Life Deluxe (6 page)

He checked into Kumla. A heavy penitentiary for bros with a taste for tunneling. Release on temporary license: forget about it. Release on parole: nope. Unsupervised visits: don’t kid. Still: he’d patted himself on the back—it’d been worth it. More than a year and a half on the run. He’d had time to whip up some thick shit, including a bunch of fruity Thai parasol drinks.

And now: the new project was simmering.

The café was closed for the day. He was waiting for Tom Lehtimäki. Was gonna ask him if he wanted in on the CIT gig. His first recruitment attempt, other than Mahmud. Important. At the same time: dangerous. What if the dude didn’t want in? What if he started yappin’ about how Jorge was spinning a web?

Tom: an old friend of Mahmud’s to begin with. Jorge knew him from the café—Tom’d helped them with their bookkeeping. Lehtimäki: an economic fraud guru, like those dudes in the construction business that Peppe’d talked about. Lehtimäki: a street-smart motherfucker you could trust. The dude: like a mini-lawyer-slash-accountant at the same time. Tricked the tricks, fixed the fixes that had to be fixed.

Clear: Tom would be an asset.

Jorge’d texted him. Short and sweet, hadn’t mentioned what it was about. Just:
Wanna meet me at the café after closing. It’s important
.

Jorge leaned his head back. Waited for Tom. Reminisced. How he’d talked to Mahmud the first time. A tougher talk than the one he was gonna have now. Mahmud: his right-hand man, his homie, his
hombre
.

Jorge’d been anxious. Maybe the Arab would understand. Maybe he’d get pissed off. It didn’t matter. J-boy had to change his situation.

After Jorge’d caged out, he’d bought himself into the
fika
joint with Mahmud. The Arab thanked Jorge for wanting to be his partner.
Mahmud’d decided to make his papa proud: abandon the G-life. Become responsible. Almost become a Sven wannabe. Jorge planned on copying his style—try not to bounce back in, try to earn steady money, try to avoid sticking out.

They worked their connects to get the place in order. Bought café gear from some Syrians that Mahmud knew through Babak. Got armchairs and sweet tables with mosaic in the wooden surfaces from a dealer in Alby. Bought mugs, plates, spoons, and shit like that online. Tom helped them with wholesalers for buns, pies, and pastries. The coffee retailer and the sandwich wholesaler were dudes Mahmud’d met when they bought love from the whores he used to poon-nanny.

They even hired people. Three of Mahmud’s buddies’ little sisters were paid an hourly wage. They were young, but the idea was simple: pretty girls put people in the mood, especially for coffee.

Summa summarum
: tip-top feel. A 100 percent feel. After a few weeks: the place rolled like a Maserati on an autobahn.

They poured their souls into the place. Worked twenty-four seven. Jorge almost quit blazing to keep his energy up. The Arab lifted weights only twice a week in order to have enough time for it all. Jorge saw it as an investment. Café security—no more chasing after easy money. Plus: he needed something to do. He used his last savings: from blow sales and other gigs during his year in freedom. Became Mahmud’s partner in the calm, easy, honest life.

Months passed. The trend was unmistakable: everyone seemed to love to
fika
.

They rolled muffin dough out and green dough rolled in. The days flew by at Matrix-karate-speed. They worked like maniacs. Got up at five every single morning to receive milk orders at the café or drive to the megabakeries outside the city. During the rest of the morning, they prepped breakfast chow. Prepped lunch salads pre-noon, flipped the same greens like idiots during the lunch rush. Rocked cappuccinos, caffè lattes, caffè macchiatos, caffè-whatever during the rest of the day, until nine o’clock at night.

Mom grew prouder and prouder. His sister, Paola, looked at him with new eyes. She could honestly tell her son: Jorge
es un tío bueno
.

It ought to feel awesome.

Ought to feel phat as hell.

Still: felt shady.

Honestly: felt mad shady.

