Easy Money (37 page)

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Authors: Jens Lapidus

Tags: #Fiction, #Mystery & Detective, #Hard-Boiled, #Crime, #Organized crime—Fiction, #General, #Thrillers

BOOK: Easy Money
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45

Mrado in Ringen’s mall. In ICA, the grocery store. Preparing the all-out day he was gonna have with Lovisa this week.

He hadn’t slept all night. Only been thinking about this day and his future.

Had to buy groceries. Usually, the cupboards, fridge, and freezer in his apartment were empty. Only the bar was full. But since his right to see Lovisa’d been secured by the court, it’d become important to Mrado to be a good father. A new self-realization: homemade eats weren’t his thing. Despite that, he tried to make breakfast, lunch, and dinner when Lovisa was there.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d bought so much food.

Red shopping basket in one hand, grocery list in the other. Difficult to grab the grub and still keep track of the grocery list. One hand busy with the list, the other snatching stuff—which hand would hold the basket? Mrado came up with a business idea: to produce list holders for the shopping baskets. Give the shoppers one hand free to grab goods. Maybe have a clip for the list. Maybe even for cell phones? Ads for sales items on the side. Mrado schemed on.

He kept adding stuff to his basket: macaroni, ketchup, ready-made meatballs, tomatoes—important to have vegetables, too. He was gonna be a healthy father.

Thought about his other list. He had to secure his and Lovisa’s lives. Tackle risks. Protect Lovisa. Get her to move. Protect himself. He’d already sold his car and switched phones. This week, it was time to buy a better bulletproof vest, get a PO box address, and research the market for home alarm systems.

His and Nenad’s pact felt secure. Radovan was gonna have to take it straight up the dirty—no more sitting pompous for Rado the rectal wreck. He’d regret ditching them. Radovan had to learn, the Serbian way. Go ahead, play tough—but don’t let your friends down. Who the hell did he think he was?

Mrado looked for a good dessert. Browsed between the freezer units and the cookie section. Ice cream or cookies, that was the question. No, he couldn’t just buy unhealthy stuff. Decided on fruit salad. Chose oranges, apples, kiwis, and bananas. Surprised himself—my God, he was fantastic.

He didn’t fit into these kinds of environments. It was strange—the same insecurity that overwhelmed the people he pressed for dough, squeezed confessions out of, threatened with death, he felt in totally ordinary places. In the grocery store, in the pizzeria, on the street. Thought people stared at him, that they saw right through him. Recognized a dirty citizen, a criminal parasite, a bad father.

And still, when he saw them—the people in the grocery store—it was clear that what they needed was to pump up their lives. Feel some voltage, get kicks. Experience the adrenaline rush in the ring at Pancrease. The serotonin level when you broke someone’s nose. The cracking sound, like dry boards, when the hand’s first two knuckles met the nose bone’s cartilage. Mrado knew what it meant to be alive.

He flipped through a cell phone magazine he’d plucked from the rack by the checkout. New finesses: TV in your phone, pay with your phone, porn in your phone.

Someone said his name.

“Mrado, is that you?”

Mrado looked up. Instant indignity. Freebie reading instead of buying. Embarrassing.

“What’s up?”

Mrado recognized the guy. Hadn’t seen him in ages. Old classmate from Södertälje, Martin. The class’s brainiac.

“Martin, good to see you.”

“Damn, Mrado, it’s been years. Did you go to the reunion, whenever that was?”

The reunion: ten years after Mrado’d graduated from junior high. He’d been twenty-six at the time. At first, thought he’d screw it. Then chosen to show them. The fist champion they’d all hated was still a fist champion. With one difference—now he made out like a king. He’d sat with Ratko at a pub in the area an hour before. Downed three beers and two fat whiskeys. Hadn’t felt ripe enough to go without warming up.

“Sure, the reunion. That. What’re you up to nowadays?”

Mrado wanted to drop the subject. The reunion’d ended in a fiasco: Mrado in a fight with two old antagonists. Nothing’d changed—they were still on his back. Hadn’t understood who he’d become.

“I work in the federal court,” Martin replied.

Mrado, surprised. Martin in a green windbreaker, worn jeans, Von Dutch baseball hat. Looked young, chill. Not exactly the lawyerly type.

“Interesting. Are you a judge?”

