled his question into people’s ears. Tried to look neutral. Didn’t want them to think he was making a move right now.
Kept at it for forty minutes.
Finally, a girl screamed in his ear-could hardly hear her over the music. “He’s pretty much always at Kharma.”
Jorge tried to find Fahdi in the crowd. Couldn’t see him. Tried to call his cell. Couldn’t even hear as he punched in the numbers. What were the chances that Fahdi’d hear his phone ring with that background music?
Gave up on him.
Jorge walked out onto the street. Up along Sturegatan. Texted Fahdi: Going to Kharma. Meet me there later.
The line looked like an organic mass disguised as human hope. The humiliation was even worse in the freezing cold-racism spat straight in the cara.
Right moment. Right look. In the bouncer’s hand, the money-five hundred kronor. Eyes locked. The bouncer’s hand waved past the line.
Jorge was in. Repeated it to himself: J-boy, you’re in.
Perfecto.
He ordered a bottle of Heineken in the bar. Checked out the scene. Recognized some other lucky blatte boys with bottle service. Jorge walked up to their table. They didn’t recognize him. Still, it was obvious that they felt some sort of camaraderie; they knew they were all in the same seat. In the wrong place and on cloud nine.
They chatted for a bit. Graded girls. Praised breasts. Appraised butts. Jorge treated them to a quick line each. Turned toward the wall. On the back of credit cards, sniff/sniff. It worked.
The world picked up speed. Jorge on top.
Asked the bartender about Jet Set Carl. “No worries,” the bar guy replied. “He always gets here around one, stands by the cashiers and welcomes people.”
Jet Set Carl: jizz set Carl.
Jorge waited. The immigrant boys by the drink table hit on high school girls from Djursholm-Orange County Scando-style. Culture clash of consequence. Those choice chicks’d probably never even talked to anyone from a non-European country before, except for the token adopted kid in school. The blatte boys’ viewpoint was simple: All Swedish chicks want me and therefore they’re whores.
Jorge watched the play unfold. The guys bought drinks. Did their best. The girls drank and let themselves be treated. Dissed them at the same time. According to Jorge, the niggers’ only chance was that one of the tarts got blackout.
The clock struck one.
A guy who could be Jet Set Carl was positioned behind the cash register near the entrance. Dressed in a pinstriped jacket, jeans, loafers with the Gucci buckle. Greeted the beautiful people on their way in.
All the vibes screamed, This dude never lets his self-confidence flag.
Jorge stepped up.
“Hey.”
Jet Set Carl turned around, surprised.
“Are you Jet Set Carl?”
The dude did his best to crack a smile.
“Yep. I’m called that by those who know me.” Emphasis on the words those who know me. Message to J-boy: Whoever you are, you do NOT know me.
“I’ve heard a lot of good things about you. Not just that you run this place and are a damn nice guy. Other stuff, too.”
Jet Set Carl laid his hand on Jorge’s shoulder. They were the same size.
“I’m sorry, but I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I’ve heard about you and Jonte. You run some sweet gigs together.”
Something in Jet Set Carl’s eye. A mischievous gleam. Then he returned to his jovial self.
“Excuse me, nice to meet you, but unfortunately I’ve got to keep working. We’ll have to chat more later. Have a good night.”
Jorgelito, snubbed. Still, he’d seen something in the jet set guy’s eye.
Jorge sent more texts to Fahdi. Got back: Blessed night. Allah with me. Going home with a smokin’ puma. Fahdi’d gotten lucky. Congrats to him.
Jorge hung out with the immigrant guys at their table.
The clock struck two. The blow-glow waned. He went into the bathroom. Poured out thirty milligrams of ice. Pulled a heavy line.
The kick kicked in. Energy fantasy. Gunning the highest gear.
Went back out into the venue.
Walked up to Jet Set Carl.
“Can we talk?”
Jet Set Carl put on an obviously uncomfortable face.
“Sorry, I have to work. Can we talk later?” He made a gesture with his hand.
Jorge wanted to talk now. Right now.
Too late.
Jorge felt himself being lifted from behind. He tried to turn around, but his head was fixed in a lock. Broad arms. Bouncer gloves.
He screamed. Was carried. Out.
Thought through the C fog, Where the fuck is Fahdi when you need him?
Jorgelito kicked out. He was a high loser with soiled honor. Blatte at Kharma, beware. You’re not really welcome here. Spread the word.
But he knew one thing: His dignity would never be shat on again by the Yugos or any of their allies.
The blow-flow he was in-deadly.
Jorge wouldn’t give up.
This night belonged to him.
This night belonged to the Project.
The Radovan fag was gonna get it. Jet Set Carl or no Jet Set Carl. Fuck him. Jorge would get his hands on enough info anyway.
