Never Fuck Up sn-2

by Jens Lapidus

  Thomas saw John Ballénius’s lead grow.

  He waved his badge. To no avail. There were too many people.

  He yelled. Pressed. Tried to push through.

  He had to do something.

  34

  Mahmud was on his way to see his dad. The Iraqi club in Skärholmen, Dal Al-Salam. Robert gave him a ride. They drove in silence. Listened to Jay-Z’s phat beats. Robert drove like a maniac.

  It’d been a week since Mahmud’d made his last payment to the Born to Be Hated dudes. He should be happy. He should feel free, independent, unbound. Should.

  Everything was fucked up. He was tired. Worn down. Above all, pissed off. They bent him over and did him so hard he wept. Used him like a dumb bitch who just took it. Forced him into the corner of the ring, beat him up mentally like he was a defenseless nobody. A huge betrayal.

  Not Gürhan and his boys. But the ones he’d thought would save him: the Yugos—Radovan & Co. Christian fucking crusading Serbs, worse than the Zionists. Fuck them. Easy enough to say, but not so simple to do.

  Robert turned to him.

  “Habibi, what you thinking about? You look crushed, man.”

  “Nothing. It’s cool.”

  “All right, big-shot hustler. If you say so.”

  They continued to listen to the music.

  Last weekend, Mahmud’d been in touch with Stefanovic. Asked to meet up. They set a time and place: Saturday night, Black & White Inn, a bar in Södermalm, Stockholm’s South Side. Stefanovic informed him, “You know, we can’t be meeting up all the time. But I’ll send someone.”

  Mahmud was planning on breaking up with the Yugo fuckers. Sell the last round of blow that’d he’d picked up and then: a clean break. Find a normal job. Make Erika E. happy. Above all: make Dad happy.

  Tom’d given him a ride that time. The guy liked vintage cars—drove a Chevy from 1981, black with flames painted on the hood. Mahmud didn’t get why. Tom assured him, “The engine and the box are from ’95, so this baby rolls like a skateboard.”

  Tom was chill. Had taken a different route than Mahmud, but never looked down on blattes like him. Studied real academic stuff in high school. Mahmud grinned at the thought: it took the guy five years to graduate, but look at him now. Tom, twenty-two years old—had learned the debt-collection industry like a crazy college kid. As he put it, “Soon, I’ll start my own company and then both Intrum Justitia and the Hells Angels’ll have to watch out.”

  Tom’d asked Mahmud to take the wheel for a sec. Fished out a manila envelope. Poured the powder on a CD case. Almost impossible to make real lines while they were sitting in the car. They had to wing it. Live on the edge. Tom rolled a bill, sucked a noseful. Took back the wheel. Gave Mahmud the bill. He tried to appreciate the amount. Sucked. Shit, that was probably half a gram. The rush was even stronger on days when he’d worked out before. Two seconds later: his gums tickled, grew numb. Then: schwing.

  The lights on the road floated together like in a photograph. The night was mad beautiful. His emotions were soaring. The road was like a long strip on a racetrack, lined by crazy fireworks.

  Black & White Inn: a Yugo-owned place. Everyone needed their laundromats. Mahmud and his buds never really made sums big enough to need washing, but he knew that if you played in the big leagues, you had to do it sooner or later. Gürhan’s gang ran their money through dry cleaners, video-rental stores, and other Syriac-run businesses. The Yugos ran restaurants and bars. Maybe even heavier shit: offshore accounts, islands in the West Indies, stocks, and crap like that.

  Mahmud had to wait in the car. The rush was too sharp. After fifteen minutes, he felt more normal. They walked in.

  Usual pub vibe. Beer ads in old wooden frames and wood paneling along the walls. Wood tables and wood chairs on the wood floor. The people here must have pretty poor imaginations.

  The place was half empty. A dude met them. Eyes that looked sunk into his skull. Broad, blanched. Brutal appearance. Led them into some sort of VIP room. Closed the door behind them. Ratko, Stefanovic’s gorilla, was in there, leaning back in a chair. The Yugo was dressed in a relaxed way. Chiller style today than anything Mahmud’d seen him or Stefanovic rock before. Ratko today: T-shirt, black jeans, and Sparco racing shoes. Mouth half open, chin up in the air. Don’t-fuck-with-me attitude. Fight-picking look par excellence. But the dude was usually cool to Mahmud at the gym.

