Leona

by Jenny Rogneby

  Around me at the table were patrom29 from Uruguay, knightride2369 from Jamaica, nikolai5350 from Russia, a Canadian, two Italians, a Frenchman, and a Chilean. A real mishmash of nationalities, which made it even more interesting. It was as if the whole world was in my guest room.

  Even though I had been warned against it, I always chose to play in “turbo.” At that speed you had less time for reflection. If you hadn’t made a decision before the seconds ran out, your hand got folded automatically. That suited me perfectly. At a normal pace it took much too long. I hated sitting and waiting for people to decide. There weren’t that many choices to make, after all. Either you bet, passed, or folded. In turbo you could play one or two tournaments and still get a few hours of sleep.

  The recent wins had made me more self-confident and accordingly more daring in my play. I always played Texas hold ’em, and always “no limit.” In no limit I could go all in, betting everything I had on a single hand. I risked losing the whole stake in one go, of course, but the possibility of winning a large sum was greater. I hated being limited in how much I could bet.

  It was all or nothing.

  It was breathtaking.

  The tournament was progressing. As usual I had to restrain myself so I didn’t get too eager. Patience was the most important thing in poker. I waited.

  Folded.

  Waited.

  Folded.

  I amused myself in the meantime by studying the other players. At least three of my opponents seemed relatively new to the poker world. They played almost every hand, bluffed wildly, and were revealingly inconsistent. Two players, on the other hand, seemed to be strong. One of them was the Frenchman.

  After many rounds without good cards I started to get impatient. King of diamonds and queen of spades. No top cards. Not even the same suit, but that would have to do. Sometimes you needed to take a few risks. Three of the players threw in their cards immediately. I chose to bet properly. No point in holding back once I had entered the game. One of the players raised high. It was the Frenchman. Not a bad stake. The community cards dealt face up on the table, that you could count with your own, showed the three of hearts, nine of spades, and king of clubs, which meant that I had a pair of kings. I knew that I had the highest pair, as long as no one was sitting with two aces in their hand, which was unlikely.

  Of course the Frenchman could have two pairs, but that was not very likely either. Possibly he was also sitting with a king and then the other cards were important. My queen ought to do very well in that case. Maybe he was bluffing. One more player dropped out. And another. Only the Frenchman and I were left.

  I was first out on the new round. I checked. Waited. The Frenchman took his time, using all the seconds he had. Right at the last moment he checked too. The last card was laid out on the table. Damn it! If the Frenchman had a ten that meant three-of-a-kind for him and I would be burned. I had to be careful in this situation. I checked. He did the same. We showed our cards — I won the round. Yes! This was important. I was in first place in the tournament now, but there were still 119 players left. I was so into the game I didn’t notice that the door to the guest room had slipped open. I only heard a thin voice.

  “Mommy, I can’t sleep.”

  Beatrice had started getting up at night now and then. This I definitely did not have time for. Especially not now when I was in such a good position. I quickly looked at the clock. In just a few seconds the tournament would take a break. A five-minute break every hour was standard for all tournaments. In that time I would probably be able to get her back to bed again.

  “Honey, shall I warm some milk for you?”

  She nodded. I led her quickly into the kitchen. Took out a mug and poured so that the milk spilled over the edge and down onto the floor. I swore silently to myself and wiped it up with a paper towel. I looked at the clock. A minute had already passed. I put the mug in the microwave. Twenty seconds, that would be enough.

  “Come on, I’ll go with you to your room while the milk gets warm.”

  If she was lying under the covers there was a greater chance that she would fall asleep. I did not want to miss the start after the break.

  “I want to be with you, Mommy. I want to play computer too.”

  “But I’m going to go to bed, honey. You have to lie down in bed at night. Come on now.”

  I pushed her gently ahead of me on the way to the small bedroom that we had recently repainted in a warm shade of yellow. Bea slid into bed without further protest. I tucked her in and sat on the edge of the bed.

