Slugger

by Martin Holmén

The engine of the hearse splutters into life and I pull out into the sparse traffic on St Eriksgatan. The Reaper and another bloke I assume to be Ploman have just passed by in a dirty white Ford van with Stockholm plates.

  I am tempted to step on the accelerator and force the damn thing off the road but keep my distance, with my hat low on my forehead, and both hands on the wheel. The half-empty litre bottle of schnapps slops about between my thighs. The Husqvarna pistol is on the passenger seat, its magazine fully loaded with death. I’m not sure what smells more of gun oil: the pistol or me.

  The Ford has a small oval window in each of the two back doors, and it looks like the bloody van is staring at me. I have a terrible feeling, stinging through me needle-sharp, that it is Rickardsson who has tricked me and not the other way around.

  ‘Fine words seduce a fool.’

  I increase the distance between us, fumble with a Meteor and manage to strike a match.

  It doesn’t pay to trust any devil in this industry.

  That much I have learnt.

  My new trench coat rustles as I grab hold of the Bakelite again. The poplin coat is too warm but I chose it anyway. If you’re going to kill a bloke or two, you might as well do it in style. The plan is to strike as soon as they step out of the car. I am not a good shot at long range and need to make sure I get in close.

  I take a deep breath and plonk my right hand on the steering wheel. Wrong damn hand. My fingers spasm with pain.

  I keep one car behind the Ford. We turn right, the tyres bounce over the tram tracks and we drive over St Erik Bridge in the direction of Kungsholmen’s forest of chimney stacks. The pistol is slipping back and forth on the leather seat with a shuffling sound: a reminder of why I am here. I hit the steering wheel again and grimace. Wrong hand again.

  The water under the bridge is as still as the evening air. The willows stretch out their arms, as if they are trying to catch the white-hulled motorboat with green and red lights that is slowly chugging along the canal.

  Ploman and the Reaper are now in enemy territory, Belzén’s turf, but the van looks like it is slowing down rather than speeding up. I switch to a lower gear and stretch my neck.

  At Wiklund’s bicycle factory, around where Dahlman, our last state executioner, is said to have been run over by a tram at the end of the war, they slow down, and a black Volvo pulls into the road. It stays close in front of the van. I chew lightly on my lacerated lower lip.

  Thankfully, I’ve never had a run-in with the executioner. When I was younger I never did anything to give him reason to bother with me. During recent years it seems like the reasons have piled up, though, and I am glad they have abolished the death penalty.

  A hell of a way to go.

  Better like this, with my boots on, if I am going to die now. Ma is right about that. I tremble as I puff on my cigar.

  We turn on the deserted Fridhemsgatan. Smoke rises from campfires among the shacks and run-down workshops to our right, but the school’s gaping windows are empty and black. I wonder who is in the Volvo and what kind of weapons they are carrying. It hardly seems plausible that Belzén, here in Kungsholmen, and Ploman could have gone into some sort of unholy alliance after decades of waging war.

  I twist in my seat and lift one buttock. I am damned sore after Rickardsson’s return earlier in the evening. The man knew what he wanted and he had wanted it for a long time. I crack a smile despite the tension. I haven’t had a round like that in a dozen years or more. I pull the stopper out of the bottle and guzzle a couple of swigs.

  We turn right just a stone’s throw from Belzén’s headquarters and pick up speed along Väster Bridge towards Södermalm. I glance down at the water and imagine the Bumpkin’s son leaping to his death. They will have to set up a real fence here sooner or later, mark my words, but when it comes to protecting the poor, broken and sick of Söder and Kungsholmen, it will no doubt take awhile yet.

  We pass Långholmen and the Central Prison. After three stints inside I recognise the distinct smells in my broken nose: dirt, prison sweat, water-damaged concrete and tarred trussing. If I don’t play my cards right this evening I will be rattling the bars in there for the rest of my scurvy life. The never-ending shuffling steps in straight rows. Beatings and torment.

  I focus my attention as we turn on to Söder Mälarstrand. The quay is a well-known drop-off point for smuggled vodka and, despite what Ma says about gambling and Jews, spirits are still the gangster syndicate’s principal source of income. The vehicles are thirty metres or so ahead of me and show no sign of slowing down.