  The Yugo nodded. “Hey Twiggy, you good?”

  Real ballbuster comment: “Twiggy.” Look in a mirror, Mahmud was twice as beefy as Ratko. But Mahmud was still as high as a skyscraper. Confidence on top. Wanted to take care of this fast. Responded without taking the bait. “I’m a’ight.”

  Small talk for five minutes. Then Ratko interrupted the chat: “I understand things’re going well for you, sales-wise.”

  Mahmud laughed. Humility wasn’t his thing. “You can call me the King Snowman.”

  Ratko grinned along. “Right?” But then his face changed. The smile vanished.

  “There was something you wanted to talk about.”

  Mahmud rocked, shifted his weight from the right to the left foot.

  “I’m gonna start a new life. So I’m gonna quit selling. The gear I picked up a few days ago, that’ll be my last gig. But I already paid for that, so.”

  Ratko didn’t say anything.

  Mahmud looked at Tom. Tom looked at Mahmud.

  Mahmud repeated, “I’m gonna quit selling.”

  Ratko pretended like he didn’t hear what he said.

  “Yo, you hear me or what? I quit.”

  Ratko threw his arms open. “Okay, so you quit. What do you want me to say about that?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Right, and I’m saying nothing. But what’ll happen to your sister? And what do you think your dad will think?”

  Mahmud didn’t understand what he was talking about.

  “I mean, if you quit selling, then we’re gonna have to sell the tanning salon where your sister works. Oh, you didn’t know that? We own the place. And we’re gonna have to tell your dad that you’ve been slinging for us. We’ve got pictures of you dropping cash off in the store in Bredäng. We’ve got pictures of you picking the gear up at the storage facilities. We’ve got pictures of you working corners in the city. Above all, we’ve got photos of you and Wisam Jibril. It’s very possible that he might hear what happened to that Lebanese. Because of you. What’ll he think about that?”

  Mahmud had trouble producing saliva; his mouth was as dry as sand.

  “I think you’re starting to understand now, Mahmud.

  Tom took a step forward. “Fuck man, let him quit if he wants to.”

  Ratko still had his gaze glued on Mahmud. “I think Mahmud can speak for himself.”

  Mahmud just wanted to get out of there. He made an effort. Focused. Had to say something. He said, “Come on. I can quit if I want to.”

  Ratko’s reply was like the bite of whip: “Correct.” A short pause, then he added, “But then your sis can forget all about her job and we’ll tell your dad. We’re honest people. He has to know, that’s all.”

  In Skärholmen. Back to the present. Robert dropped Mahmud off outside Dal Al-Salam. Mahmud opened the door. A small bell jingled.

  Inside, the smoke was thicker than in a hammam. The club couldn’t care less about any potential no-smoking policies: everyone in there was over fifty anyway—why did they need to be healthy? The room: small, square tables with green tablecloths and ashtrays. Plastic chairs, posters with images of the Spiral Minaret on the Abu Duluf Mosque in Samarra, the martyr monument for the Iran-Iraq war in Baghdad, pictures of the desert in Najaf, herds of sheep, camels. An old-fashioned TV was suspended in one corner: Al Jazeera news was on as usual.

  The chatter volume was turned up to max. The old guys were doing their usual things. Eating pita bread, drinking coffee with an extreme amount of sugar in it, smoking strong cigarillos and hookahs, playing shesh-besh and patience, flipping through Iraqi newspa
pers. Mahmud got a kick of nostalgia right away: the bread dipped in baba ghanoush, the hookah smell, the sound of the old men and their frantic discussions, the images of the homeland on the wall.

  Mahmud’s dad emerged out of the smoky fog. “Salaam alaikum!” Kissed Mahmud twice on each cheek. Looked happier than usual: maybe that wasn’t so strange—Mahmud hadn’t been to the club since he turned fourteen.

  “Don’t you want to say hello to everyone?” Beshar spoke softly. His Iraqi dialect was stronger than usual—ch sounds instead of k sounds. But Mahmud knew what his dad’s friends thought about people like him, even though he’d only been locked up for a short turn. Iraqis who ruined things for everyone else, who soiled the dignity of the community with their criminal records.