“Yeah, I work as a deputy judge at the court of appeals. A ton of work. We’re criminally understaffed, toiling like beasts. It’s not unusual to pull sixty-hour weeks. We just maintain the rule of law. Nothing important. No siree. Sometimes you wonder about the values in this country. In the States, they value academics completely differently. Nope, the courts of law aren’t worth shit. Seriously, it’s totally messed up. I would make three times as much if I went corporate.”

“Then why don’t you?”

Martin pushed back his Von Dutch hat. “I happen to believe in this. Functioning courts, a court system where the best lawyers’ work guarantees a constitutional state. The possibility for people to have their sentences and rulings tried in appellate courts. Faster processing times without mistakes, carefully considered and consistent verdicts.”

Mrado hoped he wouldn’t have to talk about himself. He said, “You should be happy you work with something you believe in.”

“Don’t know if I believe in it anymore. I mean, we keep pushing the sludge through, but the slime is growing exponentially. Crime just gets smarter and more grisly, not to mention that there’s more of it. The police can’t keep up. We convict them as fast as we can, but they come right back again after two years, when they’ve done their time and are roaming the streets again. Often, they commit the exact same crime that we convicted them for the first time. Do they change? Not a piss. Soon the gangs are gonna fucking take over this city. Maybe I should offer my services to them instead. Better pay. Ha-ha. Anyway, what’re you up to?”

In Mrado’s head: I knew it was coming. What do you tell a judge? Mrado liked the guy somehow. At the same time, he felt it unwise to talk to a law fanatic. If he heard so much as a whisper about Mrado’s business, there’d be a hell of a racket.

“I work with teak.” Thought, Keep it simple. I do run that kind of company anyway. Less than 100,000 kronor in turnaround a year, but still. The perfect cover.

“Are you a carpenter?”

“Sort of. I import, mostly.”

Mrado suddenly wanted to stop talking, stop lying. He added the cell phone magazine to his shopping basket. Started to walk toward the checkout.

“Martin, nice to see you. I gotta go now. Am seeing my daughter.”

Martin smiled. Pushed his cap back low over his brow again. Looked trendy.

They shook hands. Mrado got in the checkout line. Thought, The dude convicts people like me every day. Imagine if he knew.

Martin disappeared into the store.

Mrado couldn’t stop harping. What if he already knows. What if he was just being polite. Fuck, maybe I should quit. For my own sake. For Lovisa’s sake.

At the same time, another voice was screaming inside: If you quit, who are you? If you don’t get even with Radovan, who are you? A nobody.

Martin’d lived on the same street as Mrado until the ninth grade. Then he’d moved to a better area north of the city.

He reminded Mrado of his school days. Mrado’d come with his parents to Sweden when he was three years old. Work immigration. Saab-Scania, big industry. Södertälje needed people. Sweden’d cut the visa requirements for Yugoslavians a few years earlier. Södertälje was crawling with Greeks, Finns, Italians, Yugos. The Syrians and Turks came later. Back then, the Yugos stuck together. No difference between Serbs, Croatians, and Bosnians. Tito was their hero. How wrong they’d been. Naïve. Gullible. Thought you could trust the Croatians and the Bosnians. Today, Mrado wouldn’t even piss on a Bosnian if he were on fire.

The catchword was
Miljonprojekt,
the state-run Million Program to create project housing and opportunities. Everyone worked hard. Mrado did, too. Every day, he’d beat one person up or get beaten up by a couple of people. They were always aggressive, armed. In bigger numbers. He bit the bullet. Never told anyone at home. Sharpened his knuckles. Learned to take a beating. Above all, learned to give a beating. Shootfighting at the basic level—kick to the shins, punch in the stomach, bite, scratch, aim for the eyes. He’d already become a fight-trick master by then. King of dirty play. A name in Södertälje.

He became respected. Did his own thing. No one got in his way. After finishing ninth grade, he never saw anyone from school again. Instead, he enrolled in an electronic and telephonic technical program at Ericsson’s own high school by Telefonplan. Dropped out his junior year and started working as a bouncer. Then straight up on the Yugo career ladder. And now he was gonna reach the top.

Mrado looked down at the girl manning the cash register. Thought, If I was a real father, I’d have an ICA rewards card. Instead, he pulled out his wad of cash. Sliced some cheddar off the top.