  Small, creaking cargo boats are packed close together to our left. The last sunshine of twilight glitters in the water, and a train ploughs south on the connecting rail line, shrouded in the white locomotive smoke. We don’t meet many vehicles. I reach for my pistol and place it on my knee.

  When they passed me back in Vasastan I saw that the Reaper was in the passenger seat. I might be able to drive up alongside on a straight stretch, empty the magazine through the side window, blow the smoke from the barrel and drive away quicker than quick. I jolt. It’s about damn time I put my money where my mouth is. For a second I press down harder on the accelerator, but no, the Mariaberget cliff is to my right, the water to the left, and nowhere to turn off to escape the escort car.

  I hold the steering wheel steady with my knee, unscrew the cork and take a whole mouthful of schnapps.

  Only when we have passed Slussen and are approaching the big Stadsgård quay, do I realise where we are headed and turn off the lights. Normally the area is teeming with herring girls, dockers, customs officials, interpreters and all the sailors on shore leave speaking foreign tongues, asking for directions to the Old Town’s stone labyrinth of taverns and brothels. The place is usually filled with the relentless noise of latches churning over winch gears and the indistinct hum of cranes, but now all is deserted and I daren’t follow. Not in a damn hearse.

  After a moment of consideration I step on the brake and park next to a shack. I hesitate for a second thinking about the litre bottle. I might need it, but it’s too much to carry. I close the door quietly. With my Husqvarna in hand I mash the cigar under the sole of my shoe and set off after the convoy on foot with the back of my trench coat fluttering behind me. The ammunition clinks in my trouser pocket and bounces against my leg.

  I follow one of the many train tracks, and my shoes pummel against the sleepers in time with my heartbeat. It is still too light for my liking and I crouch behind one of the many stacks of barrels, crates and kegs that are strewn about. On the track that runs nearest to the edge of the wharf, about thirty metres ahead, stands a long freight train that can offer me some protection. I head towards it.

  I glance at the rail spikes along the tracks and conjure up the image of Gabrielsson’s skinny corpse in my mind, to stoke up my hatred, feel it burn in my veins. I can’t feel it. I don’t know any more if I am here for his sake, or my own.

  Should have taken the schnapps with me.

  I can still hear the sound of the car engines some distance ahead, faint as a breeze. A few seagulls screech, a steam whistle blows hoarsely from somewhere on Saltsjön. I slip but regain my balance and continue with my finger on the trigger and the pistol poised.

  I reach the freight train where the shelter of the wagons allows me to pick up the pace. I follow along the embankment, only a couple of metres from the water, lapping against the stone pavement.

  I approach a row of familiar cranes. They look like great big giraffes that have come down to drink in the dusk. I listen, but the engine sounds have disappeared and all that can be heard is my own wheezing windpipe.

  The van and the escort car are both parked between the train and the northernmost brick building of the customs complex. With more than fifteen metres to spare I slow down and am soon lying flat on the ground. I allow my lungs to recover as I look around. To my left is a ship with a coal-blackened English flag. She is lying in shallow water and has probably not been loaded
yet. The ground straight ahead of me is littered with orange peel and to my right are train tracks and wheels. My heart hammers against the ground.

  ‘By all the blue-scorched devils in hell, Kvisten,’ I whisper. ‘Here goes.’

  I crawl laboriously a little farther and squeeze my head under the train. It smells like engine oil. I blink away the sweat from my eyes and look around. The cars are parked diagonally in front of me but there is no one in sight. Maybe they have disappeared into the customs office building.

  I am fingering one of the spikes that rivets the rail tight to the sleepers and considering my options when suddenly the rumbling of a heavily loaded trolley resonates through the air. A car door is opened and shut again.

  With one hand on my hat I crawl out from under the train and stand up. I hear muted voices from the other side of the train but I can’t make out what they are saying. I take a couple of careful steps back and step over the link between two freight wagons. I press my back against the wagon side.