Him: Government-grown, institution-infected, slammer-soaked. Had skidded through life like a ricochet. Dealt with prejudiced teachers, deadbeat counselors, whiny-feminist welfare hags. Tricked pretend-understanding parole boards, brutal screws, even more brutal cops. Stretched his arm out, roared, and gave society’s quasi-racist bullshit the middle finger. Sven Sweden’s rules weren’t for him.

Plus: everything wasn’t rolling that smoothly anymore. The tax man didn’t like their bookkeeping. Racketeering cunts’d started showing up. The suppliers whined about advances.

But still: he was basically straight. At least as honest as a
blatte
like him could get.

But the deal: instead of feeling fly, it felt faggy.

Instead of being peaceful, it was dangerous.

Ideas were spinning in his head. Kept scratching his bandit-itch. The same thoughts every day. It was too early to get benched. Throw in the towel, blow off the game. It wasn’t time to give up, not yet. Not time to roll over and die.

Jorge’d heard Mahmud’s feet on the stairs. When the Arab finally did ring the doorbell, J-boy was jumpy as hell. His bro: rollin’ like one chill hombre. Superthick puffy, gray sweats, and Sparco shoes. Not as beefy as before, but still double J-boy’s size. To most people: the Arab had authority. His calm way of walking—hands in the top jacket pockets, swaying back and forth with every step—sent clear signals:
Take it easy. You don’t want to test this
. But Jorge knew: in Mahmud al-Askori’s chest pumped a heart bigger than, like, Melinda Gates and his own mama’s combined.

Mahmud met Jorge’s gaze, lowered his eyes—almost like he was shy. It was really true—his buddy was soft somehow.

They shook hands, not like regular Svens do: a weak handshake and a quick meeting of the eyes. No, they swung their arms before they slapped their palms together, letting their thumbs meet in a massive grip. Like the concrete. Like the Million Program. Like real friends.

They ate and shot the shit. Ran through the city’s latest gossip. About who was really behind the massive heist—fifty millions for bootleg booze and smuggled cigarettes. And how things were going for Babak and the rest of Mahmud’s buddies—boys who still played the game. Jumped pussies who played tough, pushed product, boosted electronics
from the chain stores’ huge warehouses, and flipped the same shit fourteen times retail online.

All afternoon: Jorge’d tried to calculate how to present it. How to begin. Explain what it was he wanted to say. How he would make the Arab understand.

Okay, they were having trouble with profitability. They were having trouble with the Yugos. But still: Mahmud could go apeshit. It might even make him weepy.

Jorge put his hand in his pocket and fished out a Red Line Baggie. Held the bag in the palm of his hand.

“Look what I got.”

Mahmud shook his head. “Not for me. Not tonight. It’s my turn to go to Södertälje tomorrow morning at five.”

Jorge slapped the bag against his other palm. “Stop sulking. Check it, we ate good, you pumped some iron, we feel good. Weed’s not gonna give you a hangover.”

Jorge poured the weed out and mixed tobacco into it. OCB in a roll—nice to roll and extra thin. The roach would smolder slower.

They took deep hits.

Mahmud leaned back. “This is some good shit.”

“Mahmud, I’ve gotta talk to you about something serious,” Jorge said.

Mahmud didn’t even look up, just kept that crooked grin plastered on his face, the one he always had when he was high. “Sure, is it business?”

“I’ve done this thing with you for six months,” Jorge said. “The café’s a good gig, pretty honest, we fork over alotta taxes, we got insurance and shit, we’re even saving for retirement, like real Svens, man. I dig you, Mahmud, we’ve got a sweet deal together.”

He put the joint down. “But it’s just that it’s, like, not working for me,
hombre
.”

Mahmud eyed him. Looked like the guy didn’t even blink.

“I mean, it’s not that it’s not working with you. You’re my brother. But this life, you know?”

Mahmud’s eyes narrowed. Jorge waited. Maybe the Arab would freak out now? Start cursing. Steam up, boil over.

