by Jens Lapidus
Mahmud laughed. “Habibi, know what it prove?”
Robert shook his head. Gulped some Coke.
“It prove, no matter how smart you are, it can still fucking go to hell. Violence, that’s the only tight way. Right? If they’d had a gun they could’ve made that bitch shut up.”
Robert took a last hit off the doobie. “You’re right. Weapons and explosives. So, when we gonna do something big, huh?”
Mahmud winked at him. “Soon.” He really wanted to do something big soon.
They ordered a cab. Mahmud was dressed in his usual going-out getup: white button-down with the top buttons undone, jeans that were a little too tight—looked good when his thighs were on display—and black leather shoes.
Mahmud checked for the wad of cash in the inner pocket of his jacket—thirty-five hundred kronor bills that he couldn’t burn tonight. Gürhan’s money. But Babak’d promised to treat. Tonight they were gonna blow a big load.
The E4 highway northbound. Mostly taxis and buses. It was eleven-thirty at night. They asked the cabbie to tune the radio to The Voice. Mahmud and Robert rocked to the beat in the backseat. Babak sang, “She break it down, she take it low, she fine as hell, she about the dough.” Justin, 50 Cent, and plenty of bitches.
Mahmud loved the feeling. Gearing up to go. The camaraderie. Swedish society tried to trample them every day of their lives. Still, there was so much joy left for the weekend.
Twenty minutes later, they arrived at Stureplan. They tipped the cabbie two hundred. Like kings.
The line outside Hell’s Kitchen looked more like the fans at the front of the guardrails at a massive concert. People surged forward, waved their arms, gripped their purses tight, jumped to see better, yelled at the bouncers, pressed on. Pressed hard. Pressed in toward the glamour. The head bouncer was standing on an electrical cabinet—pointed at people who were allowed in. The other bouncers patrolled back and forth; the small earpieces they wore made them look like hard-core secret-service agents. The real brats glided easily through the sea of people. Self-tanner chicks with platinum locks trailing. The rest had to hand over crumpled five-hundred-kronor bills, promised to buy drinks for over a thousand kronor, insisted they were famous, rich, people worth betting on. Immigrant guys threatened to beat up the bouncers—they knew they didn’t have a chance anyway. The bitches pushed with their boobs out and their lips parted—promised blowjobs, a fuck, a threesome. Anything to get in.
Mahmud saw the same thing in 90 percent of the people in line: desperation. In other words—it was business as usual out here.
Mahmud, Babak, and Robert—they weren’t heavy hitters yet. Normally, they didn’t have a chance at luxury places like Sturecompagniet and Hell’s Kitchen. But Babak was fucking jonesing. Mahmud would rather go to Blue Moon Bar on Kungsgatan, look for Wisam. Ask people in the bar questions. What’s more: he didn’t understand how Babak thought they were gonna get in.
But Babak wasn’t pulling any punches. Eye contact with the head bouncer up on his throne. He spread his fingers. The bouncer raised his eyebrows, didn’t get the message. Babak took a step forward, pressed himself against the barricade. Leaned toward the bouncer. “I got the hookup. Ten grams.” The bouncer winked. Raised the velvet rope.
They were allowed into the area with the cash registers. Two hundred and fifty kronor each. Shit, it cost to be on top. But who gave a fuck at this point—they were in.
What a fucking miracle. Mahmud and Robert eyed Babak. He grinned. “You didn’t know? I’m the snowman.”
Inside: the tight boys dominated. Magnum and regular-sized bottles of champagne in ice buckets everywhere. Dudes with silk kerchiefs in their breast pockets, slicked-back hair, and, on the hottest ones: fluffier manes combed back. Unbuttoned striped shirts with cuff links that gleamed, expensive-looking blazers, slim-cut distressed designer jeans, leather belts with monogram-shaped buckles: Fendi, Gucci, Louis Vuitton. Some with ties, but most rocked open necks—that offered the most opportunity to flaunt their chests. What’s more: a couple of worn-out rockers with sideburns and trucker hats. Mahmud didn’t understand why they’d been let in.
Fine girls were sitting in booths sipping vodka tonics or letting the dudes treat them to bubbly. Silver-spoon bred, young socialites, bumpkins who fronted.