  The bleak rippling water laps against the quay; the wind brings sharp, exotic scents from ship holds.

  Another car door opens with a creak and soon I hear the shuffling and thuds of boxes being unloaded. I have lifted tons of goods in this harbour myself.

  I push my hat back with the barrel and wipe my forehead with the sleeve of my trench coat. I peek around the corner with my pistol outstretched. I suck a breath in through my teeth.

  Ploman is a hefty bloke with a square head like a wooden block. He is helping a customs officer aboard with a small wooden crate. The crate is barely thirty centimetres long and wide but it looks as heavy as lead. The customs officer is dressed in full uniform with plenty of brass on his jacket and a peaked cap. Corrupt bastard.

  The Reaper is pale even in high summer, clothed entirely in black, with sickly sunken cheeks. Skinny as a starving street cat, with a butt in the corner of his mouth and a monocle dangling on a gold chain. He is holding a significantly larger box in his arms. My little finger stump is aching like a rotten tooth.

  I repress a sudden cough reflex and pull my head back around the corner. The irritable impulses start in the sides of my ribs, then push into the centre of my chest and make me arch in discomfort. A few choked sounds escape my tight-pursed lips. This fucking summer and all its dust. I press my left hand over my mouth as my upper body spasms.

  I have suffered this damned cough my whole adult life and the only thing that seems to help is a proper spell at Långholmen. The fact that a damp prison cell is the best we have to offer a poor man by way of sanitation says something about this country.

  Nevertheless, a twenty-year stint is more than I have the stamina for.

  I calm down and take a couple of deep breaths of familiar sea air before peeking around the corner again. Not an easy shot. A moving target in the half-light, ten metres away, partially obscured by the trolley.

  I am filled with the same feeling as Evy Granér evoked in me at Dr Jensen’s. Maybe it’s some sort of flicker of conscience. It has embedded itself in my stomach like a nail.

  For fuck’s sake, Kvisten.

  Can’t you see the difference between a poverty-stricken woman and some ruthless bloody murderers? No need to agonise over them.

  The customs officer is an inconvenience. He hasn’t done a damned thing to me but on the other hand no man with brass on his coat has ever helped me any either. Quite the opposite. He will probably make a run for it, and something tells me the booze smugglers won’t alert the police on the way. If he insists on being difficult I’ll shoot his kneecap off.

  No more than that.

  I think.

  To the right of us, the sheer side of Katarinaberg drops vertically down to the harbour in darkness. High up, the bells of Gabrielsson’s church begin to strike ten o’clock, as if counting down to knockout.

  ‘Payment in blood.’

  I mumble to myself, lean out slightly and raise the pistol. If I strike now the shots might be partially drowned out by the bell’s dull tolls. Three, four.

  All the evening’s drams have caught up with me, and my finger trembles slightly where it rests on the trigger’s seductive curve. My eyes seek out the luminous tip of the Reaper’s cigarette. For Gabrielsson. A blueberry right in the kisser.

  Five.

  I take a deep breath and hold it. For one moment the front sight is locked like a blackjack on the Reaper’s pale face. My finger pulls the trigger one millimetre back before he bends down to pick up another box.

  A seagull cackles.

  I bite my lip.

  There is still some bullshit inside me that is resisting.

  Katarina’s seventh peal urges me on. I blink away a drop of sweat and hold my breath again. My earlier cough reflex remains as a faint tickle in my chest. The Reaper turns his back to me.

  ‘God damn it.’

  All I have to do is squeeze the trigger. The ninth chime booms across the grounds. The front door of the escort car opens.

  ‘Fuck.’

  Sailors who have spent a few years at sea can usually smell a storm long before it is above the ship. God knows how. For me every storm comes as a complete surprise. A bloody unpleasant one.

  My heart leaps. I lower the gun, fold back the hammer with my thumb and crouch down. Detective Chief Inspector Alvar Berglund is well dressed as always. He looks around and rolls the pointy end of his moustache between his fingers.

  ‘You gentlemen had better hurry if you don’t want to be late for your little get-together,’ he calls to the others.

