Never Fuck Up sn-2

by Jens Lapidus

  She was actually the nicest person in the world. Too nice. It wasn’t fair.

  Marie. His mother.

  Whom he loved.

  And still despised.

  Because of that—the niceness.

  She was too weak.

  It wasn’t right.

  But they would never be able to talk about everything that’d happened.

  Niklas put the groceries away in the kitchen. Went back into the living room.

  “I’m moving out soon, Mom. I’m going to buy a firsthand rental contract for an apartment.”

  There they were again: the wrinkles. Like cracks in a desert road.

  “But Niklas, isn’t that illegal?”

  “No it’s not, actually. It’s illegal to sell rental contracts, but not to buy them. It’ll be fine. And there’s no other way to get a rental in this city, you know that. Stupid socialist housing system. But I have some money and no one’s going to rip me off. Promise.”

  Marie mumbled something in response. Went into the kitchen. Started making dinner.

  Insomnia was having its way with him. Not even during the worst nights down there, when the grenades’d made more noise than a New Year’s Eve fireworks display in the middle of the living room, had his sleep been this shitty. Earplugs used to be a blessing; his CD player, salvation. But nothing helped now.

  He lay watching the gap under his mother’s door. Lights off at twelve-thirty. For some reason, he already knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep. He turned over and over again. With every turn the sheets slipped more and more to one side of the cushions. Got twisted. Annihilated the chance of sleep.

  He was thinking about what he’d bought the other day. Unarmed, he was unsafe. Now he felt better. He’d arranged what he needed. His thoughts drifted on. He considered his work options. How much of his résumé should he include, really? He almost chuckled to himself in the dark: maybe in-depth knowledge of more than forty types of weapons wasn’t the kind of thing that was valued too highly in Sweden.

  He thought about Him. He had to get out of this apartment, away from this building. It was giving him bad vibes. Difficult memories. Dangerous intimacy.

  Niklas was planning to live according to his own philosophy now. A temple of thought he’d been building meticulously over the past few years. Ethical rules only mattered to yourself. If you were able to rid yourself of them, you’d be free. All that stuff died down in the sandbox. Morality dried up like a scab that disappeared on its own after a few weeks. He was free—free to live his life in the way that suited him best.

  He thought about the men. Collin, Alex, the others. They knew what he was talking about. War made humans become self-aware. There is only you. Rules are made for other people.

  The next day, he tried an off-the-books apartment broker. The guy sounded shady over the phone. Probably a nasty type. Niklas’d gotten his number from an old school bud, Benjamin.

  First he had to leave a message on the illegal broker’s voice mail. Four hours later: a call from a hidden number.

  “Hi, I’m a broker. I heard your message. You’re interested in looking at some properties. Is that correct?”

  Niklas thought, Some people lived well off other people’s crises. The guy was a snake. Consistently avoided words like apartment, contract, or off the books—knew not to mention anything that could be used against him.

  The broker gave him instructions: I call you, you never call me.

  They arranged to meet the following day.

  He stepped into McDonald’s. Totally beat, but ready to meet the broker. The place looked just as he remembered it. Uncomfortable metal chairs, cherrywood-colored paneling, linoleum flooring. Classic McDonald’s smell: a mix of hamburger meat and something rank. Ronald McDonald House donation jars by the registers; ads for Happy Meals on the tray covers; young, downy-lipped dudes and swarthy chicks behind the registers.

  The difference since he’d been here last: health fascism. Mini carrots instead of french fries, whole-wheat buns on the burgers instead of the traditional white bread, Caesar salad instead of extra cheeseburgers. What was people’s problem? If they didn’t exercise enough to burn normal food they should think twice before they even went into this place. Niklas ordered a mineral water.

  A man walked up to his table. Dressed in a long coat that almost dragged on the ground, under which he was wearing a gray suit and a white shirt. No tie. Slicked-back hair and empty eyes. A smile so wide it looked like his head was going to split in half.

  It must be the broker.

  The man extended his hand. “Hi, I’m the fixer.”

