Easy Money (31 page)

Mrado was sitting on the couch at home postgym. Tired muscles. Wet hair. And full—he’d gorged on two tins of tuna with pasta, plus a protein powder cocktail. To top it off: Ultra Builder 5000, two tablets—Metandeinon, grade-A anabolic-androgenic steroids.

He vegged, watched
Fight Club,
Europsport. K-1, Elimination Tournament. The former K-1 champion, Jörgen Kruth, was the commentator. Analyzed the punches, kicks, and knees. The message his dragging, nasal voice sent was crystal-clear—the guy’d taken too many hits to the nose.

One of the masters, Remy Bonjasky, was crushing his opponent in the ring. Got the guy up against a corner. Kneed him in the gut. Low-kicked to his shins. His opponent screamed in pain. Bonjasky, two rapid left jabs. The guy didn’t get his guard up in time. Mouth guard went flying. Before the ref had time to call it, Bonjasky finished with a round kick, impact on the left ear. Pure knockout: the opponent unconscious before he hit the floor. Mrado couldn’t have done it better himself.

The past few days, Mrado’d been in a fantastic mood. He’d kicked his training into high gear. Serotonin surged. He was sleeping better. The gangs were under control—he’d succeeded. Most of them were in agreement enough for the idea to work. They knew the drill: As long as everyone kept to their own playpens, biz would soar. Cops lose. Cash flow.

His cell phone rang.

On the other end of the line: Stefanovic.

“Hey, Mrado, how are you doing?” He sounded formal. Mrado wondered why.

“All’s good with me. And you?”

“Good, good. Where are you right now?”

“At home. Why’re you asking?”

“Stay there. We’ll pick you up.”

“What, what’s going on?”

“It’s your turn, Mrado. To see Radovan.
Bilo mu je sudeno.
” Then he hung up.

Bilo mu je sudeno
—it is your fate, Mrado.

His head spun. The couch felt uncomfortable. He stood up. Lowered the volume on the TV. Made a loop around the couch.

Gangster code: If you get picked up, you’re never coming back. Like in Mafia movies. The Brooklyn Bridge with a rainy backdrop. They drive you across it. You don’t return.

Thoughts like in wind turbine. Should he jump ship? If so, where could he disappear to? His life was here. His apartment, his business, his daughter.

What was Radovan’s problem? Was it that he couldn’t forget that Mrado’d asked for a bigger cut of the coat-check profits? Did he know Mrado’d rigged the market division in a way that curried his coat-check business? Worse: Did the Yugo boss sense his low loyalty? No, that was impossible.

Mrado’d just served Radovan Stockholm’s criminal market on a silver platter. The Yugo boss should be grateful. Maybe everything was okay, after all. Maybe R. wasn’t planning on hurting him.

He sat back down on the couch. Tried to think clearly. No point in leaving. Better to take it like a man. Like a Serb. Mrado still had some kind of advantage; his businesses were the ones that were protected with the market division. He should be safe.

Twelve minutes later, his home phone rang. Stefanovic again. Mrado put his holster on, slipped his knife in place under his pants, against the inside of his shin. Walked down the stairs.

Out on the street was a Range Rover with tinted windows. Mrado’d never seen the car before. Not one of Radovan’s or Stefanovic’s vehicles.

The passenger door was open.

Mrado got into the passenger seat. At the wheel: a young Serb. Mrado’d seen him before, one of Stefanovic’s boys. In the backseat: Stefanovic.

The car started up.

Stefanovic: “Welcome. I hope you’re doing well.”

Mrado didn’t answer. Waited to gauge the mood. Read the situation.

“Something on your chest. Why so quiet?”

Mrado turned his head. Stefanovic: impeccably dressed in a suit. As usual.

Mrado looked straight ahead again. It was still light out, but the sky was beginning to darken.

“All’s good with me. I already told you that on the phone. You forget quickly. Or do you have something on
your
chest?” Obvious diss in his mimic of Stefanovic.

Stefanovic fired off a forced laugh. “Maybe it’s best we don’t talk if you’re in a bad mood. Might just be a load of bull if we do. Don’t you agree?”

Mrado didn’t answer.

They drove through the city and out onto Lidingövägen.

The silence spoke loud and clear. The situation smelled like shit.

