Never Fuck Up: A Novel (17 page)

“I’m still with Martin Hägerström. We’re taking a look at the body.”

Moment of silence.

“Forget Hägerström. Let him look on his own. I’m not waiting. Come out, now.”

Hägerström looked at Thomas.

“Ljunggren, we’ll talk later. Over and out.” Thomas switched the radio off.

Hägerström didn’t say anything. The autopsy technician continued to pull away the wrapping, slowly. It was held together with little clips. Took time. Thomas wondered if they’d really be understaffed at this place if this guy just learned to pick up the pace.

Thomas felt the suspense growing in his stomach, pushing the nausea away.

They could now see the entire white body inside the chamber.
The wounds were only visible if you looked closely. The autopsy technicians’d done a good job.

“On which arm did you see the track marks?” Hägerström asked.

Thomas walked over to the right arm. Pointed.

Hägerström picked up the arm. No marks. He ran his hand over the dead man’s arm. Thomas wondered what it felt like. Then, in the spot where Hägerström’d run his hand, he saw them: the needle marks.

“Sometimes you have to pull the skin apart a little to see,” Hägerström said. “It gets all saggy.”

Thomas felt like a badass CSI agent.

Hägerström picked up his bag from the floor. Rummaged around in it. Fished out a digital camera.

“Time to document what the forensic pathologist obviously didn’t see.”

At that moment, they heard a sound from the autopsy room. The door flew open. A suit-clad man entered. It was Stig Adamsson, unit chief, head of the Patrol Unit in the Southern District. Thomas’s boss.

“Hägerström, you have no authority to be here,” Adamsson said with a powerful voice. “The same goes for you, Andrén. Put that frozen dead guy back.”

Hägerström remained calm. Slowly put the camera back in its case.

“What’s going on, Adamsson? I’m in charge of this investigation. I investigate when I want and where I want.”

“No, you need a permit from the prosecutor to do this kind of thing. Damn it, Hägerström, you could get charged with official misconduct for this. The dead man’s already been autopsied and the forensic pathologist’s done his job. You can’t just clomp in here and pull out corpses like this.”

“I’m sorry, but I disagree.”

“In what way, may I ask?”

For the first time, Hägerström raised his voice a notch.

“I don’t know what you think you’re doing. But I’m the lead investigator on this case. That means I own this investigation. Even if I don’t have permission to be here, it’s not your place to meddle. Understood?”

Adamsson looked up. He wasn’t used to being talked to like this.

The morgue was quieter than death.

Nilsson pushed the corpse back into the chamber. It echoed in the cold room.

Steam rose from Adamsson’s nostrils.

“I am your superior, Hägerström. Don’t forget that.”

Then he walked out. Long, deliberate, angry steps.

They remained silent until they were back out on the gravel path. Thomas assumed that Ljunggren’d left with the car, so he’d have to catch a ride with Hägerström instead.

“Were we just in a movie, or what?” Hägerström asked. Grinned.

Thomas couldn’t help himself; he grinned back.

“I don’t fucking know.”

“If they made a movie about your life, who’d play you?”

“Why would anyone make a movie about me?”

“ ’Cause of what just happened, for instance. It’s like a damn thriller.”

Thomas almost laughed out loud. But he held back. To keep his distance.

“He’s a real old ballbuster, Adamsson. But I don’t get what he was doing here.”

“Exactly. Something is way off.”

“But what?”

“I have no idea,” Hägerström said. “Yet.”

The gym: beef-marinated, gorilla-infiltrated, muscle-fixated. Fitness Center: the place where Stockholm’s meatiest men hung out around the clock. The place where you didn’t show unless your biceps were at least sixteen inches in diameter—unpumped. But also—the place where the camaraderie wasn’t just based on a shared interest in bodybuilding and Dbols. The gym was open twenty-four/seven, year-round. Maybe that’s why it was a watering hole for so many of Radovan’s boys. Minions with the right attitude: protein shakes scored high, fat biceps scored higher, the Yugo boss came in first place.