  Niklas ignored his hand. Nodded at him. Point: You may be the fixer I need—but that doesn’t mean I’m going to kiss your ass.

  The broker looked surprised. Hesitated for a moment. Then sat down.

  Niklas didn’t skip a beat. “What do you have for me and how does it work?”

  The broker leaned forward. “You seem to be a straight shooter. Aren’t you going to eat anything?”

  “No, not now. Just tell me what you have and how it works.”

  “All right. I’ve got listings anywhere you want. I can get you something south of the city, north of the city, Östermalm, Kungsholmen. I can get you something in the royal Drottningholm Park if you’re interested. But you don’t look like the type.” The broker laughed at his own joke.

  Niklas remained silent.

  “But remember, if you ever come claiming we’ve met here to discuss what we’re discussing, it didn’t happen. I’m in a meeting with some colleagues right now, just so you know.”

  Niklas neither heard nor understood what the broker was talking about.

  “Yeah, so, I’ve got myself covered in case of rotten eggs. Just so you know. If anything unpleasant happens, I have witnesses who’ll say I was busy with other stuff somewhere else right now.”

  “Okay. Good for you. But you didn’t answer my question.”

  The broker smiled again. Got going. Spoke rapidly. He was difficult to understand. Niklas had to ask him to repeat himself several times. The guy’s confident style didn’t match his jumbled manner of speaking.

  He described the listings in detail: in all the inner-city neighborhoods. Collaborations with landlords of luxury apartments, single-family homes, state-owned rental co-ops. Magnificent apartments in the inner city, one-bedrooms with eat-in kitchens on Södermalm or studios in the boroughs. According to him: safe, good-value deals.

  Niklas already knew what he wanted. A one-bedroom in an area just outside the inner city. Preferably near Mom.

  The broker explained the routine. The preparations. The timing. The process. The guy looked like he thought this was all a game.

  “First we’ll register you at a rental out in the boondocks for a few months—a place with a short tenant wait list attached to it. Everything’ll look good on paper. That’s where you’ll be registered and since there was a short wait list, no one will wonder how you got your hands on it. I’ll deal with the landlord. After a few months, we’ll exchange the apartment for the one you’re actually going to buy. That way, the trade will look completely clean. After that, the seller will have to be registered at the same apartment you traded from—that is, your fake apartment—for at least two months. Credibility is everything in my field, as I’m sure you understand.”

  Problem. This wouldn’t cut it—Niklas had to get a place this week already. He had to get out of Mom’s apartment. Fast.

  The broker grinned. “Okay, I think I know your problem. Did your chick kick you out, or what? Shredded clothes? Trashed stereo? Things tend to go a little High Chaparral when they’re mad.”

  Niklas held his gaze. Stared for two seconds longer than normal social codes would allow if he were laughing it off as a joke.

  The broker finally got the message—this was not the time to try to be funny. “Whatever,” he said. “I can still help you. We’ll get you a sublet for those three months when you’ll need to wait. Does that work?
I can put you in a sweet one-bedroom, five hundred and forty square feet, in Aspudden. If you want it, you can have it next week. But it’ll cost a little extra, of course. What do you think?”

  He needed something even sooner. “If I pay more, can you get it faster?”

  “Faster than that? You’re really cutting it close, I have to say. But sure, you can get it the day after tomorrow.”

  Niklas smiled inside. That sounded good. He had to get away.

  Better than expected, actually.

  To disappear so quickly.

  3

  The Southern District might not have the most incident reports per capita, but it always had the most major crime. The City District, downtown, definitely topped the numbers, everyone knew that, but that’s because the scum from south of Södermalm came into the city and did a lot of petty shit there. Shoplifted, pocketed cell phones, harassed, started bar brawls.