Jorge rose. Started pacing back and forth. Tried to make the same words he had in his head come out of his mouth.

“That last turn, you know, that I had to take at Kumla. I was in
with a real old-timer, maybe you know him. His name is Denny. Denny Vadúr, from Södertälje.”

Mahmud didn’t say anything. Just waited to see where Jorge was going with this.

“My first long stint, I learned a lot about blow. Swallowed information like Jenna Jameson swallows cock. But there’s other stuff that’s better. That demands a real lotta brain.”

Jorge paused. Gave Mahmud the chance to guess.

The Arab stared at him. “What?”

“You’ve read about it in the papers a thousand times. We’ve talked about it tons of times. The latest helicopter heist on the roof of the G4S. I’m talking CIT, man. And you don’t even know how much cash we’re talking about. When the papers write five million’s missing, the real take’s four times that. But the banks and the armored car companies don’t wanna admit how much they actually lose—then they’d get picked over more. And the people would be even more pissed off. You know the Spånga robbery—remember that?”

“Yeah.”

“Those guys are from Södertälje. They hit the armored car with a fucking steamroller. The papers said they got hold of four million. It was actually twenty-two million. You follow? Twenty-two million. This guy Denny Vadúr might have to sit out a few years, but when he gates out, he’ll laugh all the way to the ditch in the woods where he buried the cash.”

“They’re kings.”

“Exactly,
huevon
. They’re kings. One hit, and you can be set financially for the rest of your life. Not have to rot in a café. And you know what the thing is? You know what’s big?”

“No.”

“I saved Denny’s life in there. A couple players with fire extinguisher and Denny alone in the Ping-Pong room. They tried to break open his skull with the sprayer, but little J-boy got in the way. You with me? What Vadúr owes me can’t be paid back in cash. So he’s put me in touch with the guy who’s sitting on the recipes for CIT heists in Södertälje. He’s gonna get me in there. I’ve got a chance to do something dope.”

Jorge took a final hit on the spliff. The ash almost burned his fingers.

Back to the present. Tom rolled in, an hour late. Time for the next talk.

Jorge fixed him a latte. They went into the office.

It was a small room behind the kitchen. No windows. Two folding chairs. A table that was so mini that it hardly fit two coffee saucers. A poster on the wall: a fog-covered bridge over some river in New York City.

Jorge folded out a chair, sat down. Tom sat down. Drank his latte. Got white foam on his upper lip.

“Tom, glad you could come so soon.”

“No prob.”

“Did you know we started cutting our barista milk with speed?” Jorge looked dead serious.

Tom looked like a cartoon smiley face. “Yeah, right.”

“Is that why you’re trying to save it all on your upper lip instead of drinking it?” Jorge grinned.

Tom laughed. Ran his tongue carefully over his lips.

Jorge got right down to it. Tom Lehtimäki was the kind of guy you were straight with. An honest man.

“Yo, I wanna talk business with you.”

“Don’t you do that every day?”

“Yeah, but this has nothing to do with the café. This shit is a million times bigger.”

Tom downed the last drops of coffee. Waited for Jorge to go on.

“Mahmud and me, we got an in to a CIT.”

“Fuck, man. Hope it’s as good as the helicopter robbery, except without all the badges watching.”

Jorge kept talking. The basic ideas—the little info the Finn’d given him so far. Like: how many bodies they needed to be, what kinds of sums they were talking about, where they should strike. He didn’t say anything about the Finn, but Tom wasn’t stupid—he understood that J-boy hadn’t come up with all of it on his own.

“So we’re not talking some small shit,” Jorge said. “This is gonna be historic. The heli-robbers were smart, but not smart enough. We’re gonna break all records. Based on what we’ve heard, we’re talkin’ at least forty million. You follow? This is not a game, man.”

Jorge fixed his gaze on the homeboy across from him.

Tom blinked.

J-boy popped the question. “Tom, I gotta know, you want in?”