Easy Money (21 page)

The inner journey: by train. JW was on his way to Robertsfors.

Was he on his way home? Or away? Where was home, really? The boyz’ co-ops, the bathrooms at Kharma where the C deals were brokered, his room at Mrs. Reuterskiöld’s, or Robertsfors—at Mom and Dad’s?

He was listening to music—Coldplay, the Sadies, and other pop—while he munched on a bag of candy. Tried to see if the gummy colors tasted different from one another. Red, or green, or yellow, or … what? Did a blind test.

It was dark outside. He looked at his reflection in the window. JW thought, A wonderful vantage point for a narcissist like me.

The train car was almost empty of people. One of the advantages of being a student was that you could travel any day of the week. Of course, he could’ve afforded to take any train or flight, almost at any price. But it was unnecessary—stupid to make his parents suspicious.

He should really be studying. He had an assignment to do on macroeconomic theories: the relationship between interest, inflation, currency rates. He even had the laptop open in his lap. But the movement of the train lulled him. He felt tired.

He closed the computer. Shoved his mouth full of gummies and shut his eyes. Chewed and contemplated his circumstances.

It’d been four months since he found Jorge in the woods. Since then, Abdulkarim’s coke expansion’d taken most of his time. JW and Jorge were each project managers of an area. The gelt kept growing, an average of a hundred G’s a month. Soon he’d be able to buy his BMW—cash—and maybe a co-op apartment. Just had to launder the money first.

He was barely getting by in school. He nearly flunked the exams. Was he on the verge of breaking his promise? The positive effect of his scholarly neglect was that he was becoming a name in the Stureplan jungle. Everyone with a penchant for skating on ice knew of him. JW bided Abdulkarim’s orders; he was careful about giving out his cell phone number. Couldn’t make it too easy. People called, left messages. JW called back, checked up on people, dictated the terms. Played according to the Arab’s strategy—safe.

He hung out with the boyz, more and more with Jet Set Carl and other acquaintances, people raised in rich suburbs like Bromma, Saltsjöbaden, and Lidingö. In Djursholm. Important parentheses: Know-it-all types thought you were supposed to say
on
Djursholm, not
in,
when people who really knew said the opposite. They were people with contacts and cash: party organizers, coke snorters—above all, clients.

JW approached the inner circles around the Swedish royal family. Golden glamour. Progeny of the landowning aristocracy. Wild parties with wild winners and their families. Important C sales. A private arena with exclusive access. Forget pricey tix. This scene was VIP only.

He’d been getting together with Sophie like two or three times a week. Sometimes they went out to eat, got a drink at a bar, or went for a walk.

Their problem, according to JW: The relationship wasn’t developing. Felt like they were still playing a game. She wouldn’t call for days. JW didn’t call back. They waited. Played hard to get.

The sober sex sucked. Embarrassing. JW was all nerves. It took twenty seconds. Tops. He tried to make sure it happened when he was tripping on coke. Worked better that way.

After a couple of months, their relationship’d become more stable. He slept over at Sophie’s place several nights a week. At the same time, a certain distance remained. Sometimes she didn’t want to get together, without JW knowing why. He missed her whenever the time between their dates got too long.

Nothing wrong with the Jorge dude. Not JW’s type, but fine enough. The Chilean possessed sick knowledge about coke. JW tried to absorb all the info, all the know-how, all the tricks.

The train slowed down at Hudiksvall. JW glanced out at the station. There was a lake on the other side of the tracks. He was halfway home.

Three days ago, Abdulkarim’d called. Sounded worked up: “JW, I got something big goin’.”

“I’m all ears, Abdulkarim. Tell me.”

“We goin’ to London. Fix a fat import.”

“Okay. How? Is your secret boss in on it?” JW felt more and more secure with Abdulkarim—almost dared be cocky.

“Chill,
habibi,
my boss’s in on it. Big stuff, you understand. Much bigger than our other imports. We’re gonna contact the wholesalers direct. Gonna be ill,
inshallah.
You gotta book tickets for us. Me, Fahdi, and you. We need, like, five days. Have to be there by March seventh, latest. You gotta book hotel rooms, I want it nice. Classy. Fix sweet clubs. Fix a weapon for Fahdi. Fix up London for me. You with me, buddy?”

