Never Fuck Up: A Novel

by Jens Lapidus

Two thoughts collided in his head: He was going to find them. He would do his thing to them.

  Niklas’d found his calling. His mission. Everything had new meaning. The offensive had begun.

  24

  The big question: How dangerous could this get for Åsa? Thomas planned to act on his own. Screw the guy outside his window. Screw Adamsson’s recommendations—the old-timer was not on his side this time, that much was obvious. Fuck anyone who wanted to stop him. Move ahead with the search for the IMEI number and the prepaid card owner’s identity. Find the person who’d murdered a still unidentified man.

  Today: Monday. The first day of his foray into the world of detectives. Kurt Wallander, you can hit the showers. Thomas Andrén’s in town.

  Åsa left home early as usual. She’d wanted to make love again last night. Thomas felt stiffer than he’d felt in ages. Åsa massaged his back, rubbed massage oil on him. Slow motions over his shoulder blades. Hard, softening pinches over the shoulders. She ran the palms of her hands along his lower back. Exactly what he needed. The problem started when she began licking his earlobe. Thomas pulled his head away—it tickled. She wouldn’t leave him be. Åsa stroked the inside of his thigh. He settled one leg over the other. She stroked his chest. He lay still. Finally, she gave up. Rolled over to her side of the bed.

  Thomas called Hägerström at ten o’clock that morning.

  He sounded out of breath when he picked up.

  “Hi, it’s me.”

  “Andrén, I think you’re bad luck.”

  “What’re you talking about?”

  “I just got transferred. Cut off from the investigation.”

  Thomas looked out the window. Didn’t see anyone on the street. What he’d just heard made him feel cold all over.

  “What’re you talking about? That can’t be true. You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  “I’m kidding about as little as the boys from Internal Affairs are kidding about you right now. Got called into my boss’s office today. Apparently, it was inappropriate that I continue with the investigation on the grounds that you’d been involved and that you’re suspended now on suspicion of grave professional misconduct and assault. My boss said it was best that everyone involved was switched out.”

  “But come on, that’s totally insane. It’s a conspiracy.”

  “Yes, it is insane. I don’t know what to think. Why the hell did you have to beat up that drunk, anyway?”

  “Hey, I don’t want to hear that crap. That guy was lethal and they’d paired me up with a hundred-thirty-pound girl. We were forced to use the batons. So you can back off.”

  Hägerström’s shortness of breath seemed to increase on the other end of the line.

  “I’m from IA, don’t you forget that. The kind of nauseating rationalization you’re pulling made my ears rot long ago. There are always excuses, blah, blah, blah. But it’s bullshit. You made a fool of yourself, used excessive force against a human being, which I know you’ve done many times before.”

  “Hägerström, cut it out. Don’t be such a fucking cunt.”

  “Apparently you think you can talk to me any way you like. It was nice getting to know you too. Good-bye.”

  Hägerström slammed the phone down.

  Thomas continued to stare out the window. Phone still in his hand. Even Hägerström refused to understand how the situation in Aspudden’d ended up the way it did. IA’s stained way of thinking ap-parently didn’t wash out too easily. What a fucking asshole. Impossible to understand how that man could’ve ever seemed even remotely pleasant.

  Now he was alone. Alone against an unknown threat. Alone against an internal investigation. Alone in the hunt for a murderer.

  He lay down on the bed. Didn’t even want to tinker with the car. Didn’t want to set his foot in the station. Get stared down, whispered about, gossiped over.

  He tried to take a nap. Pointless—it was only ten-thirty. He wasn’t tired, but still completely beat.

  His brain felt empty.

  He remained lying where he was. Didn’t have the strength to get up.

  He must’ve fallen asleep after all. His cell phone woke him. He felt groggy. Fumbled for the phone. Didn’t recognize the number. Tried to hide how confused and drowsy he was.

  “Hello, this is Andrén.”

  “Hi, my name is Stefan Rudjman. I don’t know if you know me?” Slight accent. Thomas didn’t recognize the voice. At the same time: the last name rang a bell.

  “People also call me Stefanovic.”

  Thomas was skeptical. Hostile attitude. Could this have something to do with the threat against him and Åsa the other night?