The girl didn’t seem to give a damn.

He saw Martin get in the line.

Looked away.

***

MEMORANDUM

(Confidential pursuant to chapter 9, paragraph 12 of the Secrecy Act)

PROJECT NOVA

COUNTY CRIMINAL POLICE INITIATIVE AGAINST ORGANIZED CRIME

Balkan-related crime in Stockholm

Report Number 9
Background Information

The following memorandum is based on reports and reported suspicions from the Special Gang Commission and the Norrmalm police’s Financial Crime Investigation Unit in collaboration with the United County Effort Against Organized Crime in the Stockholm Area (collectively referred to below as the Surveillance Group). The methods employed include mapping, with the help of the combined experience of the Stockholm police; the collection of information from people within the criminal networks, so-called rats; secret wiretapping and bugging, as well as the coordination of requisite registries.

The memorandum is being submitted due to the murders of two persons active within the so-called Yugoslavian Mafia (referred to below as the Organization), further described in report number 7.

On March 16 of this year, two deceased people were found in an apartment in Hallonbergen. There are strong suspicions of murder. The Surveillance Group was able to confirm that they were killed using violent force. The Surveillance Group had planned for quite some time to put the apartment under surveillance, as there are suspicions of prostitution being conducted there. The date and time of death of the murdered persons have been established as occurring at some point between 3:00 and 5:00 a.m. on the morning of March 15. The cause of death for both parties was shots fired with a large-caliber shotgun to the stomach and head, respectively. Organic material has been sent to SKL for analysis. The weapon, a shotgun, probably a Winchester repeating rifle, Model 12, .12-80-caliber, has not been identified. Interrogations with people in Hallonbergen have begun. Because of the time of the crime, it is probable that very few people were awake and observed suspects in the area. The Surveillance Group believes that the killings are connected with the internal conflicts within the Organization.

A woman, probably working as a prostitute in the above-mentioned apartment brothel, has also been reported missing since March 13 of this year.

Victims

Zlatko Petrovic:
Pimp directly subordinate to Nenad Korhan (in turn subordinate to Radovan Kranjic, described in report number 7), 700712-9131, born in the former Yugoslavia, currently Serbia-Montenegro. Came to Sweden when he was six years old.

Had previously worked as a bouncer and a combat-sport coach. His latest reported income: 124,000 kronor, income from jobs as a combat-sport coach and a bouncer, as well as gambling winnings.

Criminal record is as follows: 1987: assault. 1989: theft, illegal arms possession (served six months in prison). 1990: attempted murder, theft (served six years in prison). 1997: unlawful threats, illegal arms possession, sexual assault (served eight months in prison). 2001: pandering (prostitution), assault (served one year in prison).

Petrovic was considered very violent, especially toward women. Since the end of the 1990s, he was believed to have run one or more brothels in apartments around Stockholm’s outer boroughs with Korhan. Active in Hallonbergen from 2002 until his death.

Over the past three months, the Surveillance Group has tried to infiltrate the operation. The infiltrator (X), under the name Micke, previously focusing on the Organization’s recruitment base, served as “junior pimp,” a so-called whore-watcher, for the prostitute who is currently missing. He has observed a number of suspicious visitors and persons who have approached the prostitute in recent weeks. There is probably a connection between the missing prostitute and the murders. For further information, see X’s report, Attachment 1.

Jelena Lukic:
The so-called brothel madam, directly subordinate to Korhan, 720329-0288, born in the former Yugoslavia, currently Serbia-Montenegro. Came to Sweden when she was two years old.

Had previously worked as a masseuse and pedicurist. Her latest reported income was 214,000 kronor, income from investments, jobs as a masseuse, as well as gambling winnings.

Her criminal record includes only traffic violations.

Lukic had been active within the sex-trade industry, involved in pandering, since the end of the 1990s. In 2002, her “stable” of between three and four prostitutes was taken over by Korhan, at which time she began to do business with Petrovic, primarily in the above-mentioned brothel in Hallonbergen. Lukic is also believed to have run a so-called call-girl business with seven or eight women, primarily Swedish citizens. The women within this call-girl business have been rented out for representational events with foreign clients, for example, and as escorts during meetings of gentlemen’s clubs and at private parties.

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