Mrado examined expedient exits: to pull his Smith & Wesson and shoot the driver’s head off. Might work, but Stefanovic could be armed. He’d have time to bust some major holes in the back of his head before the car even came to a stop. Other way out: to turn around, take a well-aimed shot at Stefanovic’s mug. Even if he did that—just like popping the driver—Stefanovic could beat him to it. Last idea: to shoot both men when they got out of the car. Best idea yet.

He thought about Lovisa.

The car slowed down. Turned up a narrow gravel path and then up a steep hill in the Lill-Jansskogen forest. The Range Rover was a good call, Mrado thought.

Finally, the car stopped. Stefanovic asked him to get out.

Mrado’d never been to this place before. He looked around. Stefanovic and the driver remained in the car. Typical veteran move. Nothing Mrado could do—he couldn’t even see them through the tinted windows. To shoot would be meaningless.

They were on a height. A single building in front of him: a sixty-five-foot tower. Surreal.

Or? His eyes ran up the length of the red-painted cement body of the tower—saw the explanation: It was a ski-jumping hill.

Apparently, he’d ended up somewhere at the edge of the Lill-Jansskogen forest, by a ski-jumping tower that didn’t look like it’d been used in ages. A bad omen.

The door at the base of the tower opened. A man he recognized waved at him to come inside.

The inside of the tower’s base was spruced up, nice. Renovated. A small reception desk. Signs on the walls:
WELCOME TO FISKARTORPET’S CONFERENCE HALL. WE CAN ACCOMMODATE UP TO FIFTY GUESTS. PERFECT FOR YOUR KICK-OFF, COMPANY PARTY, OR CONFERENCE.

Quick glance back—Stefanovic and the driver’d gotten out of the car.

No time to try any tricks. The man who’d met him asked for his gun.

He handed it over. The walnut grip felt slippery.

There was only one room at the top of the tower. Large windows facing in three directions. It wasn’t completely dark outside yet. Mrado could see out over the Lill-Jansskogen forest. Off toward Östermalm. He saw City Hall in the distance. Church spires. Farthest off on the horizon: the Globe Arena. Stockholm spread out before him.

Mrado’s thought at that moment: Why didn’t someone build a luxury restaurant in this place?

In the middle of the room was a square table. White tablecloth. Large candelabras. Set for a meal.

On the other side of the table: Radovan in a dark suit.

He said in Serbian, “Mrado, welcome. What do you think of the place? Elegant, huh? I found it myself. Was out jogging in the woods down here one day. Exploring the paths in either direction and got curious. Kept running uphill. Found this.”

Mrado selected strategies. Stony style. Self-confident style.

Straight-to-the-point style was what he chose. “It’s nice, Radovan. To what do I owe the honor of being invited to dinner?”

“We’ll get to that later. Let me finish my story. This is actually an old ski-jumping hill. They closed it in the late eighties, and it’s been empty and rotting ever since. I bought the place this summer and I’m in the process of refurbishing it. It’s gonna be a conference hall. Party venue. Could be a damn nice hullabaloo joint. What do you think?”

Radovan walked around the table. Pulled out the chair for Mrado. The simple fact that Mrado’d been left standing for over a minute was yet another bad sign.

Radovan went on and on about the tower.

“Do you realize how many forgotten places like this there are in Stockholm? I flew in seven Polacks last week who’re gonna redo the ground floor. It’s gonna be a restaurant, with the finest VIP room up here, at the top. People can do what they want here. Radovan invites the girls, brings the food, the booze, the whole nine yards.”

A woman came in, pushing a drink cart. Served dry martinis. The olive gleamed, speared by a toothpick. When the door opened, the hair rose on Mrado’s neck. He knew instinctively that they were out there: Stefanovic, the driver, the man who’d met him downstairs. Ready for violence if needed.

Radovan didn’t take any risks.

Mrado thought, Not smart to do something rash now, but then again, it probably never was.

The woman came back in with the appetizers: toast Skagen, a Swedish seafood specialty. Poured out white wine. They began eating.

After a few mouthfuls, Rado laid down his utensils. Chewed. Swallowed. “Mrado. It’s important that you understand our situation. You already know what I’m about to say, but just listen to Radovan. We’re moving into a new phase. New times. New people. New ways of working. As you know. Today, there are a lot more players on the Swedish field than there were when we began twenty years ago. Back then, it was just us and a couple of old bank robbers, Svartenbrandt and Clark Olofsson. But Sweden is different now. The MC gangs are here to stay. The youth and prison gangs are well organized; the EU dissolves the borders. Biggest change is that nowadays we’re also competing with the Albanians, the Russian Mafia, a ton of nasty types from Estonia, just to name a few. It’s not just Western Europe that’s gotten smaller. The East is here. Globalization, yada yada.”