  Thomas thought, The south—real ghettos that the politicians don’t give a damn about. Fittja, Alby, Tumba, Norsborg, Skärholmen. Everyone knew the names of the northern shit holes: Rinkeby and Tensta. Diversity aid and cultural organizations abounded. Support efforts were focused. Project money rained down. Integration institutes invaded. But in the south, the gangs ruled for real. Iraqis, Kurds, Chileans, Albanians. The Bandidos, Fucked for Life, Born to Be Hated. You could spend ages burping up calamities. Topped the Swedish lists in number of firearms, number of guys who refused to talk to cops, number of reported blackmail attempts. The criminals organized, copied the MC clubs’ hierarchies, pulled together their own steel-fisted gangs. The teen punks followed the examples set by older bank robbers/drug dealers/thugs. A well-trodden road. To a shit life. The list was endless—all the facts were there. In Thomas’s eyes, didn’t matter what you labeled those niggers and losers—they were all scum, the lot of them.

  He’d heard all the theories that the social-service ladies and the youth psychologists droned on about. But what were they really supposed to do with all those behavioral, cognitive, dynamic, psychiatric, blah-blah-istic hypotheses? No methods worked anyway. No one could clean it up. They spread. Reproduced. Multiplied. Took over. Once upon a time he too might have thought there was a way to stop it. But that was a long time ago now.

  Things used to be better. A cliché. But as Lloyd Cole sings, the reason it’s a cliché is that it’s true.

  Yet another night on the beat. Thomas was driving calmly. Let his hands rest on the wheel. Knew he’d get his ear chewed off at home for signing up for the night shift all week. He didn’t really need the extra money—even though that’s what he told Åsa. A police inspector’s base salary wasn’t even worth a tenth of the drugs he confiscated on a regular night. It was an insult. Ridicule. A loogie in the eye of all the honest men who really knew what needed to be done. So if they took back a little, it was only right.

  There were five or six of them who took turns driving these routes together. Circled the areas around Skärholmen, Sätra, Bredäng. Damned the development to hell. Skipped the PC bullshit and the Commie fake-empathy crap. They all knew the deal—break the swine or roll over and die.

  Thomas’s partner tonight, Jörgen Ljunggren, was sitting in the passenger seat. They usually switched sometime around 2:00 a.m.

  Thomas tried to count. How many times’d he and Ljunggren slid through the slowly darkening summer nights like this? Without unnecessary chitchat. Ljunggren with his paper cup of coffee, always for too long—until the coffee got cold and he hurried off to get a refill at the closest all-night place. Thomas often with his thoughts elsewhere. Mostly focused on his car at home: zinc treatment for the new original detailing, parts to the differential in the back axle, the new tachometer. A project of his own to long for. Or else he yearned for the shooting range. He’d just bought a new pistol—a Strayer Voigt Infinity, made to his specifications. Thomas was lucky in that way, he had more than one home. First the cruiser with the guys. Then his own car at home. Then the shooting club. And then, maybe, home-home—his house in Tallkrogen.

  Jörgen Ljunggren suited Thomas well—he preferred people who didn’t babble too much. What came out was mostly nonsense anyway. So they were quiet. Shared meaningful looks sometimes, nodded, or exchanged short remarks. That was enough for them. They liked it that way. Mutual understanding. A worldview. It wasn’t complicated: they were here to clean up the crap flooding the Stockholm streets.

  Ljunggren was one of the best on the squad. A good guy to have on your side when things heated up.

  Thomas felt relaxed.

  The police radio was spewing out commands. The Stockholm County Police Department used two frequencies instead of one: the 80 system for City, the Southern District, and the Western District, and the 70 system for the rest. In accordance with the rest of the organization. The fact that there were two systems instead of one: inefficiency was the middle name of this operation. No one ever woke up to realize a new age’d dawned. You couldn’t keep trudging along in the same old tracks anymore. His thoughts ran on a loop: The rabble organized completely differently these days. It wasn’t just some Yugos and washed-up Finns running amok. The bottom-feeders stayed fresh. Professional, international, multidisciplinary criminals. New methods were needed to get at them. Faster. Smarter. Tougher. And as soon as someone wanted to do something about it, the media started whining about the new laws as if they were intended to hurt people.

  The radio crackled. Someone needed assistance with a shoplifter at a twenty-four-hour bodega in Sätra.