  “Okay, what do you want?”

  “I understand that you’ve gotten into some trouble at work. We have an offer for you that we think may be very attractive.”

  “Know what? Your threats don’t bother me.”

  Stefanovic was silent a second too long—was it genuine surprise or a threatening theatrical pause?

  “I am afraid you misunderstand me. This is not a matter of threats at all. We think our offer may provide you with unforeseen possibilities. It’s regarding a job. Would you like to meet with us?”

  Thomas didn’t understand what the guy was talking about. Cockiness mixed with a Slavic accent. Something wasn’t right.

  “I don’t know who you are and I don’t understand what this is about. Would you please be so kind as to tell me what job it is you’re talking about?”

  “With pleasure. But I think it’s better if we meet up. Then I can explain in more detail. The conditions may be advantageous for you. Why not give it a chance? Meet us and discuss it. When might you be available?”

  Thomas didn’t know what to say. Was this some damn telemarketing scheme? Was it a practical joke? On the other hand: he didn’t have anything better to do. Everything’d gone to hell anyway. He might as well meet this guy, whoever he was.

  “I’m available today.”

  “That’s better than expected. We’ll pick you up. Shall we say four o’clock? Is that suitable?”

  They took the tunnel under Södermalm, the south side of the city. Rush hour hadn’t started yet. Out on Sveavägen. Took a right toward Roslagstull. And down Valhallavägen. Then Lidingövägen. Turned off toward Fiskartorpsvägen.

  Thomas wondered where they were going. The man driving’d introduced himself as Slobodan and asked Thomas to get into the backseat of a Range Rover.

  They drove in silence. Thomas wished he had his service weapon, but he’d been forced to turn it in once the internal investigation began.

  Along the side of the road he could see the mixed vegetation in the Lill-Jansskogen forest.

  They turned onto a narrow gravel road and up a hill.

  Finally, the car stopped. Slobodan asked him to get out.

  They were on a height. A building in front of him: a sixty-five-foot tower. It must be Lill-Jansskogen’s ski-jumping tower. Thomas remembered it from his childhood. He’d been there with his parents. The winters were so much more wintry back then. Someone appeared to have renovated the tower recently. The concrete was almost gleaming in the sunlight.

  A burly man walked toward him. He looked to be in his thirties. Dressed in dark-blue pleated slacks and a well-ironed shirt.

  The man extended his hand.

  “Hi, Thomas. I’m glad you could come so soon. I’m Stefanovic.”

  Stefanovic showed Thomas into the tower.

  The bottom floor looked clean and new. An empty welcome desk with a computer screen mounted on it. There was a poster on the wall: WELCOME TO FISKARTORPET’S CONFERENCE HALL. WE CAN ACCOMMODATE UP TO FIFTY GUESTS. PERFECT FOR YOUR KICK-OFF, COMPANY PARTY, OR CONFERENCE. The floor looked like it’d recently been sanded and finished.

  Thomas followed the Yugo up the stairs. Couldn’t be much of a conference center yet—it was empty everywhere.

  At the top of the tower was a large room. Windows in three directions. Thomas looked out over the Lill-Jansskogen
forest. Over Östermalm. Farther off, he could see City Hall, the church spires, and the high rises by Hötorget. The farthest he could see: a glimpse of the Globen arena. Stockholm was spread out before him.

  A sofa group, a dining table with six chairs, a minibar against the one windowless wall, filled with bottles and stemware. In the sofa group: a man. He rose. Walked slowly over to Thomas. Shook his hand with a firm grip.

  “Hi, Thomas. Thank you for coming on such short notice. It’s fantastic. My name is Radovan Kranjic. I don’t know if you’ve heard of me.” The man had the same Slavic accent as Stefanovic.

  Thomas understood right away. The man in front of him wasn’t just anybody. Radovan Kranjic: alias the Yugo Boss, alias R., alias Stockholm’s Godfather. A man whom the little guys hardly dared mention by name. Whose reputation was harder than granite. A legend in Stockholm’s underworld. It felt bizarre. At the same time, exciting.