It drove JW crazy every time Abdulkarim used the word
buddy.
But he didn’t feel so safe in his seat that he’d mock the Arab. Sucked it up instead.

“Course. I’ll be your travel agent. But I have to check the dates; I’ve got exams and stuff. And how’ll I get a gun there?”

“No, no ‘check the dates.’ Gotta be there March seventh. Talk to Jorge about guns. And hey, buddy, I want you to fix sightseeing in London, too. Big Ben, Beckham, and all that?”

It sounded exciting. Glam. Abdulkarim and he’d talked about it a lot—they had to get purchase prices down even more in order to increase the import. Find new smart ins. After his visit to Robertsfors, he was going to deal with planning the trip.

The only thing he’d already looked up was how to score a gun for someone in London. Jorge knew a guy who’d done time in England. They contacted him. Contacted his contacts. Promised to pay two thousand pounds. Sent a five-hundred-pound advance via money transfer. Arranged a spot for the handoff. A Yugoslavian pistol, Zastava M57, 7.63mm, would be available for pickup at the Euston Square Tube station at twelve o’clock on March sixth.

Definitely a step up for JW. He felt exhilarated about being invited along to negotiate directly with the big boys. Allowed entrance to the C business’s VIP room.

One thing worried him: JW noted that Abdulkarim was changing. Talked more about Islam and world politics. Started wearing a white Muslim headpiece. Referred to the latest Friday sermon in the mosque. Praised Muhammad in every third sentence, stopped drinking alcohol, and whined about the U.S. running the world. In JW’s opinion, the Arab was digging his own grave. There was only one loyalty: sales. Nothing could come before that, not even God.

JW hadn’t seen his mom and dad since the summer. Their communication’d been patchy since then. One call from his mom, Margareta, every other week or so and that was it. Her reoccurring questions annoyed him. “How is school going?” “Are you coming up to see us and Grandma soon?” His reoccurring answers were bland, whiny. “School’s fine; I’m doing well on all my exams.” “I don’t have time to come up; I have to do my job as a taxi driver. And no, Mom, it’s not dangerous.”

Love and guilt baked together. The fear in Margareta’s voice was always there; he could hear it. The terror that something would happen to him.

He could see Camilla’s face in front of him. What did he know that their parents didn’t?

He’d found out some things.

If he hadn’t seen the yellow Ferrari over six months ago, things would’ve stayed the way they were. Silent sorrow. Repressed grief. Conscious forgetting.

Maybe it was the car’s speed that’d bothered him. The sound. The roar of the engine. The senselessly cocky move of driving through the city streets at a speed of at least fifty-five miles an hour.

JW’d been forced to choose: either keep searching and maybe discover something unpleasant or just stop right now. Forget it all, try to keep leaving the past behind, like he’d been doing during the past few years. It would probably be best to tell the police what he’d found out. Let them do their job.

He couldn’t—not when Jan Brunéus was lying about something.

JW’d called him up. The teacher was obviously unwilling to meet with him again. JW coaxed. Tried. Told him how happy he was that Jan’d known Camilla. Jan armed himself with excuses: He didn’t have time. He had to go to a teacher’s conference. He was sick. Had to grade papers, was going on vacation.

The weeks passed. JW stopped calling. Instead, he went reluctantly back to the school again.

He pulled the same moves as last time. Positioned himself outside the classroom and waited. The same young black kid who’d come out of the door last time, came out first this time, too.

Jan was still in the classroom. JW got flashbacks to the last time he’d been there—the same girls were still in the classroom, stuffing notebooks into bags.

He remained standing in the doorway and waited for a reaction. Jan was calm. Walked up to JW. Didn’t even look surprised.

He greeted him, “Hi, Johan. I’ve been thinking a lot about you. I understand if you think I’ve been acting strangely.”

JW looked him in the eyes.

Who was Jan Brunéus? JW’d looked him up. The teacher was married, no kids, and lived in a row house in a lower-middle-class suburb. Drove a Saab. Besides teaching at Komvux, he taught high school. Didn’t show up in Google searches. He seemed normal on the surface. But, then again, who didn’t?

JW replied, “That’s an understatement.”

“I have a suggestion. Let’s take a walk. What about walking out toward Haga Forum. It’s pretty there.”

JW nodded. Jan had something to say.

