Slugger

by Martin Holmén

  ‘Had a shoeshine boy to take care of it for a while.’

  Ström scratches his beard for the third time, more violently than before. Dry skin flakes fall like snow over his already dirty shirt front. He lays his hand on one of the sugar crates.

  ‘What does Kvisten think of my new counter?’

  ‘It looks damned proper.’

  ‘Stack them on one side and they’re too low, on the other side they’re too high.’ Ström runs his hands over the crates. ‘Well, I gave Wallin decent money anyway.’

  The junk dealer looks at me and adds quietly, ‘I pay the best in the city.’

  I look him over.

  ‘Like hell.’

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘Never on my honour.’

  I soon leave the junk dealer, sack and spade in hand, and march up the street. Dog fat for Christ’s sake. She will be buried on the south side of the water fortress, in the same spot where I sat with Lundin four days ago and where Hiccup killed those two men in ’32. It’s beautiful up there.

  As I lumber up the stone steps, I contemplate how one’s life can be completely turned upside down within a few days. First my oldest friend was murdered, I met a man made of the right stuff, then for a few minutes I was unfathomably rich, then I got a sign of life from Ida, and was forced to get involved with a gangster syndicate. Finally the dog dies. If all goes to plan the next few days should offer an equal amount of drama.

  Or more.

  ‘Far from over.’

  The soles of my shoes clap heavily on the stone steps. Once in the park I pick up her little body. I stroke her head. I regret leaving her unclipped and letting her suffer in the heat for the past few weeks.

  ‘I mean, you were practically blind,’ I mutter and lay her down on the grass. ‘I didn’t suppose you gave a damn what you looked like.’

  As I walk down to get Lundin, I think that Dixie’s death is a bad omen for Hasse’s match tonight.

  Swearing and cursing, I haul the undertaker up the stairs. I heave him down onto the grass and soon I am holding the spade and sweating. There isn’t much to say about it. She was a friend. It can be that way sometimes with friendship: you don’t have to talk about it all the damn time.

  I take my shirt off, and curse as I use the spade to chop through a few tough roots. The earth throws up dust and sticks in the sweat that covers my skin like a fine film. When I was young I could shovel coal for hours at a stretch at the ship’s boilers, but my muscles don’t really obey me any more.

  ‘Calm yourself and take a drink.’

  Lundin holds up his hip flask.

  ‘I am calm.’

  ‘Like hell. I know you, brother. You get yourself fired up in silence and then it all spills out. Take two.’

  I accept the flask, stand up straight and stretch out my spine a little. I stare out over the park’s scorched grass lawns and the part of the city that makes up Ploman’s little empire.

  It does feel sort of good, in a way, that Ma will be the one to send the Reaper to the other side.

  I give the schnapps back and carry on digging. I have obviously had fragile nerves recently; I didn’t even manage to shoot him in the van. I can’t say for sure if I’ll manage next time either. But I have nothing against watching.

  The hole is big enough. I drive the spade deep into the grass so that Lundin has something to lean against. The jute sack’s coarse fabric in my hands; the little dog’s body stiff inside. I lower Dixie down into the hole and help the undertaker to his feet.

  ‘Are you going to say a few words, brother?’

  ‘There isn’t much to say.’

  ‘Do you want me to?’

  ‘You’re used to it.’

  He passes me the flask again and leans on the spade handle with both hands. He clears his throat.

  ‘We have gathered here today to bid farewell to Kvisten’s dog Dixie. You lived a tumultuous life, little dog. You were born into wealth on Strandvägen…’

  ‘Nobelgatan.’

  I run my thumb over the undertaker’s inscription on the hip flask.

  ‘…into wealth on Nobelgatan, with pâté for breakfast and rubies in your collar, but life was unkind to you. You ended up with Kvisten up in Sibirien and it wasn’t long before you took to the bottle. You were truly a booze-hound. You drank yourself blind, and now you’re dead. May you rest at the Lord’s feet. You were good company. We remember how your bones hit the floor tiles when you were scratching at your fleas; we remember how helpful you were when we cut up that big bastard of a bloke last autumn. Rest in peace.’

