by Jens Lapidus
When he was on the juice he’d be able to handle much more. And damn, he was gonna bulk up. With good discipline, he could gain twenty-two pounds. Inject Stanol and front-load Deca. The ampoules felt unreal, but Mahmud was happy needles didn’t scare him—the injection needles were as big as straws from McDonald’s. Then he’d take some Winstrol to dry out—he didn’t want to look like a balloon.
There were some minor downsides, too. The word at the gym was that your kidneys could take a hit. But he was only gonna do it for eight weeks.
An hour later: Dijma with a gripper in his hands. Dijma: buyer with a big B who never bought on credit—always cash. Dijma: the Albanian who didn’t work out too much, but who sold a crazy bunch of shit. Always applying mad force to the gripper. The muscles in his thumbs big as tennis balls. The nails on the dude’s pinky fingers were long like on a porn star.
Mahmud dug him, a straight thug. Dressed in classic gym getup: sweatpants and a long-sleeved shirt, a zippered hoodie. Looked around. No one. A Friday night—the gym was half empty at this time of day.
Mahmud put the weights down. “Hey, Twiggy, stop working your wank muscle and do some free weights instead.”
Dijma grinned. Rules of the hierarchy: Mahmud was bigger, Mahmud sat on the goods. Mahmud delivered. So: Dijma laughed at whatever Mahmud said.
In shit Swedish, “The gear, you got it?” Dijma was apparently stressed today.
“Sure. Fifty, in one package.”
“Fuck, man, you guys were gonna break it up.”
“Chill. You break it up. That’s no problem.”
“Okay, okay. And the price?”
“Nine hundred pesetas.”
“Pesetas?”
“Kronor, man. Fuck, you tired today?”
“Nine hundred kronor? No way. Eight hundred.”
“We’ve said nine hundred every time for months. So don’t think you’re gonna come changing it now.”
“Prices change. And you didn’t break it up.”
Dijma said it like it was some fucking macroeconomic certainty. Mahmud didn’t dig his grouse.
“This is bullshit. Nine hundred, that’s the deal.”
“Eight fifty, not a kronor more.” Dijma was too cocky for his own good.
Mahmud shouldn’t put up with this shit. But still: he needed the cash, bad.
His calculation: if he sold fifty times 850 a gram it would be 42,500. Mahmud’s cut: twelve G’s. Wasn’t enough to cover the final payment of fifteen to Gürhan. He needed nine hundred a gram. Or else he was screwed.
Mahmud took a step forward.
“Dijma, the price is nine hundred. We can negotiate next time, then I’ll give you eight hundred. But today it’s nine hundred. You follow?”
Dijma pumped the grip a few times. Mahmud didn’t drop his gaze.
The Albanian nodded. “For today, okay. Next day, eight hundred.”
Bull’s-eye. Dijma must be stressing about something; he’d folded too easily. Normally, this kind of thing could’ve made for some tense shit. But not today, and it wasn’t Mahmud’s problem—he was gonna celebrate.
They walked down to the locker room. Sat next to each other on the bench. Mahmud handed over the bag of gear. Dijma went into a toilet stall to test it. Mahmud, with a raised voice: “Ey, you don’t trust me or what?” The Albanian didn’t respond. Came out thirty seconds later, thumbs up, pushed over a plastic bucket that said CREATAMAX 300 on the side—normally, bodybuilder milkshake. Today: dough. Mahmud dove his hand in. Fingered the bills.
Totally insane. In a few hours, Mahmud would raise his Stockholm ranking. Lose the Gürhan pigs. Quit the Yugo assholes. Become his own man. Rock for real.
Eleven-thirty, a Friday night in Stockholm: people acted like they were on speed. Had waited all week to go out, plus it’d been pouring all day. But now: the rain’d stopped—summer was back. It might be the last chance for that sweet outdoor buzz, that summer fuck, that weed flight. Muscle cars were driving down Sveavägen to cruise around, around, elbows stuck out through open windows: as Suedi as only Svens could be. The kids on their way from the joints in Vasastan that were about to close. Mission: make their way to Stureplan and guzzle some glamour. Mahmud: on his way to freedom.