But also a dapple of other types of people: C-list celebs. Reality-TV stars, talk-show hosts, performers. Surrounded by chicks with designer purses over their shoulders and Playboy jewelry around their necks who danced facing out toward the place.
Last but not least: Jet Set Carl, top playboy on all Stureplan bitches’ list of dicks to suck. Even Mahmud and his homies knew about the guy. The dude owned three places downtown, his real name was Carl something, Mahmud didn’t know what. The only thing he knew: the player was mad jet set. Hence the name.
Not a lot of real blattes in there. Maybe a few adopted and well integrated. Like people who did music stuff, media, or other crap. Honestly: Mahmud couldn’t feel any less at home—but the honeys were fly. He undid another button on his shirt. Babak ordered a bottle of Dom at the bar.
Mahmud glanced at his reflection in the ice bucket that was brought along with Babak’s champagne.
Liked his look. Broad eyebrows, black hair slicked back with so much gel that he could’ve had the same hairdo for three weeks without a single hair falling out of place. Full lips, solid jaw, perfectly even stubble over his cheeks.
He saw the reflection of Babak and Robert walking toward him behind his back. Turned before they reached him.
Babak, surprised: “How’d you see us?”
Mahmud said, “Ey, buddy, with this many pumas in one place you gotta have eyes in the back of your head. Don’t wanna miss one.”
A smile played on his lips.
They laughed. Gulped champagne. Did their best to make eye contact with the chicks around them. No success—it was as if they were invisible. Finally, Rob went up to a couple chicks. Said something. Offered bubbly.
They turned him down. Brutal.
Kh’tas—cunts. It was unfair.
“Let’s split.”
Mahmud wanted out, wanted to go to Blue Moon Bar instead. Ask around for the Lebanese.
Babak laughed. “No, let’s split a bag o’ yay instead.” Ha-ha-ha.
An hour later. The C-rush’d settled. But still: Mahmud felt like the city’s finest Million Program blatte, the world’s number one smartest concrete detective—Sherlock fucking Holmes. He was gonna find Wisam. Make him confess where he’d buried Radovan’s Arlanda cash. Force him to deliver. Give himself the chance to impress. Get the Yugos’ protection.
Robert slid onto the dance floor with a honey that looked like jailbait. Mahmud and Babak stayed put at the bar as usual.
Then he saw something he didn’t want to see. The sound died. His head burned. Around him: a little island of panic. A few yards away at the bar—Daniel and two other guys from that night.
Mahmud froze. Stared at the bottles on the other side of the bar. Tried to focus his gaze. Fuck. What was he gonna do? Panic washed in waves against the inside of his skull. The memories returned: the grind of metal in his mouth. The roulette sound from the spinning cylinder. Daniel’s grin.
He tried not to glance over at them. Had to keep his cool. Did they see him? If they came up to him he didn’t know how he’d react. Babak didn’t seem to notice him wigging out. The people around him grew blurry.
Afterward, when Mahmud thought about the situation, he couldn’t remember how long he’d been standing that way. Nauseous. Stiff. How many scared thoughts’d zipped through his brain.
But after a good while he looked up. They were gone.
He didn’t give a shit about Babak and Robert. Saw that Babak was trying to snare a puma. Coke rings around the girl’s nose. Lipstick on Babak’s cheeks. Good for him.
Mahmud wanted out. And he had to get to Blue Moon Bar. Now. He slipped out of Sturecompagniet. The line outside was three times as long as when they’d arrived
. The desperation in people’s eyes—thirty times as thick. The head bouncer was still at his post, deciding in or out, winner or loser, life or death.
Up Kungsgatan. The air was colder. Where’d the summer run off to?
He thought about sinking a burger, but decided not to. Needed to do his thing at Blue Moon. Farther up, he saw the place.
Blue Moon Bar was boasting a good line, too.
Short, wide bouncers in excess. Mahmud thought, You gotta be a midget to get a job here, or what?
Mahmud slid straight up to the VIP entrance. Past the line. Up to a bouncer. Met Mahmud’s gaze. That special understanding between big dudes.
He pulled a classic move—this place wasn’t as hard to get into as Sturecompagniet—offered a five-hundred-kronor bill, without saying a word.