  I bite my lower lip, raise the flask at the grave but can’t force out a single word. I take a mouthful and send the schnapps back to Lundin. In the wrinkles around his left eye a tear glitters in the sunshine. I pick up a handful of dry earth and sprinkle it over the sack.

  ‘From birth you came.’ I empty my fist. ‘And to the earth you shall return.’

  ‘What was that?’

  Lundin falters and for a moment it looks as if he might topple headlong into the grave. I brace him.

  ‘What?’

  ‘From the earth you came.’

  I stare at the old fool trying to steady himself, half-lame and ravaged by age and epilepsy, and God knows what.

  ‘Earth? What kind of stupid idea is that? How the hell does that work?’

  Lundin thrusts the flask under his moustache and then passes it to me. His iron hand rattles as he places it on my shoulder.

  ‘My brother has never been much of a thinker, but one hears the truth from children and fools.’ He wipes his moustache with the other hand. ‘To think I have heard wrong all these years.’

  I nod, take a sip and give the flask back to Lundin.

  ‘Hell, I should know. They said that we split our mother in half at birth, my twin and I.’ I stare straight into the sun without squinting. It burns. ‘Tomorrow evening I’ll take you to the station myself. To see the Olympians.’

  There is a soft rattling sound as the undertaker pats me on the shoulder. The old man leans on me for support and we stand drinking quietly until the flask is empty, listening to the insects droning and the grass silently dying of thirst.

  Kungsholmen is deserted, as though ravaged by a mysterious plague. The traders, who usually stand in the doorways gabbing at this time of year, have retreated into their shops for shade. The ground, which is usually vibrating with the roar of industry, lies fallow. Everything is heavy and still. A mutt pants along the pavement with its tongue lolling out.

  ‘Detective Chief Inspector Berglund joined them down on St Eriksgatan, near the Shoe Coop, but on the way back the cars separated here, is that right?’

  Belzén of Birka clears his throat, takes off his glasses and polishes them with a deep-blue silk handkerchief. His eyes are like two peppercorns on either side of his little rose-hip nose. The slender smuggler king gives the impression of being harmless, as tall as three stacked apples and hard of hearing as he is. But, according to rumour, he is even worse than his old man. And his old man was a violent bloke of the old-fashioned sort, who killed his way across two whole provinces, and was chased through forest and fen, before a police chief with a hunting party trapped him out on the ice just north of Sundsvall one winter late last century. At least if one is to believe the chapbooks. I wouldn’t get cocky with Belzén any more than I would challenge Ma. Never in my life. He looks at me with his coal-black eyes and smiles widely enough to curve the scars that run from his eye down to his dark beard stubble.

  ‘The risk is that they will take more men with them this time, maybe change their route.’

  I point with my cigar over the city map that is spread out on the bonnet of the Cadillac. Nix checks his wristwatch.

  ‘It’s a gamble, but a risk we must take,’ says Ma. She sweeps her ostrich-feather boa over her shoulder.

  Our group is standing gathered on Fridhemsgatan, not far from the florist at the crossing of Alströmergatan.

  ‘Once we ha
ve figured out which evening the transport is going, Sture or Sven will keep watch from one of the doorways.’

  It is the first time I have heard her son’s real names. Ma gestures down the street. The neighbourhood looks about ready for demolition. The houses are practically bending under their own weight, and weeping golden-yellow, poison-green and snuffbrown wall plaster. The window frames are rotted and flaking in the burning sun. Hiccup sprinkles tobacco into a cigarette paper.

  ‘I’ll do it,’ says Svenne Crowbar.

  ‘Like hell!’ Nix’s face darkens. ‘I was a damned sniper in military service.’

  ‘Calm down, boys. I haven’t made up my mind yet,’ Ma tells them, then turns back to us. ‘As soon as the inspector comes round the corner, I’ll roll the pram into the street and make the Reaper stop. The rest of you have to make sure you keep your heads down until I have fired both of my shots into the windscreen. Buckshot.’ She smiles with her lipstick-red mouth. ‘Oh, how I have waited for this. I feel thirty years younger.’

  She leans her cane against the car and fishes the brown glass jar out of her handbag.