It was December. Freezing and snowing out. The ice had set, although thinly, over the Brunnsviken Bay. JW didn’t dig the season. It was so difficult to wear nice shoes; they always ended up heavy on rubber and light on finesse.

They were walking behind Wenner-Gren Center when Jan started telling his story.

“I’ve been a shit. I should’ve seen you a long time ago and told you. I admit that.”

Steam billowed from his mouth as he spoke.

“This whole story has really weighed on me. I have nightmares and can’t sleep. Wake up in the middle of the night and wonder. What really happened to Camilla?”

Shared silence.

Jan continued: “She had a rough time. Not a lot of friends. Her talent pushed other girls away, I think. You could tell by looking at her that she wanted to get somewhere. Maybe her ambition scared the others off. Anyway, I took her under my wing. Encouraged her. I used to discuss things with her after class. She really liked studying English, I recall. I mean, she was a grown woman. People who go to Komvux aren’t kids anymore. Despite that, I sometimes see them as kids. I mean, most of them haven’t made it through the regular school system without problems. There’s often something missing.”

JW wondered when the guy was going to cut to the chase.

“When you showed up here at Komvux, wanting to know more about Camilla, I got scared. Felt guilty. That I didn’t encourage her even more. That I didn’t see it coming. Her sorrow and alienation. Her frame of mind. Depression. Suicide.”

JW stopped. Thought, What is Jan talking about? No one knows what happened to Camilla.

“Where did you get the idea about suicide?”

“Of course, I can’t know for sure, but now in retrospect I can see that the signs were there. She lost weight. Must’ve had trouble sleeping, came to class with dark circles under her eyes. Pulled more and more away, into herself. She was feeling like shit, to put it simply. I was blind. Blame myself. I should’ve told someone, sounded the alarm, so to speak. But at the same time, how could I’ve known?”

The thought wasn’t new. JW’d wondered many times how his sister’d really been feeling.

Jan continued: “That’s why I’ve stayed away from you. I guess I haven’t been able to deal with this situation. Been afraid. I understand if you’ve been wondering what I’ve been up to. I really have to apologize again.”

They walked another hundred yards or so. JW didn’t have much to say. Jan said he had to get back to Sveaplan Gymnasium. He had more classes to teach.

They shook hands.

JW watched him walk away. Jan was wearing a padded brown Melka jacket. Had bad posture, walked with quick steps toward the school building. Seemed stressed.

JW was standing outside Haga Forum by himself. He was cold, wrapped in thoughts. Had Jan given Camilla good grades to be nice? To encourage her? Because he saw how she was feeling?

He felt low. For his sister’s sake. For not finding out anything new. If Camilla had, in fact, killed herself, where was her body? Why hadn’t she left a note? Wasn’t suicide, as the shrinks say, a call for help? No, even though he hadn’t known his sister that well, he’d known her well enough to know that she hadn’t killed herself. She wasn’t like that.

JW’d ridden straight out to Kista. He knew Abdulkarim would be angry. They’d agreed to meet up and exchange cash for coke, but it’d have to wait.

The Kista Mall’d been newly renovated since the last time he was there: the movie theaters, the restaurants, the clothing stores, you name it. He went straight to H&M. Hoped Susanne Pettersson was working that day. It’d been several months since he’d been there the first time and she’d hinted that he should look up Jan Brunéus.

It was like he was paralyzed for long stretches at a time. Couldn’t bear to do anything about the Camilla thing. He blamed the C biz, school, Sophie. When he finally did look into what’d happened, it was always in spurts, with sudden stops and starts.

Susanne was manning the register. There were people in the store. JW asked to speak with her. No problem. Another girl took over. Susanne and JW positioned themselves by the denim section.

She was visibly stressed-out by the situation. Was glancing around, eyeing the customers, her colleagues, anyone who might be listening.

“Pardon me for busting in like this. And I’m sorry for bothering you. How’re you doing?”

“You know, fine.”

“How’re the kids?”

“They’re good, too.”

“I wanted to tell you that I met Jan Brunéus, your old teacher.”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll make it brief. He says Camilla was feeling like shit. That she must’ve killed herself. That he tried to encourage her, help her. He blames himself for the way things turned out.”

“He does?”

JW waited. Susanne had to say something more.