  “Ah, it looks really cozy. Do you want Mickey beside you?”

  Bea nodded. I got the cuddly toy from the armchair and tucked it beside her under the covers. The microwave beeped in the kitchen.

  “Lie here and cuddle with Mickey and I’ll fetch the milk.”

  I walked quickly out to the kitchen and looked at the clock. Now there wasn’t much time. I took the mug out of the microwave. A film had formed on the milk, which I knew that children loathed. To avoid complaints I opened the top drawer, took out a teaspoon and skimmed the film from the surface. I tried the milk to see if it was warm enough and then bounded to Beatrice’s room with the mug in my hand.

  “Here is some lovely warm milk for the finest girl in the world. When you’ve finished it you’re going to fall asleep in a second. Drink calmly now and try not to spill, okay?”

  She nodded.

  “Mommy, don’t go.”

  Kids had a strange ability to pick up on when you were stressed.

  “I have to sleep too, honey. Otherwise I’m going to be grumpy tomorrow. You don’t want that, do you?”

  I made a face to Bea, to show how I would look if I didn’t get to sleep. Bea laughed.

  “Noooo, not grumpy.”

  I leaned down and gave Bea a kiss on the cheek.

  “See you tomorrow morning, honey. Sleep well now.”

  I went out. Closed the door behind me. Quickly moved back into the guest room. The tournament had started. I didn’t know how many rounds I had missed, but I hadn’t lost that much. A few people had managed to pass me, which was irritating. I was in fifth place, but there were still so many players left there was plenty of time to come back. I went ahead with the same strategy.

  I lost a few big hands but managed to win some back. This time I would win, I felt it. My confidence increased with every hand I won, which made me more and more daring. The two players who were left were fairly capable. I couldn’t do the usual tricks of stealing blinds or betting low when I had a good hand to lure them into raising ahead of me. They saw through that sort of thing. Now we were playing with high denominations, which meant that the game fluctuated a lot.

  The players had thinned out. Only my table was left in the tournament, and there were only two players left besides me. The Frenchman, who had been there from the start, and a Brazilian who had come in when people left and tables were combined. The Frenchman played steadily and methodically. The Brazilian was more daring.

  Suddenly the Frenchman went all in, betting everything he had. It was the first time during the entire tournament that he had done that before any cards had been dealt face up. Either he was bluffing or else he was sitting with a high pair. It was a strange move by the Frenchman, as he had played so carefully until now. Taking too big a risk in the tournament when you had played for several hours and were so close to the end was a dangerous strategy. If it worked, it was a winner. Since I had followed his methodical playing I didn’t dare bet against him, so I folded instead. The Brazilian bet against the Frenchman, which in a way was good for me. One of the two would lose the round and leave the tournament and I would stay in and play against the winner.

  When the cards were laid out on the table I wished I were at a live casino and could see whether either of them batted an eye. Both bet everything they had, and were only waiting for the last card to be dealt. An ace! The Frenchman’s three aces would have been a winning hand if the Brazilian hadn’t turne
d out to be sitting on a four and a five and along with the cards on the table managed to put together a straight.

  The Frenchman left the game after writing something in French in the chat field. I suspected it included some swear words because he had gone out with such high cards. The official language in the poker space was English but some still communicated in their own language.

  In a way I had wanted the Frenchman to be the last left with me because I’d had time to understand his playing better. The Brazilian seemed completely wild. The fact that he went all in with a four and five in different suits at the end of a tournament was almost madness. That he had put together a straight was nothing other than pure luck. At the same time, it was good that I now knew he was crazy. It was just a matter of making sure to keep myself above the surface until I got really good cards, and then run over him like a bulldozer. He was eager, it was noticeable. But I did not intend to let myself be dragged along in his attempts to entice me to raise with a crappy hand.