  A few street sweepers come by, dragging their heels. They are walking with their eyes on the ground and resignation hanging like a veil over their heads and shoulders. Maybe they’re on their way to the City Mission’s workers’ home a few blocks away. We keep quiet until they have passed. There is a gentle rustling sound as Hiccup rolls his cigarette. A tram bell rings down on St Eriksgatan. Ma takes a little shot of powder in each nostril.

  There are a couple of clunks as a ground-floor window opens. Ominous, indistinct tones from a radio stream through the window and out into the street. Ma sniffs and the corner of her lip twitches.

  ‘Wagner.’ She takes a church handkerchief out from her sleeve and dabs the area between her mouth and nose, staring ahead with hollow eyes. She sighs deeply.

  ‘Georg never understood music but he was going to take me to the Opera House to see Don Giovanni that night. There was a winter storm, early February, our wedding anniversary. Your father was wearing his big overcoat with a fur collar.

  ‘We had barely moved ten metres before the explosives detonated and nearly took my leg off. Georg was thrown from the car. I found him in a snowdrift, mutilated beyond recognition. Then the police found a trouser button and a box of snus fifteen metres away.’ Her shoulders are shaking. ‘I have been biding my time, waiting for years, and now finally the day has come. Sento in petto sol vendetta parlar, rabbia e dispetto.’

  We stand in silence. The road dust whirls up as Svenne Crowbar drags his foot in an arc in front of him. Ma is shaken out of her thoughts. She looks at each of us individually and speaks with a sharpness in her voice.

  ‘Hiccup, Kvist and one of the boys will wait in the Cadillac on Fleminggatan, ready to take the inspector if he turns back. I will drive the van to Belzén’s headquarters.’

  Ma dabs away some powdery remains with her handkerchief. Hiccup licks the gummy strip of his cigarette paper and exchanges a glance with his boss. I get the feeling there is something fishy about them but suppress it. Belzén hates Ploman and has worked with Ma for nearly fifteen years.

  ‘We should have a disguise,’ Svenne Crowbar says, slurring his words even though it is barely one o’clock.

  There is a snapping sound as he bites off a nail.

  ‘Don’t fucking start with that damned hot dog vendor idea again,’ Nix snaps.

  He is dressed in a light summer suit made of thin linen. When he waves his hand, a gold square cufflink shines in the sun. Such a damned snob. I take another big puff and inspect Svenne instead. I hope the brothers fulfil their part of the bargain. Ma gives her sons a look and they immediately stand up straight and stop bickering. She continues.

  ‘While we are hijacking the transport, Belzén will be coming from the other side of the bridge with two rubbish trucks filled with men. The aim is to shoot up, and then firebomb Ploman’s gambling dens at Hälsingegatan and Sätertäppan.’

  ‘Rubbish trucks?’

  I raise one eyebrow.

  ‘Exactly,’ Belzén answers. ‘The modern kind. The container on the back has a side that can be swung up like a door. Eight armed men can fit inside shoulder to shoulder. You only need to drive up alongside, hoist it up and open fire.’

  I try to picture it. The tactic makes me think of warship broadsides with cannons.

  ‘Furthermore,’ Belzén continues, ‘we have a couple of men waiting for Rickardsson to go on his evening walk in Sibirien.’

  The orchestra rests a beat before the timpani and trumpets explode one after the other, like two heavy knocks on the gates of hell.

  I cough. It feels as if Hiccup has punched his enormous fist into my stomach. I stroke my chin and stare down the street. The sharp rays of sun seem to plane the air into strips.

  ‘The bloke has three kids.’

  I step on my cigar butt and drag the tobacco over the paving stone with my shoe. I can feel the whole group staring at me. Svenne Crowbar spits out a half-dozen fingernail fragments. A couple of them end up on the tip of my shoe. I clear my throat.

  ‘He doesn’t have much to do with Ploman’s business any more.’

  ‘So it’s true what people say, that Kvist has gone soft?’ Belzén squints at me. ‘We are fighting on several fronts at the same time. The aim is to crush Ploman’s organisation completely. We have been preparing for this for a long time, and we mean it to be final. That’s that.’