  They exchanged glances. Grinned. Forget it, they weren’t taking a crap job like that—let some greenhorn cadet take it. They ignored the call. Drove on.

  Approached Skärholmen.

  Thomas downshifted, slowed. “We’re thinking of going away for Christmas again.”

  Ljunggren nodded. “That’s nice. Where were you thinking?”

  “Don’t know. My wife wants to go somewhere warm. Last year we did Sicily. Taormina. Real nice.”

  “I know. You didn’t talk about anything else for three months after.”

  Laughs.

  Thomas turned off toward the Storholms school, outside of Skärholmen’s center. Always worth taking a look at the schoolyard. The punks usually got it into their heads to go there at night—sit on the back of park benches, roll a fatty, as they say, smoke up, and enjoy their short lives.

  Dig the irony: the same kids that usually played hooky all day flocked to the schoolyard at night—to smoke themselves stupid. If they were still sitting on those benches five years from now, jobless, they could only blame themselves. But they complained that it was society’s fault. Moved on to heavier stuff: moonshine, hash, aimies. If unlucky: brown sugar. Talk about free fall. Welfare and social services. Worked a couple corners. Flipped a few grams and pulled some suburban break-ins. Their parents could only blame themselves—they should’ve taken their responsibility ages ago. The police could only blame themselves—should’ve clamped down right off the bat. Society could only blame itself—if you gather that much riffraff in one place, you’re asking for trouble.

  The lights in the schoolyard could be seen from far away. The gray concrete school building lay like a giant Lego block in the darkness behind the yard.

  They stopped the car. Got out.

  Ljunggren grabbed the white baton. Completely unnecessary—but correct. The other feeble expandable baton didn’t always cut it.

  “Maria always needs to be so damn cultural. Wants to go to Florence, Copenhagen, Paris, and God knows where else. There isn’t even anything nice to look at over there,” Ljunggren said.

  “Can’t you look at the Mona Lisa?”

  Chuckles, again.

  “Yeah sure, she’s about as hot as a fucking bag of wieners.”

  Thomas thought: Ljunggren should swear less and show his wife who’s in charge more.

  He said, “I think she’s kinda hot.”

  “Who, the Mona Lisa or my old lady?”

  More laughter.


  For once, the schoolyard was empty. Except for under one of the basketball hoops, where a red Opel was parked.

  Thomas lit his Maglite. Held it at head height. Illuminated the license plate: OYU 623.

  “That’s Kent Magnusson’s car,” he said. “I don’t even have to run the plates. We ever plucked him together?”

  Ljunggren hung his baton back on his belt. “You’ve got to be kidding me. We’ve picked him up ten times, at least. You going senile, or what?”

  Thomas didn’t respond. They approached the car. Weak light inside. Someone moved in the front seat. Thomas leaned over. Knocked on the car window. The light went out.

  A voice: “Beat it!”

  Thomas cleared his throat. “We’re not going anywhere. That you in there, Magnusson? This is the police.”

  The voice in the car again: “Dammit. I don’t got anything tonight. I’m as clean as Absolut.”

  “Okay, Kent. It’s okay. But come out anyway so we can talk.”

  Indistinct swearing in response.

  Thomas knocked again, this time on the roof. A little harder.

  The car door opened—the stench from the car: smoke, beer, piss.

  Thomas and Ljunggren’d both struck a broad stance. Waited.

  Kent Magnusson climbed out. Unshaven, hair a mess, rotting teeth, herpes blisters around his mouth. Faded jeans on half-mast—the guy had to pull them up at least a foot and a half in order not to fall over. A T-shirt with a print ad for the Stockholm Water Festival that must’ve been ancient. An unbuttoned plaid shirt over the T-shirt.

  A complete junkie. Even more worn down than last time Thomas’d seen him.

  Thomas shone the flashlight in his eyes.

  “Hey there, Kent. How high are you?”

  Kent mumbled, “Not at all. I’ve been cutting back.”

  His eyes really did look clear. His pupils were a normal size—contracted when the light from the flashlight hit them.