The bouncer cube asked, “You alone?”
Mahmud nodded.
The bouncer pushed the bill away. “It’s cool.”
Mahmud went inside. Paid the hundred-kronor entrance fee; the price wasn’t as wack as the other place. Surprised by the bouncer’s class. Mahmud’d actually been treated good.
He eyed the place. The lower level: surplus of guys—Syriacs with mullets and shirts unbuttoned, showing their shaved chests; Svens with groomed beards; brothas with sideways caps and fake bling in their ears.
A blue glow was blinking in time to the techno: “This is the rhythm of the night.”
He moved on. The next level: a more even division of the sexes—meat market galore. People entwined on the dance floor, dudes squeezing tits in couch corners, bitches licking those same dudes’ ears and massaging their cocks through their pants. Wunder-Baum—Mahmud would’ve loved to pick up some little honey.
But not now.
He stepped up to the bar. Ordered a mojito. Usually boozing wasn’t his style, other than maybe bubbly for the bitches’ sake. He liked smoking up and getting high—but not so loaded you lost control. Only Svens drank away their dignity that way. And if you got in a fight, you didn’t have a chance. Plus: too many calories.
He was leaning against the bar. The mojito with a cocktail straw in his hand. Stirred. The ice cubes made his teeth hurt. He counted face-suckers.
He leaned over toward the bartender who’d served him. The guy was in his mid-twenties, Asian appearance.
“You know who Wisam is? Wisam Jibril, chill guy from Botkyrka. Lots of dough. Used to come here. Remember him?”
The bartender shrugged his shoulders. “No idea. Does he come here often?”
“Don’t know. But he used to hang here all the time a few years back. Did you work here then?”
The bartender dude wiped a glass. Looked like he was considering. “No, but check with Anton. He’s been here every damn weekend for the past five years. Totally crazy.” He pointed at another guy in the bar.
Mahmud tried to get the Anton boy’s attention for, like, five minutes. No success. Plenty of time to really check him out. Tight T-shirt that showed off the black tribal tattoos on his biceps, fake-messy hairstyle, broad leather bands on both wrists, metal rings on his fingers. The guy wasn’t built but in okay shape.
Finally: Mahmud tried another trick. Waved the five-hundred-kronor bill again. Anton reacted. A classic.
He tried to speak over the music. Pointed over toward the first bartender. “He said you’ve worked here awhile. Remember Wisam Jibril? He used to hang here all the time.”
Anton smiled. “Course I remember Wisam. A legend in his day.”
Mahmud placed the bill on the bar.
“This isn’t a good place to talk. Wanna go somewhere quieter for a few? My treat.”
Anton didn’t seem to get it. Continued pouring a drink for a chick who looked totally stoned. Didn’t he understand the most common memory aid of them all?
But after a few seconds, Anton stepped out from behind the bar. Ushered Mahmud in front of him. Toward the men’s bathroom.
The dude positioned himself by a urinal. Pulled out his dick.
Mahmud next to him: did the same thing. Bad move—he got stage fright, couldn’t squeeze a drop. That’d never happened before. He was usually the fucking pissing king. But he knew why—the memory of the piss stain from the forest returned.
He looked down: the drain was chock full of tobacco and gum.
“Tell me. You seen him here lately?”
Anton zipped his fly.
“Yessiree. Wisam used to hang here all the time. Slayed ladies like a b-ball pro, Dennis Rodman–style. You know, he’s had sex with over two and a half thousand chicks. Can you believe that? Two and a half thousand, damn.”
“Who? Dennis Rodman or Wisam?”
“Rodman, of course. But Wisam was awesome. He’s got that little extra something. When he goes in for the kill, no lady can resist.”
Mahmud thought, Yessiree—the dude was an even bigger Sven clown than he looked.
“Okay. But have you seen him lately?”
“Actually, yes. For the first time in three years, I think. There were so many rumors, you know. That he’d made millions on the stock market. That he sold stuff. That he had a manual for how to blow CITs. You know, all kinds of stuff. But people talk so much.”
Bingo—Anton’d heard stuff about Jibril.
“All I know is he spent dough with class. I mean, I’ve seen some stuff.”
Ka-ching, right there.