  Mahmud said, “No, jalla now. I wanna go.”

  Beshar shook his head. Mahmud thought, No matter what he says, it’s a relief for him not to have to drag me around in here.

  They walked across Skärholmen’s square. The street vendors were hocking their wares as usual. Yelling out their claimed lowest-price guarantees.

  They were picking up Jamila at her job, the tanning salon in Axelsberg. Mahmud remembered the Yugos’ threat.

  Dad said, “Do you know what has come to pass with Jamila’s friend? Has he stopped molesting her?”

  Mahmud thought he used such old-fashioned Arabic words sometimes. Like, what did molest even mean?

  “He’s not her friend. He was her boyfriend. I think they broke up and that he doesn’t bother her anymore. I hope so.”

  Beshar didn’t know too much about the incident a few months ago when Jamila’s neighbor’d rushed into the apartment and beaten her guy to a pulp. Neither Jamila nor Mahmud wanted to tell him. The dude’d been hospitalized for eight days after he had surgery on his jaw—sucked breakfast/lunch/dinner through a straw. Still, the guy refused to talk to the cops who showed up and wanted to interrogate him. Despite everything he’d done to Jamila—he was a man of honor.

  “Do you know what happened to her neighbor?” Beshar asked.

  Mahmud had no idea. The guy seemed lethal.

  A man with dark, curly hair, a dirty knit sweater, and a mustache was distributing slips of paper. A picture of a little boy in a fetal position. The text: My brother is still in Romania. He can’t travel. He has a very serious joint disease. He suffers a great deal and needs medical help. My family cannot afford to help him. We ask you for a gift. May God bless you!

  Beshar dropped a ten-kronor coin into the beggar’s hand when he passed by collecting the slips of paper again. Mahmud looked at him.

  “What are you doing? You can’t give money to one of those.”

  Beshar turned to Mahmud.“An honorable man is always generous. That is the only thing I want to teach you, Mahmud. You need to maintain your dignity through life. Act like a man.”

  “I do, Dad.”

  “No, not when you’re selling those pills and fighting with the police and prosecutors. Will you ever change?”

  “I’m on the right track. Really, I am. I’m not doing that stuff anymore. That was before prison.” Mahmud could hardly conceal the disappointment in his voice. When would he be able to start controlling his own life? Be free of all the sharmutas who fucked with him. Syriacs, Yugos, the parole office at Hornsfuck.

  “You need to act respectfully toward people who deserve it, respect your elders, and always be generous, like toward that poor man we just passed right there. And then you have to take care of your sister. I am too old for that. Just think of all she’s been through. Did you thank her neighbor?”

  “Absolutely. I thanked him right after that thing happened. I think it made him happy. But he seems a little weird.”

  “That doesn’t matter. Do you know what Allah’s messenger—may blessings and peace be upon him—said about that?”

  “About what?”

  “About woman.”

  Mahmud remembered certain expressions that his dad’d taught him ages ago. “She is a rose.”

  “That’s right. You must treat her well. The prophet also said that the best among you are those who treat your wives well. He said only an honorable man honors women. Do you understand? Think of your mother.”

  Mahmud thought about his mom. The memories grew hazier with each passing year. Her eyes, her kisses when he was about to go to sleep. The head scarf that she’d stopped wearing during those last years, but that was always hanging in their house like a reminder. Her stories about bandits and caliphs. He wondered who she’d been, really. What would’ve happened if she’d come along to Sweden? Then maybe everything wouldn’t have gone to hell.

  They were almost at Jamila’s tanning salon. They passed the indoor subway platform at Mälarhöjden. Beshar moved his prayer beads between thumb and index finger.

  Mahmud couldn’t drop the irony of the situation. He’d taken a job with the Yugos in order to escape the Born to Be Hated, to get ahead in life. The result: instead of being chased by Gürhan, he was locked in by Stefanovic. Instead of being free but in debt, he was debt-free but a slave. And Abu was involved both times. They’d popped Wisam. If Dad found out about Mahmud’s contribution to that mess—shit, he didn’t even want to think about it. Then he might as well just go die in a ditch right away.