He just needed to talk more with Nadja.
Had gotten Zlatko Petrovic’s number from Fahdi. Jorge’d tried to reach him several times, without success.
He stood in the middle of Stureplan. In the background: hot-dog hawkers, trashed teenagers, shivering brats, boozy forty-year-olds.
Picked up his phone. No new texts from Fahdi, which meant he’d gotten an away game.
He dialed the number to the pimp, Zlatko.
The signal went through.
Finally, for the first time on this number, someone picked up.
“Hello?”
“Hi, I wanna have some fun tonight.”
“Then I’m your man. Got a name?”
Jorge gave Fahdi’s alias.
Zlatko replied, “All right. Course we can arrange something.”
“Great. I wanna see Nadja.”
Silence on the other end of the line.
Jorge said, “Did you hear me, or what? I like that Nadja girl.”
“I don’t know what you want. But she’s not with us anymore. Sorry.” The chill in Zlatko’s voice was colder than freezer-kept vodka.
“So then where can I see her? She was so good.”
“Yo, listen up. Never ask about Nadja ever again. She’s not with us. I know who you are. One more word about that fucking Nadja and we’ll crush you.”
The call was cut off-Zlatko’d indexed red.
Jorge was in a cab on his way to Fahdi’s apartment. Racked with angst. Racked with blow.
On his retina: Paola and Nadja. And the others: Mrado, Ratko, Radovan. He was gonna burn them. Avenge himself. Avenge Nadja. Radovan was gonna have to pay with bullet holes in his eyes. Assault in a forest. Paola’s contorted face.
Chaotic fragments of reality.
Hate.
Paola.
Hate.
The Radovan fucker.
Pendejo.
The cabbie looked anxiously at him. “Want me to walk you upstairs, buddy?”
Jorge said no thanks. Asked the guy to wait.
Up to Fahdi’s. Jorge always carried a set of keys to his apartment-needed to be able to get at the stash, Red Line baggies, and scales they kept there. Opened. Called out. No one home. Fahdi was probably getting what he wanted most.
To the closet.
Jorge knew what he was looking for. Fahdi’d proudly exhibited his gear to him and JW a month earlier. He leaned in.
Rummaged around.
Got hold of the shotgun. Opened it by pressing the safety on the side. Put in two red shells the size of rolls of Life Savers. Stuffed a fistful of shells in the front pocket of his jeans. It bulged.
Tucked the shotgun inside his jacket. Wasn’t visible at all. Sawed-off barrels were good.
The taxi was purring on the street.
The blow flowed through his veins in a pulsating beat.
He vacuumed up the last white milligrams as the taxi drove off. Unclear if the driver noticed anything.
The cab accelerated on the freeway.
Hallonbergen.
A cold wind blew along the external hallway. He accidentally knocked over a kid’s sled that was leaning against the wall. Apparently, there were ordinary families as brothel neighbors.
He rang the doorbell.
Someone pulled aside the cover for the peephole. A voice from inside: “What’s your name?”
Sounded like the brothel madam. Jorge hoped that the Zlatko dude hadn’t told her anything about his call fifty minutes ago. Fahdi’s alias again. There was a password, too. He knew both.
She unlocked the door. It was her, the brothel madam in her strange outfit-the blazer with the slit in the back. Clown-painted. Scary.
Jorge slammed the door shut behind him. Cut right to the chase. “I wanna see Nadja.”
The brothel madam stiffened. On her guard 100 percent.
She said in her shitty Eastern Bloc Swedish, “Listen, she not here anymore. If you the one call me hundred million time, you can piss off.”
Unanticipated aggression. Determined menace.
J-boy felt close to the breaking point. Pent-up waves of explosive blow-temper crashed against the inside of his skull. This’d be the last time a Serb fucked with him.
Took a step toward the brothel madam. “You fucking cunt. Either you tell me where Nadja is or I’ll take you out.”
The brothel madam cranked up her volume fiercely. “Who the fuck you think you are?”
The effect of the raised voice: From the shadows, from the hallway, Zlatko appeared.
The brothel madam freaked. Kept yelling at Jorge to scram. That he’d regret his behavior.
Zlatko positioned himself a foot from Jorge. His breath smelled like hell. He said in a calm voice, “What did I tell you on the phone just now? Are you slow? Stop digging around in this thing. Just leave.”
Super Serbian-style. Reminded him of Mrado.
He could feel the abuse in his back. Legs. Arms.
Jorge tore out the shotgun.
One shot at Zlatko.
Guts gone. Replaced with a gaping hole.
Ground tripe on the wall behind him.
The brothel madam screamed.
Another shot-her head disappeared. Brain matter on the velvet couches.