  “Yes, I’ve heard of you. You have—how shall I put it?—a certain reputation in my line of work.”

  Radovan smiled. The dude radiated authority like Marlon Brando.

  “People talk a lot. But as far as I’ve understood it, you have a certain reputation as well.”

  Normally, Thomas would’ve gotten defensive right away when someone implied something like that. But with this guy—in a way, they were cut from the same cloth; he could feel it instinctively. So instead, he laughed.

  They took a seat on the couches. “May I offer you something strong?” Radovan asked.

  Thomas said yes. Stefanovic poured two glasses of whiskey. Good stuff: Isle of Jura, aged sixteen years.

  Radovan scratched his cheek with the back of his hand. Reminiscent of Don Corleone for real.

  The Yugo boss began explaining. Outlined his business. He worked with horses, cars, boats, import/export. A lot from the former Soviet Union. Benzes driven up from Germany. Machine parts from retired Swedish factories to Polish coal plants. It was business development, expansion, and opportunities. Thomas listened. Wondered if Radovan actually believed his own spiel.

  Finally: Radovan seemed to be getting to the point. He sipped his drink. “Okay. So, now you know what it is I work with primarily. But I do some other stuff on the side, too. I’m active in what we call the erotica business, if you know what I mean. The subject’s gotten so touchy in Sweden these days. We try to provide our customers with the most pleasant environment and staff possible. Erotica doesn’t have to be filthy movie theaters where lonely men sneak in at night. Erotica can be professional, businesslike, and well managed. After all, erotica is the world’s largest form of entertainment. Our girls are classy and maintain high international standards. Do you understand what I’m getting at?”

  Thomas sat in silence. Wound tight. At the same time, elated. What was this all about? Why was Stockholm’s most powerful mafia boss sitting here and telling him about the next big thing in pimping? Was it a test? Had they gotten hold of the wrong person? Was this connected to the murder investigation he and Hägerström’d been caught up in?

  Then he realized that Radovan’d asked him a question. He met the Yugo boss’s gaze. “I think I understand what you’re getting at.”

  Radovan went on, “You can make yourself money when you’re young. With money you get boats, fast whips, babes. Whatever you want. But when you get older, like me, you want something more—control over the situation. The ability to feel at ease. And that’s where you come in, Thomas. I have, as you noted, a certain reputation. But so do you. We need people like you in our organization. Men who don’t back down when the situation calls for some extra effort. Men who don’t follow narrow rules out of old habit, but who think about what is right and rational instead. Men who are men, to put it simply.”

  Radovan made a theatrical pause. Let the flattery sink in.

  Thomas dropped his gaze. Looked out over Stockholm again.

  “You’re a cop, I’m aware of that. That’s what makes you so interesting. You’ve got connections, credibility, insight. At the same time, we know that you, just like me, write your own rules when you need to. It’s important to have your own rules, you know. Without your own rules, you won’t get far in life. We have information that you do some things on the side now and then. You’re a cop who does everything, as people usually say. We need people like you.”

  Thomas didn’t respond.

  Radovan went on, “Let me make this brief. You’re probably going to lose your job because you defended yourself and your female colleague against an inebriated animal. I can turn that catastrophe into a new beginning for you. I want to hire you for my organization.”

  25

  Mahmud’d talked to his Yugo contact for a helluva long time—the perfect place’d been decided: Saman’s Coal Grill in Tumba. It had outdoor seating, there were a lot of people in motion around there, the right kind of joint for a blatte like Mahmud to meet up at. Not suspicious. The only downside he could think of was that it was hard to park nearby.

  They were gonna meet up at five on Tuesday afternoon. Wisam’d suggested the time himself. Jibril dug Mahmud’s chosen meeting spot. “Our kind of grub,” he’d said.

  Tumba in the summer: almost empty of people except for some teens with too little to do. Mahmud arrived at a quarter to five, grabbed a table near the exit.

  Beyond the outdoor seating area, parked more or less on the sidewalk: a pimped Range Rover with tinted windows. Mahmud glimpsed Ratko. Both hands resting on the steering wheel, steel expression. If the 5-0 or some ticket bitch showed up he’d have to move right away. On the other side of the street: a BMW with even darker windows. Mahmud couldn’t see who was sitting in it, but his contact, Stefanovic, had instructed him, “If anything derails, you call me. I’ll be nearby.”