Mrado sat calmly. Knew that Rado liked the sound of his own voice.

“We’re playing in an international market now. And the solution is in that very term. Tito chose a middle ground. So we knew a little about market economics. But here in the West, and in the free countries in the East, we make sure people get what they want—the ultimate consumer-driven market. ’Cause crime really isn’t much more than that: the essence of market economics. Crimes are deregulated, free, supply-and-demand controlled. Without state intervention. Without planned economics, Commie rules, or chief guardianship. On the contrary, the strongest survive, just like in the market. That’s the future. And to get there, we have to adjust the way we work. Choose areas of work depending on what, at the moment, maximizes profit in relation to risk. Consider the opportunity costs. Constantly invest, inject assets into new fields. Market our capital of violence. Recruit, merge, cut. We can’t be slow, gotta be nimble. It’s much more efficient to use consultants and work in small cells—like small business owners, if you like that analogy. We can learn from these Muslim terrorist networks. They hardly know each other. Still, they work toward the same goal. If one band gets plucked, it doesn’t mess up the big picture. We’ve got to work that way. ‘Cluster thinking,’ that’s what it’s called in fancy talk. Get rid of the old hierarchical organization. Some Swedish business dude put it this way: ‘Tear down the pyramids.’ Sounds good to me.”

Mrado just stared in reply. He’d stopped eating.

The woman came in. Cleared the plates. Refilled the wine.

“We know our fields. But we’re organizing all wrong. That’s the hitch. A few years ago, there was a lotta talk about the new economy. I don’t know if it worked for regular folks. But for us, Mrado, the new market is the new rule. We’ve got to integrate a new way of thinking. Reach out beyond our narrow ethnic group. Recruit from the boroughs. Make alliances with Russian and Estonian organizations. Decentralize. Invest more in outsourcing. Control the cash flow, but maybe not always the core businesses. You with me?”

Mrado nodded slowly. Best to wait out Radovan’s half-hysterical monologue.

“Good. Drugs’ve got wings. The blow’s damn successful. The whores are even better. You can’t even imagine what Swedish men’ve been longing for during all these years of political correctness. They’re ready to pay anything. And this faggy law against purchasing sex, it’s only strengthened us. The indoor brothels are as big as in Vegas; the luxury hookers are at every potbelly party in the suburbs. It’s glorious. You were a part of building up our call-service biz. Remember?”

“Radovan, what you’re saying is interesting. But I already know this stuff, and where exactly are you saying I come into it?”

“Thanks for bringing it up yourself. You’ve served the organization well. Served me well. Served Jokso well, too. But times change. You’ve got no place in what I’m describing. Unfortunately. Sorry. What you’ve done, the market-division agreement, it’s wonderful. Thanks to your contacts. Your image. But that’s all over now. I can’t trust you. Why? Deep inside, you know the answer. It’s been brewing in you for years. The answer is: because you don’t trust me. You don’t see me as our leader. As the one whose word should be followed without compromise. You demand too much. In the new market, individuals must act on their own. But never, ever act against their Radovan’s interests.”

Radovan’s tone hardened.

“Mrado, look out the windows. Out over Stockholm. This is my fucking city. No one can take it away from me. That’s the point of everything I’ve been talking about just now. This is my market. That’s what you haven’t understood. You think it’s thanks to you that the money’s rolling in, that you and I still work side by side. Forget that. I’m the new Jokso. I’m your new general. You have only me to thank for your livelihood. Your little life. Your pathetic position. And still, you’ve got the balls to demand a bigger cut of the coat-check profits. Demand. That’s when it stops working. But worst of all is that you’ve tried to two-time me. Your only motivation for the market division has been your own self-interest. It’s okay to work for your own self-interest, but never against me.”

Mrado tried to interrupt Radovan. “Radovan, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I haven’t two-timed you.”

Radovan cut him off, almost screamed. “Don’t bullshit me! I know what I know. You’re out of the game. Don’t you get it? No one challenges Radovan. You’re out of the coat-check business. Sent off. Benched. You know me after all these years. I’ve had my eye on you. Know how you think. Rather, know that you don’t think. Don’t see me as your boss, your officer, your fucking president, as you should. But that’s all done now. Game over. Fatso.”