Mahmud had to tread carefully now, wanted to avoid having the bartender think his interest in Wisam Jibril was a little too big.
Mahmud looked around. “Damn,” was all he could muster.
Anton looked questioningly at him. What else did he want? Mahmud gripped his arm.
The bartender looked up. Mahmud stared back. Held the guy’s forearm hard. Felt the guy’s muscles tighten in his grip. Sent a signal, clear as day: If you leave now, there’ll be problems.
Mahmud didn’t wait. Pulled Anton into a toilet stall.
“Tell me more. What do you know?”
The bartender fidgeted. Eyes wide open. Still, he didn’t resist. Mahmud fingered the roll of bills in his pocket. Pulled out a grand.
Anton didn’t move a muscle. Looked like he was thinking. Then he spilled.
“He was here for, like, two hours. Picked up two chicks. That was a few weekends ago. I’m pretty sure it was May Day. I don’t know that much else. Honestly, I have no idea.”
Mahmud picked up on the second to last sentence: “That much else.” What did the guy mean? He obviously knew more.
“Anton, out with it. You know something.” He flexed the muscles in his forearms. Black letters against olive skin. Alby Forever. Had the desired effect.
“Okay, okay. The chicks were here last weekend. They chatted with me for a few minutes and were totally blown away. Wisam’d apparently rained money on them like he was an oil sheik. He took the girls back to his apartment, I don’t know where it is. And the girls probably don’t know either, ’cause they told me they were shitfaced. He drove them around in his new car. A Bentley.”
Mahmud didn’t understand.
Anton spelled it out: “B-E-N-T-L-E-Y. Totally insane. That’s all I know. I swear.”
Someone pounded on the door. “Boys, this isn’t a fairy bar. Come outta there.”
Mahmud’d gotten enough info for tonight. He had some leads to follow up.
Opened the door. Stepped out of the stall, shoving the jerk who’d bullshitted outside.
Left Anton with the laughs.
* * *
Settergren’s Law Offices
To the Sollentuna District Court
COMPLAINT FOR BREACH OF CONTRACT
PLAINTIFF Barclays Bank Plc., 34 George St., London, England
ATTORNEY FOR PLAINTIFF Roger Holmgren, Esq., and Nathalie Rosenskiöld, Esq., Settergren’s Law Offices AB, 12 Strandvägen, Stockholm
DEFENDANT Airline Cargo Logistics AB
CASE Breach of Contract
APPLICABLE LAW Chapter 9, § 28, The Aviation Act (1957:297)
<
br /> Barclays Bank Plc (“Barclays”) hereby pursues a lawsuit against Airline Cargo Logistics AB (“Cargo Logistics”) as follows:
FIRST CAUSE OF ACTION FOR BREACH OF CONTRACT
Barclays claims that Cargo Logistics owes Barclays Capital 5,569,588 U.S. Dollars plus interest according to § 6 of the Interest Law for breach of contract, due within 30 days of the issuance of the District Court’s Decision.
Barclays claims the right to compensation for all attorneys’ fees incurred, in an amount that will be given at a later time.
GROUNDS
Barclays and Cargo Logistics have entered into an agreement for air transport of a number of courier bags containing different currencies with a total value of 5,569,588 U.S. Dollars. These courier bags have, while they were in the care of Cargo Logistics at Arlanda Aiport, been the subject of armed robbery. Courier bags containing currency equaling the above-mentioned sum have thereby been lost.
According to chapter 9, § 18 of the Aviation Act, the freight carrier is responsible for damages incurred when the checked cargo, in this case the courier bags, is lost, reduced, or damaged while the cargo is in the freight carrier’s care at an airport.
Barclays alleges that Cargo Logistics, through severe breach of the requisite care and consideration demanded, is responsible for the incurred damage in full.
THE CIRCUMSTANCES IN DETAIL
Barclays’s contract with the Swedish banks and Cargo Logistics
Barclays regularly buys shipments of different currencies from three Swedish banks: SEB, Svenska Handelsbanken, and FöreningsSparbanken (Swedbank).
According to a contract from 2001, Cargo Logistics had, by request of Barclays Bank, on a regular basis agreed to provide pickup and transport of courier bags containing currency from banks in Stockholm and arrange for air transport to London.