  Axelsberg, with the usual stores. One ICA grocery store and one video-rental place, an ATM, and a hair salon that looked like it hadn’t changed its window display in thirty years. A newly opened Mexican joint in some old building and a beer dive. Finally: Jamila’s tanning salon. Well, maybe not Jamila’s per se— the Yugos owned the place. But she’d been working there for five years.

  They walked in. The tanning booths were hidden behind gray doors. Jamila was mopping the floor. Tanning salons: nasty, sweaty, dirty by default. If you didn’t keep it extra clean, not even the worst tanning addicts would show.

  Jamila smiled. Beshar smiled. Mahmud watched them. Jamila reminded him of Mom, intense mood swings but always mad nice to Dad. Never talked back, pampered him. But maybe that was good. He got a flashback: the pig head in the paper bag.

  Jivan showed fifteen minutes later. She was stressed out, said she had a ton of homework to do. Mahmud remembered his own school years. Babak, Rob, the others—none of them even knew what homework was.

  They walked together to the grocery store. Shopped. Then they walked toward Örnsberg, where Jamila lived. Mahmud carried the bags of groceries. Past a playground, a football field, a wooded area. Past the whole Sven suburb with its advantages and privileges. It wasn’t the fact that there was a park, a field, or a forest—they had all that in Alby too—it was that it all functioned so calmly and flawlessly. Fag fathers and day-care teachers in the park with the kids, no chaos. School teams on the football field, but no fights. Maybe he exaggerated the image of his own hood.

  Beshar asked Jamila lots of questions. She talked about buying the tanning salon. Finally. The storefront and the business couldn’t cost more than fifty G’s to take over.

  Jivan promised, “I’m gonna be a lawyer. Then I can lend you money.”

  They laughed.

  Outside Jamila’s house. Some dude was packing stuff into an Audi. At first, Mahmud didn’t recognize the guy. Jamila seemed to want to avoid him, turned her face away. After three seconds: Mahmud realized who it was—the neighbor who’d pummeled her boyfriend.

  Mahmud stopped. Called out to the neighbor.

  The dude looked up. Responded in Arabic, “Salaam.”

  Niklas walked up to Beshar. “Hi, my name is Niklas and I live on the same floor as Jamila. Is she your daughter?”

  Beshar looked confused. A Swede who spoke his language?

  “May God protect you,” Beshar said in a quiet voice.

  Mahmud thought, Can’t Dad find something better to say?

  At the same time: there was something about that neighbor, Niklas. He radiated something. Coolness. Strength. Hardness. Something that Mahmud needed right now.

  35

&
nbsp; Left-wing types/anarchist feminists/LGBT socialists/gender Communists. Niklas didn’t care about labels. Didn’t care if they read the same books as he did. Didn’t care what they wrote on their message boards, their blogs, their articles. Didn’t care who they were, why they thought the way they did. Only one thing was clear: he needed more bodies for the attack—and a few of the people on those websites seemed to think like him. Operation Magnum demanded time. More than he could put in on his own. The thought’d been growing lately: he should recruit. And Benjamin wouldn’t do.

  Total sleep over the past ten days: less than forty hours. He pursued Mats Strömberg from eight-thirty in the morning until seven-thirty at night, when the guy went home. Most of Niklas’s time was spent in the Audi outside the asshole’s job, an accounting firm in Södermalm. He rented another car for a few days to avoid drawing attention to himself. Used a fake driver’s license that he’d bought online.

  He continued to read the right literature—The Girl and the Guilt, by Katarina Wennstam, Under the Pink Comforter, by Nina Björk—dozed off, drank coffee. The rest of the evenings, he watched over the other apartments. Later at night: changed the tapes in the video cameras, watched the footage, organized his information, practiced with his knife, chatted with the left-wing people. He stopped running, didn’t call his mom, Benjamin, or anyone else. But was there anyone else, really? It’s not like his social calendar’d been crammed since he’d moved back home.

  He was learning more and more about Mats Strömberg. The dude followed strict routines. Took the same route to the train every day. Bought a cinnamon bun and a coffee at the same shop every morning. Threw the coffee cup in the exact same garbage bin on the street. Either he left with his colleagues at eleven-thirty or he went by himself and bought something thirty minutes later. Alternated between three different lunch spots. Niklas could see straight into the pig’s office; it was on the bottom floor. Six people worked at the place. He wondered how much they knew about Mats Strömberg’s home life.