Always techno blaring from the speakers. Tedious, monotonous, and taxing, according to some. According to Mahmud: the only beat that kicked in his will to pump iron. Plastic plants in white pots on the floor. Faded posters of Arnold Schwarzenegger and Christel Hansson on the walls. Old machines with peeling paint. Sweat-soaked handles, fixed up with black electrical tape. Whatever—all serious guys use gloves. Anyway: machines are for pussies. Hard-core players rock free weights.

Mahmud’d started working out there a few years before he got locked up. Now he was back. Loved the place. Loved that it’d given him the chance to work for the Yugos. It was a networking hub. People told stories about R.’s legendary life. The boss who’d started from scratch, who’d arrived with two empty hands at the Scania factory in Södertälje sometime before Mahmud was even born. Two years later, he’d made his first million. The guy was a legend, like a god. But Mahmud knew more: there’d been people at the gym who didn’t jibe with Rado. A couple old buddies of his. They weren’t exactly living in style these days. If they were even living.

Today: Mahmud did his pecs. Two hundred twenty pounds on the bench press. Slow, controlled lifts. Muscle training was a purely technical sport. Easy to separate the newbies from the vets—the twigs lifted too fast, allowed the arm’s angle to change in the wrong way.

He tried to think about the juice he was gonna go on soon; a few shortcuts never hurt anybody.

Impossible to concentrate. Two days left till Gürhan’s deadline and Mahmud hadn’t scored a single peseta more. His dad couldn’t lend him any. Plus, Mahmud didn’t want to drag Abu into this. His sis’d already lent him five grand. Maybe her
shabab
could get more, but he wasn’t home. He’d tried to buzz with Babak and Robert during their night out the other day. His homies, boys he could trust—but they didn’t have any tall stacks to shave off. Babak’d promised to scrounge up thirty grand by Thursday. Robert could loan him ten, but Mahmud couldn’t get it till later today. He had other buds too: Javier, Tom Lehtimäki, guys from before that he really dug. But to borrow money? No, a man with honor didn’t do that from just anybody.

All in all: he was still short forty big ones. What the fuck was he gonna do? Rob a bodega? Push baking powder on the corner? Beg for more time? Fat chance. He had to find that guy he had to find. Get the Yugos’ protection.

Mahmud put the bar back on the bench. The thought remained: WHAT THE FUCK WAS HE GONNA DO? The same feeling of panic hit him as when he’d seen Daniel and the other Born to Be Hated players at Hell’s Kitchen. Felt like the room was spinning. His head was pounding.

He stared up at the ceiling. Closed his eyes. Did everything he could not to think about what would happen if Gürhan didn’t get his cash at the designated time.

Later, he calmed down. Worked his triceps. One arm at a time over his head. A sixty-five-pound weight in his hand. Lowered it slowly down behind his back. His elbow remained in a straight position. Even slower extension. Smooth movements. An ache in his muscles. Felt good.

He thought more about the assignment. He hadn’t understood everything in the lawsuit paperwork Tom’d helped him get. But one thing was certain: someone in the security company responsible for the Arlanda vault was so dirty he must shit bribe dough. Tom’d helped him get the contact info for a couple guards that were known to do some special deals on the side sometimes.

Mahmud’d already called one of the guards, tried to be as polite as he could. Didn’t work. The Sven guard went all mall cop on him. Crabby,
testy, cocky. Claimed he’d never heard of any Wisam Jibril—or even the Arlanda robbery. No better luck with the other guys whose numbers he’d gotten from Tom—no one wanted to admit they knew Jibril. Maybe they were telling the truth. But that they didn’t know about the Arlanda robbery? Real believable. Sure.

Wisam Jibril: ghetto superstar, concrete hero. Was lying low. Trying not to be seen. Discovered. Revealed. But not like a pro—he’d returned to Sweden, to begin with. And: player lived
la dolce vita,
rained bills. Deluxed the luxe. Apparently let the money flow worse than a Kardashian. Mahmud was gonna follow Wisam’s cash trail.