Carried his gym bag slung over his shoulder. In it: 45,000 cash in a container that’d once held strawberry-flavored creatine powder. Thirty grand had to be repaid to Robert, for the advance for the Yugos. The remaining fifteen were going to Gürhan. No big sums, obviously. But it was Mahmud’s key to freedom.
He walked downtown. Played with the contents of his pocket. A Redline baggie, five grams. Ducked into the shadows of a building. Fished out a cigarette. Twisted it between thumb and index finger. The tobacco fell into his hand.
He poured the weed onto the paper, mixed it with the tobacco from the cigarette. Licked. Rolled. Ran the lighter flame along the edge of the paper a few times to dry the shit. Lit the spliff. Three deep hits. Smoke rings in the shadows. Relaxed feeling.
This was going to be an ill night.
Robert was waiting in the Golf outside the kabob place near Hötorget. Phat beats could be heard from a several-yard radius.
Rob smiled. Mahmud smiled broader. Jumped into the passenger seat.
Mahmud asked, “You know Fat Joe’s Chinese, right?”
Robert revved the engine. “He’s not fucking Chinese. He’s an Indian.”
“Indian? Haven’t you seen the guy? Mix of Zinji and Chinese. Walla, I swear, man.”
Rob leaned his head back against the seat. Laughed.
Made a U-turn in the middle of Sveavägen. Stepped on the gas. Down to Norrtull. Hardly any traffic. Turned up onto Essingeleden. Southbound toward Södertälje.
Robert changed tracks on the stereo. Sweet Middle Eastern beats. Mahmud liked rap and R & B, but a swinging riff by some Lebanese outclassed most things.
Robert turned the volume down. “Yo, what’s Babak’s beef with you?”
Mahmud didn’t know what to say.
“I don’t know. It’s between us.”
Robert said, “Can’t you talk it out?”
Mahmud didn’t want to drag Robert into this; there was the risk that he wouldn’t understand—react like Babak. Still: the whole thing felt fucked. Babak was his boy.
“It’s cool. I just can’t handle Babak right now, is all.”
Robert didn’t ask anything else.
They drove under the train bridge. Södertälje station. Turned right. Toward the city. Over the channel. Mahmud navigated. Had been there many times before. Dug the place: the closest thing to a blatte-ruled city you could get without it feeling like a godforsaken slum.
The place: Carwash, City & Södertälje. Detailing. The advertising outside: UNBEATABLE PRICES AND ACCESS TO A REPLACEMENT CAR! Robert parked. Leaned back, looked for something on the floor of the backseat. Fished up a wheel lock. Put it on and clicked it into place.
“You know, this is Södertälje. Every other kid born here is a football pro and the rest boost rides.”
A metal door next to the garage. They rang the doorbell. It was dark out.
Mahmud felt for the butterfly knife in his back pocket.
A buzzing sound. A click in the lock. Mahmud opened the door. Concrete floor. Ditec car repair posters on the walls. Ads for maintenance products, car-care packages, equipment, polish, and wax.
Mahmud looked around. Empty.
A voice from the office area. “Look at that, the little Arab. And how are you today?”
Daniel emerged from the shadows. Beside him, a huge dude. Daniel: like a dwarf in comparison. Mahmud’d seen a lot of big guys in his day. At Fitness Center, at K-1, in the concrete, in the pen. Dudes who shat themselves every day under the bench press to get pecs that weren’t even half as big as the beef standing next to Daniel right now. The guy was in the same class as the Belarusian at the K-1 gala.
They went into the office area. A desk, a desk chair, two armchairs. Centerfold chicks on the walls.
Gürhan was sitting in the desk chair. Met Mahmud’s gaze.
“Welcome.” The voice sounded innocent. His eyes were dead.
No chair for Robert and the giant, they had to stand in the background.
Daniel hauled a box with two cords and antennas onto the desk. Mahmud’d heard of that kind of thing in the pen. Some kind of antibugging device. Interfered with the 5-0’s connection if they’d wired the place. Why all the bells and whistles? Why the giant in the background? Why was Gürhan there at all?
Daniel said, “You got the cash?”