  The customs officer rolls away with the trolley and I still haven’t managed to come up with a reasonable plan. Words swoop through my skull like petrels, each gone before I can get a hold of it, to be replaced by the next. It seems I don’t have space for more than one thought at a time and the few I do have room for are not getting on well with each other.

  ‘Fucking hell,’ I whisper to myself and sink down on my aching behind.

  The Husqvarna is shaking in my hand. Out of old habit, I fish out a cigar and shove it in my mouth. The van doors slam. A breath of relief flows through my veins.

  It disgusts me.

  I peer around the corner in time to see Berglund and the Reaper shake hands. The former puts his left hand on the latter’s shoulder. Fucking corrupt coppers. Every one of them seems to be on the smuggling syndicate’s payroll; this is not the first time they have offered their escort services. I have heard it happens from time to time as long as the price is right.

  I pull my head back again.

  ‘Cop killing.’

  I taste the words. Not too bad, if you like the taste of shit. I spit. The whole force would be after me.

  One of the men laughs loudly and soon I hear another car door open and shut. One engine starts up, followed by the other. I am going to lose my chance.

  A gearbox whines, the sound of the engines rises and falls, the cars roll away. I have worked like a dog in this damned harbour. Heaved 100-kilo sacks of grain on the way to Öhman’s or salt to Tempelman’s on a backbone of steel. Lugged crates and barrels through rain, snow and baking sun. Ten hours a day, six days a week.

  ‘And still so bloody weak when it matters.’

  I peek around the corner of the wagon but quickly pull my head back again. Berglund is doing a U-turn. They are driving back the way they came. The hum of the engine increases, as does my pulse. I chew on the unlit cigar.

  My thoughts flow through my head like raindrops: insipid and miserable. Transparent, without substance. I press my back against the wagon. The Volvo’s headlights slide into view. The curved fenders spill over the footboard. The car passes so close and slowly that I could step up and hitch a lift with one step.

  Sometimes you just have to play it by ear. I learnt that lesson in a fight against Styrbjörn Andersson in autumn 1919. It was my second proper match. I knew that he had smashed some ribs a couple of months earlier. I kept going for his left side even though he beat me off brutally every ti
me. I was just transfixed by those fucking ribs. I was still green and didn’t yet know how to adapt and improvise. It nearly cost me the match but I still won, just barely.

  ‘Never been beaten, never even taken a count.’

  I have no time to think it over before the van comes rolling along. A match blazes in the darkness of the driver’s cab and lights up the Reaper’s pale, smoke-haggard profile as he lights a cigarette.

  I finally let my hunger for revenge lead the way.

  I toss the cigar over my shoulder, run out into the open and set off after the Ford. Gravel crunches under the wheels and the fleeting blue exhaust caresses the road, filling my lungs and angering them further. I make one final effort. Stumbling, I grab hold of the handle of the left back door. It slides open and I dive in sideways and land on the floor with a thud.

  I look around. No window between the driver’s cab and the cargo space. I bury my face in my crossed arms. My body spasms with coughs. I am dripping with sweat.

  The tar cavities of my lungs calm down. I get up on all fours and shove the Husqvarna into my coat pocket. I turn around to close the door. The van lurches, I fall back on my side and the door swings wide open and slams shut again. I get up on my knees and peek through the right-hand oval window. The silhouette of the upper storeys of the Drottsgården skyscraper is etched against the backdrop of the summer sky.

  I turn towards the driver’s cab again and squint to see better. It is dark but the back windows let in a flickering lustre. Crates of booze line the side of the van. They are made of unplaned wooden boards, free from text, with lids nailed shut. Hemp-rope handles droop on either side.

  I creep to the front of the cargo space, stand up and place my left hand on the cool metal. I take out the Husqvarna and aim it at the place where the Reaper’s back should be. The bodywork of the vehicle vibrates, causing the muzzle of the pistol to tap gently against the metal, and making my hand shake.

  God knows if the bullet can break through the van as well as his body. I’ve heard that Husqvarna lead is about as powerful as a sleepy bumblebee but it’s worth a try. I grit my teeth so hard it makes my skull ache.