  Up on Fleminggatan the number 11 tram jolts past on its way up towards the hospital. The radio orchestra increases its tempo and sounds like it’s mixing in every sodding instrument at once. I clear my throat again.

  ‘Rickardsson is the source.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He’s the one who talked.’

  I immediately regret it. Everyone in the small congregation freezes. Belzén leans forward to hear better. Ma’s fingers whiten around her ivory cane.

  ‘And why in the hell would he do that?’

  Belzén is staring me straight in the eye. My ears go hot.

  ‘We have been neighbours for as long as I can remember. Home on Roslagsgatan. In Sibirien.’ I pull on the cigar and look away towards the intersection. ‘Nearly up by the tram turning loop.’

  The last sentence was little more than a hoarse whisper, hanging lonely in the air between us before disappearing in a cloud of smoke.

  ‘And Kvist doesn’t think that he might have been lured into a trap? That he is a pawn in a bigger game? It wouldn’t be the first time.’

  Belzén extends his little finger and wags it with a smile. It seems I am the only person who doesn’t know the background story of that fucking finger. For a moment I am transported back, lying beaten to the ground by sticks and chains, feeling the dull iron teeth of the pliers biting through my flesh and bone. My stump aches as usual.

  ‘I’m damn sure.’

  ‘Then Kvist can find out when the next transport is planned,’ says Ma. ‘If he is so anxious to cross the Atlantic.’

  The pavement tremors beneath me. She rolls up the map, wedges it under her arm, picks out a couple of car keys from her handbag and dangles them in front of me like a fishing lure shining in the sun.

  ‘Kvist’s getaway car,’ she continues. ‘We will notify you where it is parked at a later date.’

  I stroke my chin as my eyes dart around. A girl of about fourteen or fifteen comes out of the florist on the corner and throws a bucket of brown water from mopping into the street. She has already developed a feminine shape and is dressed like a grown-up with a light blouse tucked into a long, black skirt. A few strands of hair have escaped her golden plait. She glances at us, cricks her neck and turns to go back in. Anxiety spreads through my guts.

  I bite the end off a cigar, spit on the street and take the bait.

  ‘His boy has an apprenticeship waiting with the manufacturer Enquist.’

  ‘Good. We’ll also give the wife adequate compensat
ion and a funeral wreath.’

  The keys are glittering in the air. I take them. Ma knocks the rolled-up map twice on the body of the car.

  ‘Finally the time has come.’ She makes a gesture towards the open window, where music continues to stream out. ‘Siegfried was born to fulfil his destiny.’

  She smiles widely and holds the map up like a marshal’s baton.

  ‘Gentlemen, we are going to war.’

  THURSDAY 23 JULY

  Finally.

  The sound of clinking beer bottles spills into the dressing room and reverberates on the metal lockers and elongated zinc washbasin.

  We can hear the murmurs of the spectators outside and the occasional guffaw of laughter. Coils of cigarette smoke seep in through the cracks around the door and cut through the pungent odour of Sloan’s liniment. I am crouching in front of Hasse and wrapping his black-flecked hands.

  ‘Are you sure you want me in there?’

  I run my tongue over the salty scab on my bottom lip, look up from what I am doing and meet his gaze. A streak of doubt or indecision shoots across his baby-blues. His ribcage is motionless for a second.

  ‘Of course Kvist should be there.’

  I nod, run the grey wrap between his fingers and thumb, and pull it carefully. Hasse is sitting on one of the wooden benches that runs along the dressing-room wall. In the absence of a dressing gown I have wrapped him in a white sheet to keep him warm. His face is the same shade as the bedlinen; he’s pale with nerves. I finish what I’m doing and pat him a few times on his broad chin.

  ‘Time to wake up, lad!’

  Hasse gives a start and stares at me as if he has never seen me before.

  ‘When the hook hits home you have to be the one to follow up. High and low.’

  Hasse slips his hands into his gloves and I lace them up tight. I try to catch his eye. He is still miles away. I can’t say whether it is a good or a bad thing. Everyone prepares differently and some only properly wake up when the first gong sounds. In any case it is time to snap out of it. I click my fingers in front of his face. He gives a start again.

  ‘My girl Josefin is here,’ he mumbles. ‘Her girlfriends too.’