Mahmud set the plastic container on the table. Opened the lid. The smell of candy. Took out the fifteen one-thousand-kronor bills. Turned to Gürhan.
“I know I fucked up. Lost your Winstrol. But now I’ve paid back every cent plus your interest. One hundred percent. I paid the whole enchilada.”
He hid his hands under the desk. Sweating like in a fucking sauna.
Daniel continued to respond instead of Gürhan. “No, we don’t agree. You’ve been messin’ this whole time. Been late. Whining like a fucking whore.”
Mahmud stared at him. Didn’t lower his gaze a millimeter. His heart was beating worse than Fat Joe’s base beats. Then: he dissed Daniel. Turned to Gürhan again. “Bullshit. I paid. And I paid double interest. With these fifteen G’s, we’re done.”
Daniel started barking again. “Shut the fuck up. You don’t talk to Gürhan like that. Who do you think you are, you fuckin’ fag? Get out. We don’t want your filthy Arab money.”
Robert looked at Mahmud. Hands in his pockets. Worried. Maybe he had a grip on his knife as hard as Mahmud longed to have on his. The giant took a step forward.
Daniel got up.
“I said leave! And take your nasty candy jar with you.”
Robert looked at Mahmud again. His stress was palpable. Mahmud remained seated. Eyes fixed on Gürhan.
“He’s not calling me a fag one more time. We’re done now. I’ve paid you what you wanted.”
Silence.
Gürhan met Mahmud’s gaze.
Mahmud repeated, “We’re done.”
Daniel lost it. “If you say one more word, I’ll kick your skull in.”
Then: Gürhan raised his hand. “Sit down.”
Daniel turned around. Surprised. Unclear who Gürhan was talking to.
He turned to Daniel. “I said, sit down.”
Daniel tried to protest.
Gürhan repeated, “Sit.”
Daniel sat down. The giant took a step back toward the wall.
“He’s paid what he owed.”
Mahmud could hardly believe it was true. Got up. Robert was breathing heavily in the background.
Gürhan said, “Wait.”
Mahmud turned around. Gürhan’s face was still completely neutral. He said, “Take care, Mahmud.”
Cue: string quartet. Hollywood ending. Finally free to flow.
32
Monday. Niklas woke up at eight even though he hadn’t gone to bed until 4:00 a.m. He’d been to see a doctor yesterday—talked his way into getting certified sick leave. Run through last night’s surveillance videos one more time. One camera’d stopped filming at eleven o’clock. Niklas found it on the ground beneath the tree where it’d been mounted. Someone could’ve seen it and torn it down, that was possible. As long as it wasn’t the guy he was watching. Niklas needed time—he couldn’t get found out, couldn’t arouse suspicions. The Operation was fragile enough as it was.
Despite that: he’d seen enough. Mats Strömberg would be served his punishment. Operation Magnum’s first offensive was in the preliminary stage. Niklas was planning, drawing up an attack strategy. Thought about Collin and the others down in the sandbox. He tried to run through the family’s routines over and over again. Realized: he didn’t know enough about the swine. Needed to keep close watch over him for a few more days.
The day rolled on. He munched Nitrazepam, ate yogurt. Read a book about the radical feminist Valerie Solanas by some Swedish girl named Sara Stridsberg. She thought the way he did, even if the book was a tough read. But the idea was right on. SCUM: Society for Cutting Up Men—a manifesto for action solved problems better than a bunch of pathetic theorizing.
He was supposed to meet Benjamin at six o’clock. Considered canceling. At the same time: Benjamin’d promised to get him a weapons hookup. He needed that.
A few hours left: he read, organized the information he had on the different men, their routines, their patterns, their behavior toward their wives, partners, girlfriends. It was just a matter of domination. The nuclear family was a sealed-off world.
He surfed the Internet. Something new: Niklas’d found websites where people shared his opinions. Feminist chat forums where the comments mirrored his feelings. The hate. The drive. The hunt. For the guilty parties. The men.
It was pouring out. A feeling of purity. Rain’d been a blessing in all the countries where he’d been at war. Often the paramilitary forces, the support units, and the guerrilla men who’d fought on the same side as Niklas would stop for half an hour or so, even in the middle of an attack, to pray to their different gods. Give thanks for the rain, for the ground that would be able to sprout new flowers, bear new crops. Pray for victory on the battlefield. Inshallah.
