Never Fuck Up: A Novel (13 page)

He woke from his reverie. Checked the time on his cell. Why hadn’t Babak shown yet?

They were going out tonight. Gonna do the city. Run their race—the bitches were theirs for the picking. Wham-bam. He hummed in Arabic—
Ana bedi kess
. I love pussy.

He was sick of waiting, climbed the half stair into the store.

Inside: packed.

The store was tiny, like a hot-dog stand. Sweat stench and lots of buzz. Babak was standing behind the glass counter. A shadow of stubble over his cheeks, neatly waxed side part, shirt unbuttoned at the neck. Mahmud would never say it aloud, but Babak had swag. Beside Babak: his dad and a couple other relatives. His dad was dressed in a fake Armani T-shirt. His uncle and cousins in button-downs. They crowded around, peddled and chatted. Babak was busy with a customer. Mahmud loved the place. The atmosphere was mad un-
Suedi
: another world, another country. People haggled like crazy, screamed to make themselves heard. Three young black guys were begging for the best price for a box of stolen cells. Babak’s dad threw open his arms, made a face like they’d asked to date his daughter. “You think I made of money? Max hundred each, I give.” Mahmud smiled to himself—the guy couldn’t get more home country. An island in Sven Sweden.

The shelves were loaded with used cell phones, MP3 players, chargers, wireless phones, calling cards, alarm clocks. There were cell-phone cases in various colors under the counter, along with watches and unlocked iPhones. On the counter: plates with Babak and his dad’s dinner. Tomatoes, raw onion, feta cheese, and pita bread. Authentic.

At least fifteen people waited in line. They were selling their old or stolen cell phones, wanted help unlocking SIM locks, were dropping off watches for repair. Most of all they bought calling cards for übercheap international rates. On the walls were ads for different cell-phone manufacturers, everything from old Ericsson legends—black brick phones—
Now with dual band!
—to iPhones. But above all: price lists for the calling cards. Jedda, Jericho, Jordan. You name it.

Babak finished with the customer. Turned to Mahmud. “
Habibi,
give me five minutes. We just gotta close the shop.”

A half hour later: they were down on the street together. Walking toward Skärholmen’s subway station.

Mahmud laughed. “I love your dad’s store, man. Real authentic feel.”

Babak threw his arms out, imitated his dad. “Did you see how he was dealin’ with his bros? They didn’t have a chance, man.”

They jumped the turnstiles. Heard the attendant yell something after them. Faggot—let him hide in his booth and scream his throat raw.

They walked toward the platform. Old wads of gum formed a pattern on the ground. Mahmud was in a better mood.

The train rolled into the station. To Babak’s place. Time to start poppin’.

Later at Babak’s: Mahmud, Babak, and Robert in the apartment in Alby. A one-bedroom, 520 square feet. Pictures of his family and different Egyptian images on the walls. Babak didn’t have jack shit to do with Egypt, but for some reason he dug sphinxes, hieroglyphs, and pyramids. Babak used to say, “You know, the Egyptians, they like the baddest empire ever. They invented all that shit you think Europe did. Written language, paper, warfare. All that good shit. You feel me?”

In the living room: two camel-colored leather couches with a glass-top coffee table—covered in empty Coke cans, remote controls for the stereo, TV, DVD, cable box, and projector. Covers to Xbox 360 games:
Halo 3, Infernal, Medal of Honor
. Rizla papers, weapon magazines, porn rags, a dime bag with some weed.

Babak got a Coke from the fridge. Sat down on one end of the couch. Mahmud flipped through a weapons magazine:
Soldier of Fortune
. Eyed sick army knives that the Gurkha warriors used. Couldn’t find more hard-boiled killers than that. Robert rolled a fatty. Slowly ran his tongue along the Rizla paper. Stuffed with tobacco and weed. Didn’t twist off the end; the weed pouted out like a real zoot. Let the flame lick the outside of the spliff.

He lit up. Took big puffs. In the background, the Latin Kings. Dogge’s high-pitched voice speaking right to them.

Rob handed the joint to Mahmud. Between his thumb and index finger. Took a deep hit. Sucking. Sampling. Soaring. Sooo sweet.

He blew smoke out through his nose, slowly.

“Remember back in school? There was a guy named Wisam. Wisam Jibril, I think. He was a couple years older. Word round the way is, he got into some heavy shit.”

Rob seemed totally out of it. Nodded like in his sleep.

Mahmud gave him a shove.