  It was the last round now, and I had my chance. With two kings in my hand. I didn’t intend to back down. I raised immediately. He bet. I had a desire to raise again but abstained. Didn’t want to make him so suspicious that he folded. An ace was dealt face up. Damn it! If he had an ace in the hole he would win unless the last card showed a king, meaning I had three kings. He bet. I became suspicious but decided the only thing to do was to keep going. It was sink or swim.

  I went all in.

  Held my breath.

  I assumed that he would bite. He seemed to hesitate, using all of his seconds to think. Would he chicken out now? Hardly. He went all in too. Now the game was almost over. We were just waiting for the last card to be laid out on the table. As usual it would decide everything. It could reverse the game completely.

  My heart rate increased.

  The last card now.

  A king. Yes! I had three kings. I had won! The Brazilian chose not to show his cards. I was curious, but it didn’t matter now. It was over. I stood up, reaching my arms toward the ceiling. If the family hadn’t been asleep I would have yelled out loud:

  Yesss!

  TWENTY-ONE

  It was as if the red digits of the clock radio had forced their way in through my eyelids and even while sleeping I knew the alarm would go off in two minutes. I turned it off and looked up at what it said. Tuesday, September 17, 4:58 a.m. More than two weeks had passed since the first robbery.

  It was time again.

  I had explained to Peter that I was going to work early. That was not unusual. I turned and looked at him sleeping peacefully, as if he didn’t have a care in the world. Perhaps he didn’t. He seemed so carefree. So content with his existence. Sure, he wanted to move to a big house and have another child, but in general he seemed happy with his life. Our life. I envied that. I looked at him. His face calmed me. I remained lying with my head close to his a little while before I quickly got dressed. Did the morning chores.

  Quietly.

  Mechanically.

  Everything was prepared. The clothes. The equipment. Everything. When I was ready I took out the sandwich wrapped in plastic that I had set in the fridge the night before, put it in the bag, and went out as quietly as I could. The damp air penetrated my clothes on the way out to the car. The seat creaked loudly when I sat down. I tried to focus on other things. I looked around. Was anyone following?

  I parked a couple of blocks away from the apartment on Sandhamnsgatan at Gärdet and walked quickly toward the entrance. I entered the four-digit code and slipped in. Two floors up. A quiet knock on the door. Ronni answered. The lighting in the hall cast shadows on his face that made him look at least ten years older. He was pale. Dressed completely in black. He hardly looked at me, instead walking right back into the apartment. His short, dark hair hadn’t been tamed and even though it was short, it managed to look disheveled. The apartment smelled strongly of smoke. I took off my shoes and hung up my jacket on the coat stand. Besides that there was no furniture in the hall. I followed him into the kitchen.

  “Is the girl asleep?”

  “You can wake her,” Ronni answered.

  I stared at him. He knew what the rules were. He was the one who would take care of the girl. When he saw my expression he left the kitchen.

  I took out the sandwich and looked around for a cup. The electric kettle was already full of boiling water. I took a bite of the sandwich and scooped a couple of spoonfuls of instant coffee into the cup, pouring the water in a little too quickly, so that it spilled over on the other side where I was holding my hand.

  “Damn it,” I whispered to myself.

  I dried the back of my hand on my black jeans and looked at it. The skin was hot. I turned the faucet to cold, put my hand under the flow and held it there. Ronni came into the kitchen, dragging the girl. She had pajamas on and looked like she was still asleep. Seemed barely able to hold her head up.

  “Damn it, Ronni, let her wake up properly before you force her out of bed,” I hissed with my hand under the water faucet.

  Sometimes I wondered what made him tick. He took the girl back to the bedroom. I avoided having anything to do with her. I never talked with her. It was simpler that way. At the same time I felt compelled to be there to make sure that Ronni held up his end of the deal.

  I had my doubts about Ronni. He had a formidable record in the crime register, everything from misdemeanors to felonies. I had first met him seven years ago, during an investigation where he and two other men were convicted of arson and criminal conspiracy after setting fire to a restaurant belonging to one of the men. An insurance fraud that had not played out as planned. The man who set the fire was burned severely and told me during an interrogation from the hospital bed that Ronni was the one who planned the fire and was also on the scene when the man set it. Ronni was sentenced to four years in prison.