That’s why going into Friden felt grodier than usual.
Benjamin was already sitting at a table. His beard was wet. Under the table was his dog, Arnold. It got up when Niklas approached. Wagged its nub of a tail languidly. But the eyes—Niklas met its gaze. Like low, intensely glowing embers.
He ordered a Coke Zero.
“Did you go become one of those health freaks while I wasn’t looking?” Benjamin asked.
Niklas didn’t want to drink alcohol. In two hours, he had to get back to Sundbyberg, watch over the Strömberg family in general, the so-called patriarch in particular.
“No, but I saw one on my way over. I think there’s one of those Hare Krishna places around here.”
“Oh man, should I set Arnold loose on ’em?”
Laugh break.
“Did I tell you that I’m gonna start training him for his first fight?”
“Did you dock his tail?”
“Can’t you tell?”
“Yeah, but that’s illegal.”
“Oh, stop. Arnold’s imported from Belgium. They don’t have those crazy rules over there.”
“Okay, and how’s the training going?”
“There’s a dude who breeds these kinds of dogs in Stockholm. He’s taught me a bunch of tricks.” Benjamin’s eyes gleamed. “You starve the dog and let it eye bitches in heat without letting it touch them. Then you tie its legs together, put a cup over its cock so the dog can’t jizz, then spray period blood from the bitches all over the cage, rile it up till it’s about to burst. Arnold’s gonna be crazier than a Tyrannosaurus rex.”
Niklas looked at Benjamin like he didn’t know him. Thought, You’re sick.
He asked if Benjamin’d gotten the hookup. Benjamin smiled, nodded. Looked pleased with himself. Pushed a folded Post-it note across the table. Niklas unfolded it: Black & White Inn, Södermalm. Lucic. Monday night. Benjamin’d doodled a gun at the bottom of the note. The guy was so immature.
Niklas shook Benjamin’s hand. “I won’t forget this.”
They kept chatting. Benjamin went on and on about Arnold’s potential triumphs, then about chicks and business ideas. He downed one beer after the other. Niklas was stressed out. He had to go in ten minutes.
Benjamin made Arnold sit on the seat next to him. The dog’s tongue was dangling from its mouth like a strip of bacon.
Niklas considered his options. Should he stay just to keep Benjamin in a good mood? The guy’d given him a weapons hookup, after all. And the guy’d done him a favor when the cops’d asked about that night this summer. At the same time: he had to go. The Operation was more important right now.
On his way to Sundbyberg. Niklas had too many ideas at once. His goal wa
s clear. To become the kind of person who makes a mark on the world. But he needed resources. The attack demanded cash. The thought ballooned. Maybe he could use Benjamin somehow.
So many people are born who never make a mark. People who might as well not have been born. A hundred years later, who would care if they hadn’t ever been born into the world? Who would care if someone made sure they disappeared from the world?
Doing something with Benjamin. Maybe. Could be a possibility. But there were some major problems: Benjamin wasn’t made of the right stuff. No matter how many fighting dogs or bad-boy tattoos he got: he was a pussy.
Niklas needed someone else. Someone who would actually be able to go through with what he had in mind. Who did he know? He thought about the websites he’d visited over the past few weeks. The feminist people. Maybe he could find someone there?
33
Formally, he’d been given his service weapon back. But no one packed heat in this unit. Thomas carried his anyway. The gun’s weight felt strange in his pocket. His blazer sort of fit crookedly; he kept having to straighten it. Armed, but without a uniform, the way civvies must feel all the time. But for one gigantic difference: that wasn’t the service he was in.
His job at the traffic unit was almost duller than the two months he’d spent waiting for the verdict. The people in the unit were like the geeks in school when he’d been a kid. Or rather, these guys were probably the same wimps, but twenty-five years later. Those things never change: geeks are geeks. Laughed at boring word puns, talked about what kind of food they’d cooked their wives the night before, got worked up about how poor the quality of the new plastic binders in the office was. The unit was in Farsta. Thomas tended to go out alone for lunch—grab a burger or a kebob.