“Yo, snap out of it. It wasn’t fucking hash you smoked.”

He turned to Babak instead.

“Remember him? Wisam Jibril?”

Babak looked up.

“I don’t remember no Wisam. What about it?”

“Yo, come on. He was kinda short. Had a couple years on us. Hung with Kulan, Ali Kamal, and those guys. Remember?”

“Sure. That
blatte
. He got fat on cash, I think. You know, his mom and dad went back to Lebanon.”

“Why?”

“Don’t know.”

“But you haven’t seen him lately?”

Mahmud thought about what Babak’d said: Wisam’s family’d left the country—bad. Might make it harder to find him.

“That was a long time ago. He hung out downtown. Right after I did that grocery store hit, remember? I ran into him at the clubs a couple times.”

An opening. “Where’d you run into him?”

“I told you, the clubs.”

“But which ones?”

Babak looked like he was thinking hard.

“Thing is, I think it was at Blue Moon Bar every time.”

“Oohkaay.” Mahmud imitated Tony Montana’s pronunciation in
Scarface.
“If you hear anything about him, put the word out I wanna see him.”

He shoved Rob.

“Listen up, you too. I wanna see Wisam Jibril.”

It felt good. Mahmud’d gotten a lead. Spread the message. Gotten closer. But now it was time to drop the questions for a while.

They lit a new joint an hour later. Deliberated, speculated, syncopated. They could talk for hours. About old homies from the concrete, workout routines, Babak’s dad’s store, cool weapons in the magazine, Sven Sweden’s pathetic attempt to integrate them. Mahmud told them about the fight gala in the Solna sports center: Vitali Akhramenko’s steel jabs, the mouth guard that went flying. But he shut up about the Yugos’ assignment—Babak and Rob were soldiers, but you just didn’t talk about shit like that.

Most of all: they buzzed about roads to success. Robert told them about four buddies of his from northern Stockholm. Real smart boys who’d cooked up a sick plan. He was getting worked up telling his own story: “You know, the boys made a payment to that cruise
company, Silja Line, I think, for thirty-five big ones, cash. Same day, they called Silja and said they’d paid by accident—that Silja wasn’t owed any dough. Course the Silja clowns paid it all back with a check. One of the boys’ brothers’d worked for a bank or something and knew that it takes a couple days for places like Silja to get their payments registered. If you made a withdrawal on a Thursday or Friday, there’s no chance in hell they’ll notice anything until Monday. So, they could work for two days, no problem. They copied the check—that’s easy, just run it through a color copier—and headed out on tour. They split the banks up between them and marked all the places they were hitting on a map. The point was it’d go faster if they split into two teams. But they fucked it all up.”

Mahmud interrupted him.

“How the fuck’d they sink that ship? Those guys sound like mad pros.”

“Yeah, I was getting to that. Listen. One of the offices was closed for renovations, but it said you could go to this other office instead. Thing was, the other office was in the part of town the other team was covering. So they went to the same office twice. It coulda worked anyway, but they happened to go to the same teller too. Get it? She started asking questions. Small bank offices like that don’t get too many checks for big sums. And both from Silja, too.”

Mahmud laughed. “
Habibi,
know what it prove?”

Robert shook his head. Gulped some Coke.

“It prove, no matter how smart you are, it can still fucking go to hell. Violence, that’s the only tight way. Right? If they’d had a gun they could’ve made that bitch shut up.”

Robert took a last hit off the doobie. “You’re right. Weapons and explosives. So, when we gonna do something big, huh?”

Mahmud winked at him. “Soon.” He really wanted to do something big soon.

They ordered a cab. Mahmud was dressed in his usual going-out getup: white button-down with the top buttons undone, jeans that were a little too tight—looked good when his thighs were on display—and black leather shoes.

Mahmud checked for the wad of cash in the inner pocket of his jacket—thirty-five hundred kronor bills that he couldn’t burn tonight.
Gürhan’s money. But Babak’d promised to treat. Tonight they were gonna blow a big load.

The E4 highway northbound. Mostly taxis and buses. It was eleven-thirty at night. They asked the cabbie to tune the radio to
The Voice
. Mahmud and Robert rocked to the beat in the backseat. Babak sang, “She break it down, she take it low, she fine as hell, she about the dough.” Justin, 50 Cent, and plenty of bitches.

Mahmud loved the feeling. Gearing up to go. The camaraderie. Swedish society tried to trample them every day of their lives. Still, there was so much joy left for the weekend.