  My hand was starting to feel numb from the running water. I turned off the tap. Dried my hands, and began unpacking the bag on the counter. I set out the spray bottle, the child-size plastic gloves, the makeup. I sat down at the kitchen table with another cup of coffee and continued eating the sandwich. It was almost impossible to swallow but I had to try to eat. I forced myself to eat the last dry bite, chasing it down with the warm coffee.

  In the first interview I had held with Ronni he had made it clear to me that he did not intend to talk. He refused to talk about the fire, mostly just sitting and shrugging, but he did tell me that he and his girlfriend had recently had their second child. A girl named Olivia.

  It wasn’t until I brought him in for questioning after a bar fight over a year ago that I’d realized I could actually make use of Ronni. By then he was separated from his girlfriend, who had moved to Finland with both of their girls, which Ronni was angry about. He drank too much, fell out with the wrong people, and had big debts, both to other criminals and to debt collection agencies. He was at rock bottom.

  Claes, who due to summer vacations and a personnel shortage had served as the leader of the preliminary investigation for the bar assault, closed it for lack of evidence. I could clearly remember Claes muttering that it was frustrating that people like Ronni wandered the streets, and even worse that he had two little girls, just like Claes himself.

  Ronni was not a nice person and he was not particularly sharp, either, but all this made him suitable for my plans. He already had an extensive criminal record, he was in desperate need of money, he had messed up his personal life and lost his family. Most importantly, he had a daughter at the right age and, as it turned out, was disturbed enough to drag his child into his own criminal activity.

  There were risks in collaborating with Ronni, I was fully aware of that. I also knew that risk-taking was necessary if I truly wanted to change my life. I couldn’t expect to take the safe route. I had to throw myself out into the unknown.

  I was prepared for that.

  Even excited about it.

  Although at the beginning I had doubted Ronni’s abi
lities, he had, after all, managed to get the girl to perform her part exactly according to my instructions. She had conducted herself faultlessly during the previous robbery. The girl was special. Reminded me of myself when I was younger. At her age I would have been thrilled if I’d been asked to do what she’d done — to be given a task. Be needed by someone for an important mission. The only thing that worried me was that she did not look quite healthy. Maybe it was the dim lighting that did that, though, and presumably she was just tired. Any seven-year-old would be tired at this time of the morning, after all.

  Ronni came into the kitchen without the girl.

  “Have you gone over everything carefully with her?” I asked.

  “I don’t get why you needed to come here,” he answered, lighting a cigarette. “I have everything under control.”

  “Do you think you succeeded with the crimes you committed before I came into the picture?”

  He didn’t reply.

  “You see, then,” I continued. “Your job is to look after the girl. The question is whether you will even be able to manage that. What have you done with her? She looks almost drugged.”

  “You are so fucking naive, Leona. Try to get a kid to do a thing like this and you’ll see for yourself. She’s just tired in the morning. Damn it, it’s only six o’clock.”

  His attitude irritated me.

  “I’ll get her ready today. You’ll have to arrange the car instead,” I said, getting up.

  I poured the rest of the coffee out into the sink, fetched the girl, and went into the bathroom.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Olivia stood in the bathtub while the quiet lady combed her hair straight back. It was time again. The lady held her head with one hand and combed with the other. Her hair was tangled after sleep. The lady didn’t tear at it the way Daddy always did. She had much softer hands. She looked at the lady’s head. Her hair was brown, curly and fluffy. Like angel hair. Olivia wished she had curly hair like that, not straight like her own. Daddy always said that it was spindly. The lady probably thought it was ugly too, because she wanted Olivia to wear that matted wig again. Olivia had tried to comb it one time but then Daddy tore it away from her and said it was not a toy. They must have thought it was good that the strands of hair hung together like that in clumps. Olivia had never seen anyone with a hairdo like that.