The recoil slammed into Jorge’s shoulder. Hurt.
Jorge opened the weapon. Stuck his hand in his pocket. Reloaded, two new shells.
From the hall came a man. Sheet-white face. Bare chest. Unbuttoned pants. In shock.
Jorge shot. Missed. Forty-square-inch hole in the plaster wall. A cloud of dust.
He ran toward him. The man stumbled on his sagging pants.
Cried. Begged.
Jorge stood over him. The double barrel against his head.
Checked his pockets. Found a wallet. Pulled out a driver’s license.
Read aloud, “Torsten Johansson. You’ve never seen me.”
The old trick remained where he was, sobbing on the floor.
Other than that, the apartment was quiet.
“Give me your cell phone. Get on your stomach. Hold your hands above your head. I’ve got some stuff to take care of.”
The man didn’t move. He lay with his head folded between his arms, his knees pulled up in a fetal position.
“Don’t you understand Swedish, or what? Do what I told you. Now.”
The man stretched out. Fumbled in his pants pocket. Brought out a cell phone. Gave it to Jorge. Put his hands on his head.
Jorge, again: “You’ve never seen me.”
He checked the whore rooms. In one of them was a girl, crouching against the wall, her head between her knees. It wasn’t Nadja.
Jorge walked out into the hall. Didn’t look at the bodies. Stepped right through the chaos. Into the kitchen.
It was dirty in there. A little table of white wood and a chair with a steel frame and a soft seat cushion. Coffee stains everywhere. Ads from Hallonbergen’s pizza joints were pinned on the fridge with free Social Democratic party handout magnets from the 2002 election.
On the table was a laptop. Pretty much what Jorge’d suspected.
Best of all: It was turned on. Jorge sat down on the chair. The computer was plugged into the wall. Question: If he pulled the plug, would the battery kick in or would it die? Jorge wasn’t exactly a computer geek. But he did know one thing: If the computer died, there was a risk that it’d demand some sort of password in order to start back up. Could fuck the whole thing up if he couldn’t get into it again.
Cocaine-lit assessments: He couldn’t stay in the apartment many more seconds. Had he touched anything?
No.
He took the risk-pulled the power cord.
Checked the screen.
God loved Jorge.
The computer was still on.
He ran toward the front door. Through the hall. Was about to grab the door handle, when a phone rang. Sony Ericsson’s “Old Phone” ringtone-sounded like an ancient spin-dial telephone. Someone’s cell was ringing. Probably the john’s, the madam’s, the pimp’s, or one of the prostitutes’. He checked the john’s. Wasn’t the one making the noise. Jorge listened. Saw the blood. The clotty substance on the ceiling and floors. Finally heard. It was coming from the pimp’s pocket.
He was holding the shotgun in one hand, the computer in the other. Difficult to maneuver. He put the computer down. Groped in the pimp’s jacket pocket. The vibrations, unmistakable.
Got hold of the phone. A letter combination on the display: JSC. Only one person it could be-the Carl fucker.
Jorge picked up. “Yes.”
“Yo, it’s me. Could you put the one with the big tits in a cab to my house?”
Jorge, perplexed. The dude sounded trashed. What to say? Try to imitate Zlatko?
Instead, he mumbled as much as he could. “Sorry, she’s not here.”
“Damn, that’s too bad.”
A single thought: Have to say something smart. Something that will lead somewhere.
“Eh, so when is the next big thing happening again?”
“You ought to know, Mr. Fix. The twenty-ninth, in two weeks. The one with the tits really isn’t there?” Jet Set Carl was slurring worse than a heavyweight postknockout.
Jorge got a lightning rod-hot idea. “Sorry, no. Hey, one more thing. Had a guy here today who definitely has to come on the twenty-ninth.”
“Come on, get real. Not possible.”
“Fuck it is. Nenad okayed him. Just wanted to let you know, too. His alias is Daniel Cabrera.”
“All right, fine. You need a password?”
“Yeah, that’d be dope. Would you forward it to me?”
“I’ll forward it to you. You’re talking like a fucking lawyer. I’ll text you a word right now. Later.”
Jorge put the phone in his pocket. The shotgun under his jacket. The computer in his hand.
Threw a quick glance at the bodies. Felt sick.
Thought he’d be immune after all the video gore he’d watched as a kid. Really, it was just the opposite. He felt worse because of all the shit he’d seen on TV. Or it was just the effect of the blow-rush.
Pulled the sleeve of his sweater down over his hand in order to grip the handle to the front door. Nope, no CSI team would find his thumbprint.
He walked out. Felt Zlatko’s cell vibrate in his pocket-the text from Jet Set Carl.
It was dark out.
Hallonbergen by night.
Deserted.