Over this past week Mahmud’d asked around for Wisam at as many places as he could think of. The clubs around Stureplan, the pizza places in Tumba, Alby, and Fittja, the gyms in the city. Asked around with old buds of the guy’s family, project boys who hadn’t rotted all the way through and bitches who used to run around with Wisam when they were kids. He’d even asked around at a couple mosques and prayer centers. Zero success. But he knew about the Bentley.

Babak parked the car at Jungfrugatan. BMW M5: five hundred meaty horsepower under the blue enamel. Sport seats, cherrywood paneling, GPS. Extra everything. Sure, Babak’d borrowed it from his bro, but still—it was a hot whip. The chill part? Babak’s bro lived in a rented studio, 345 square feet. Even Babak had to laugh. But everyone knew: we’re not like the Svens who dream about some gray house in the shit suburbs. That crap was for squares. We don’t care about where we live in the same way. We care about class. And a man without a manly car is a man without dignity.

“
Jalla,
it’s time.” Mahmud grinned.

They climbed out of the car.

Östermalm in the summer sun. Below them was Strandvägen. On the other side, people were walking out toward the Djurgården park. Lots of boats and seagulls on the water below. What were all these people doing here, anyway? Didn’t the Svens work in the middle of the day?

He turned to Babak. “Check this. They whine that we don’t work and just look at ’em now.”

“Mahmud, no way you can crack
Suedi
thinking. They say we don’t work, just live on welfare. But then the same Svens say we take their jobs. How’s that make any sense?”

He saw the Bentley dealership a few yards farther up. The sign:
BENTLEY SHOWROOM
, in black letters on the façade above the display windows that reached all the way down to the pavement. The door was propped open.

It was empty in there. He reached into his pocket: the brass knuckles were in place. Looked at Babak. Nodded. Babak patted his hand over his breast pocket. Mahmud knew what was inside the right side of the jacket: a sawed-off baseball bat.

Mahmud walked into the store. Babak remained standing outside on the street, clearly visible from inside the Bentley place.

White-painted floor and walls. Spotlights in the ceiling. Four big cars on display: two Continental GTs, one Arnage, and one Continental Flying Spur. Normally, Mahmud would’ve been staring those juicy bits down like crazy. Today, he didn’t even check them out.

Still empty in there. Doesn’t anyone work here? He yelled, “Hello?” A guy appeared from a door behind a white counter that looked like a bar. Red pleated slacks, light-colored blazer with a kerchief in the breast pocket. Under the jacket: a tailored shirt with broad stripes, the top buttons undone. His cuff links were shaped like the B in the Bentley logo. On his feet: loafers with thin leather soles and gold buckles. Backslick brat times a million. Didn’t seem professional. Mahmud thought, Who’d ever consider buying a car from this clown?

“Hi there. How may I help you?”

Raised eyebrows. Was it a diss or a hint of fear? Mahmud didn’t look like he belonged in the showroom.

“I just wanna check out your Bentleys. You got more in than these?”

“What you see here is what we have.”

The player wanted to play tight-lipped. Signaled: You don’t look like a buyer. Mahmud didn’t give a fuck, he wasn’t here to shop.

“But you got more in storage somewhere, right?”

“Sure, we have a storage facility in Denmark and we build according to demand. It takes two to eight weeks to order a car from there.”

“Can you get a Continental GT with nineteen-inch alloy fenders?”

“Absolutely.”

“You sold a model like that in the last few months?”

Mahmud glanced outside. Saw Babak out there. Made eye contact. The brat followed Mahmud’s gaze. Also saw Babak. Looked back at Mahmud. Was that worry in his eyes?

“I think so,” he said.

Mahmud quit playing the interested customer.

“I’m asking ’cause I wanna know if you sold a car like that to a dude named Wisam Jibril.”

Silence in the showroom.

“Hey you, I asked you a question.”

“Yes, I heard that. But I don’t know if we sold a vehicle to anyone by that name. We don’t ask our customers what their names are.”

“I don’t give a shit. You sell a model like that to an Arab lately?”

“May I answer with a question? Why are you asking?”

“Quit it.”

“But how am I supposed to know who is an Arab and who isn’t? Anyway, there is no reason for me to give a further account of my customers. A lot of people don’t want to broadcast this kind of purchase, if you know what I mean.”