Twenty minutes later, they arrived at Stureplan. They tipped the cabbie two hundred. Like kings.

The line outside Hell’s Kitchen looked more like the fans at the front of the guardrails at a massive concert. People surged forward, waved their arms, gripped their purses tight, jumped to see better, yelled at the bouncers, pressed on. Pressed hard. Pressed in toward the glamour. The head bouncer was standing on an electrical cabinet—pointed at people who were allowed in. The other bouncers patrolled back and forth; the small earpieces they wore made them look like hard-core secret-service agents. The real brats glided easily through the sea of people. Self-tanner chicks with platinum locks trailing. The rest had to hand over crumpled five-hundred-kronor bills, promised to buy drinks for over a thousand kronor, insisted they were famous, rich, people worth betting on. Immigrant guys threatened to beat up the bouncers—they knew they didn’t have a chance anyway. The bitches pushed with their boobs out and their lips parted—promised blowjobs, a fuck, a threesome. Anything to get in.

Mahmud saw the same thing in 90 percent of the people in line: desperation. In other words—it was business as usual out here.

Mahmud, Babak, and Robert—they weren’t heavy hitters yet. Normally, they didn’t have a chance at luxury places like Sturecompagniet and Hell’s Kitchen. But Babak was fucking jonesing. Mahmud would rather go to Blue Moon Bar on Kungsgatan, look for Wisam. Ask people in the bar questions. What’s more: he didn’t understand how Babak thought they were gonna get in.

But Babak wasn’t pulling any punches. Eye contact with the head bouncer up on his throne. He spread his fingers. The bouncer raised his
eyebrows, didn’t get the message. Babak took a step forward, pressed himself against the barricade. Leaned toward the bouncer. “I got the hookup. Ten grams.” The bouncer winked. Raised the velvet rope.

They were allowed into the area with the cash registers. Two hundred and fifty kronor each. Shit, it cost to be on top. But who gave a fuck at this point—they were in.

What a fucking miracle. Mahmud and Robert eyed Babak. He grinned. “You didn’t know? I’m the snowman.”

Inside: the tight boys dominated. Magnum and regular-sized bottles of champagne in ice buckets everywhere. Dudes with silk kerchiefs in their breast pockets, slicked-back hair, and, on the hottest ones: fluffier manes combed back. Unbuttoned striped shirts with cuff links that gleamed, expensive-looking blazers, slim-cut distressed designer jeans, leather belts with monogram-shaped buckles: Fendi, Gucci, Louis Vuitton. Some with ties, but most rocked open necks—that offered the most opportunity to flaunt their chests. What’s more: a couple of worn-out rockers with sideburns and trucker hats. Mahmud didn’t understand why they’d been let in.

Fine girls were sitting in booths sipping vodka tonics or letting the dudes treat them to bubbly. Silver-spoon bred, young socialites, bumpkins who fronted.

But also a dapple of other types of people: C-list celebs. Reality-TV stars, talk-show hosts, performers. Surrounded by chicks with designer purses over their shoulders and Playboy jewelry around their necks who danced facing out toward the place.

Last but not least: Jet Set Carl, top playboy on all Stureplan bitches’ list of dicks to suck. Even Mahmud and his homies knew about the guy. The dude owned three places downtown, his real name was Carl something, Mahmud didn’t know what. The only thing he knew: the player was mad jet set. Hence the name.

Not a lot of real
blattes
in there. Maybe a few adopted and well integrated. Like people who did music stuff, media, or other crap. Honestly: Mahmud couldn’t feel any less at home—but the honeys were fly. He undid another button on his shirt. Babak ordered a bottle of Dom at the bar.

Mahmud glanced at his reflection in the ice bucket that was brought along with Babak’s champagne.

Liked his look. Broad eyebrows, black hair slicked back with so much gel that he could’ve had the same hairdo for three weeks
without a single hair falling out of place. Full lips, solid jaw, perfectly even stubble over his cheeks.

He saw the reflection of Babak and Robert walking toward him behind his back. Turned before they reached him.

Babak, surprised: “How’d you see us?”

Mahmud said, “Ey, buddy, with this many pumas in one place you gotta have eyes in the back of your head. Don’t wanna miss one.”

A smile played on his lips.

They laughed. Gulped champagne. Did their best to make eye contact with the chicks around them. No success—it was as if they were invisible. Finally, Rob went up to a couple chicks. Said something. Offered bubbly.