  Mahmud waited. Eyed the kids farther down the street. He saw himself in them. Thought about the little marijuana plantation that Robert’d had in that apartment he’d been house-sitting for his aunt.

  He wondered why Wisam didn’t show. He’d sounded upbeat on the phone the day before. Mahmud was proud of the hair-and-tanning-salon buzz, the made-up business ideas he’d pulled in Dad’s kitchen—really, it was Jamila’s idea. And all that about the Fight. Mahmud knew the talk—he’d met friends from before who didn’t talk about anything else. The U.S.’s hate toward the righteous around the world. The Jewish conspiracy to start a war against the Muslims by plotting 9/11. Great Britain’s colonial imperialist capitalism. But Mahmud knew better: cash was king. The secret Jew Americans who sought to repress blattes like him didn’t have enough power. The British clown-lords who wanted to dominate his brothers—their days were pretty numbered. Lack of cash was the problem. And the answer was simple. His people needed dough. As soon as you got money, everything got solved. Especially for him.

  Quarter past five. Wisam still hadn’t shown. Stefanovic’d instructed him: we can’t wait with the Range Rover for more than twenty minutes. The risk of whiny meter maids and cops was too great.

  A couple minutes passed. Mahmud didn’t understand what’d happened.

  He eyed the clock on his phone. Eighteen minutes past five. Suck a dick.

  And then, by the pedestrian crossing—there he was: Wisam. Track pants. Hoodie. Sneakers. Real Million style. Mahmud was surprised by his own thought: Am I doing the right thing? The guy is like me. A project blatte with swag. My brother.

  No way. He had to let the thought go.

  Wisam passed the Range Rover. Saw Mahmud. Nodded. At the same time: two guys jumped out of the car. Dark jeans. Leather jackets. Yugo classique. Stepped up behind Wisam. One said something to him. The other was hiding something in his hand. Put it against Wisam’s stomach. The blatte’s eyes grew wide. Looked down at the thing against his stomach. After that, it was like he grew limp. The beefcakes led him into the Range Rover. It started up.

  Mahmud stood up. Slapped a hundred-kronor bill on the table. Left the change.

  Saw the Range Rover drive up a side street. Disappear.

&
nbsp; * * *

  It was always quiet down in the basement. But the silence didn’t bother Niklas. He actually liked it, it gave him time to think. But he hated the dark. Or, rather, the risk that the dark would come. Because if you didn’t flip the timed switch often enough, the lights would switch off automatically. He had devised his own simple system. He flipped the switch every other minute so as not to risk it. It was lucky that he knew how to tell time.

  When he got down there, he pulled out the table-hockey game. It was old. The outer players couldn’t move behind the goalie like in the newer games. But the goalie himself could move behind the goal, which was a big danger—to leave the net unattended. But now it didn’t matter—he couldn’t trick himself, after all. Instead, he practiced passes. The right wing to the center, who made a goal. The center back to the right wing, who whipped the puck with the back of his stick into the net.

  He was really pretty good. Too bad they didn’t have a table-hockey game at his after-school program.

  Still, time crawled.

  He flipped the light switch at even intervals. He had time to do about fifteen strings of passes between times.

  Mom should’ve come down ages ago to tell him to come back up. It was already nine-thirty.

  Maybe he should go up on his own. But he wanted to wait. One time he hadn’t waited—when he’d tired of the table-hockey game he’d taken the elevator up of his own accord. The living room and kitchen were empty and the door to Mom’s bedroom was closed. He called for her without getting an answer. He called again and finally heard her yell from her bedroom, “Stay where you are, Niklas. I’ll be out.”

  Mom came out dressed in a bathrobe—which was strange—and she was really mad. She grabbed his arm, hard, harder than he could ever remember her doing before, and threw him on his bed. Then she yelled at him for a while. Without him really understanding why.

  No, he wasn’t going to go upstairs of his own accord. She had to come down and get him.

  He kept practicing strings of passes at the goal.