Never Fuck Up: A Novel (21 page)

Mahmud looked them up with Tom’s help. They called the passport authority, went to Kungsholmen—got copies of the old guys’ passport photos. They didn’t drive any flashy cars, according to the national registry of motor vehicles. But, according to the tax authorities, they were saddled with some heavy tax debt. Mahmud went to John Ballénius’s address, Tegnérgatan. Waited outside. After four hours, the guy came staggering up the street laden with two bags from the liquor store. Looked half-marinated in booze. Still good—now he had his eye on the guy. Mahmud went to the other dude’s address. Waited all night. Nothing happened. Either Rantzell stayed home twenty-four/seven, or he was abroad, or he didn’t actually live there. Craven cunt.

Most likely the guys were front men for the leasing company. Stinky fish like that couldn’t buy flashy cars, at least not if they wanted to register and insure them. Wise guys knew the solution was luxury rentals.

The guard lead from the robbery’d unfortunately not panned out. A couple hustlers he’d spoken with’d heard talk that the Lebanese was back in town, maybe they’d even seen him, but no one knew where Wisam Jibril was hiding. Mahmud and Tom’s conclusion: the only lead Mahmud could go on was the Bentley.

He had to get one of the golden oldies to talk.

But how? Time was ticking by.

He called Babak and Robert. Even called Javier and Tom. Needed more help than ever. Couldn’t face any more attempts at negotiation
with Daniel or Gürhan. More humiliation. In twelve hours, he had to have that cash. Twenty grand more. Couldn’t be impossible.

They met at Robert’s house.

Mahmud served up a blunt—weed rolled in cigar leaves instead of cigarette paper. Tried to seem a thousand times more chill than he really felt. They buzzed quick cash schemes. He needed to get his homies amped. Hoped they didn’t see the panic in his eyes.

Robert alternated between hip-hop and Arabic hits. His apartment was so permanently hotboxed that you mellowed out just by walking through the door.

Babak was babbling as usual.

“We should do like the heavy boys, Fucked for Life and those guys. Go to Thailand and just plan.”

“
Just
plan?” Robert looked at Babak. “What about the hookers?”

Babak laughed.

“Okay, we’ll bukkake some Thai chicks, too. But mostly plan.”

Mahmud dug the way they spit.

Babak said, “Who are we, anyway? What should we do? Society already fucked us. We knew that early, right? School, high school, that shit wasn’t our beat. College, not on the map. But not slaving away at a McDonald’s or working as a cleaner forever either. None of that bullshit. And now there ain’t no good jobs for us to get. And honestly, we don’t want their normal jobs anyway. Just look at your dad, Mahmud. Sweden isn’t for
blattes
like us, not even the straitlaced ones.”

Mahmud was listening.

“Imagine a scale, you know what I mean. On one side you put the Sven life, nine-to-five, maybe an okay car, and some bust-your-nuts gig, a house somewhere. On the other side you put excitement, freedom, bitches, and cash. And the feeling. The feeling of being a don. Which side’s got the most weight? It’s not even a fucking choice, man. Who doesn’t want to swag it up, go from ashy to classy? Give society the finger, you feel me? They’ve pissed on us anyway so why not piss right back on ’em? Just think, the feeling, to be a Yugo boss, Gürhan Ilnaz or one of those real hustlers.”

Robert took deep hits off the blunt. “You’re right, man. No sane fucker’s gonna choose nine-to-five. But, yo, know what the thing is?”

Babak shook his head.

“The thing is, how you get there. Right? You can work corners for years, still someone else’s skimming off the top. Or else you can do all
that fraud shit, like the guys I was telling you about, who tried to gyp Silja Line. But that’s gotta be too much stress.”

“True. That’s why we gotta go to Thailand. We gotta stop working corners and doing this petty bullshit. Explosives, that’s what it’s all about, yo, like I always say.”

Mahmud and Robert, at the same time: “You mean CIT?”

“Ey, I do. We learn to explode, we can do anything. Know what that’s called? The big fish call it technical crime. That’s the real shit, the kind of shit that needs planning, that needs technique. Plastic explosives, percussion caps, fuses—I don’t got a clue, but the guys who can do explosives can do anything. Imagine, getting ten million on a hit instead of a few grand here and there.”

Mahmud thought about the Arlanda hit, and Jibril.

“You can buy recipes for CIT knocks in Södertälje,” Robert said. “I know people.”

“Yeah, but then they gonna skim off the top again. Fuck, man, we gotta be on our own. Mahmud, don’t you know some Yugo who could teach us?”

Mahmud almost got pissed.

“You playin’? Those aren’t my people.”

“But maybe they know this shit. They’re warriors. Seems like most of ’em were down in Yugoslavia ten years ago.”

Robert kept sucking on the blunt. “I’ll tell you something—never trust the Yugos. They don’t got a proper hierarchy, not like the Hells Angels, the OG, or the Brotherhood. No rules. They’re not working for the next generation. Every Yugo’s just thinking about his own skin and don’t build nada for no one else. You know why they done so well in Sweden? ’Cause they were here first and ’cause they get a fuckload of support from their country down there. They’ve fucking owned this town for twenty years now, kept restocking with Serbian gats from their war, new soldiers who’ve been primed to come up here for work. But know what I think? They gonna disappear. They a clan, not an organization. They don’t got a chance against the HA and the others. The Yugos’ time is over. One more thing. They’re getting all Sven and shit. You feel me?”

Mahmud was shook—the Yugos’ time was over? Had he bet on the wrong fighter? He didn’t even want to think about what Rob’d just said. He had to get cash.

They kept buzzing.

After a while, they hatched a tight idea—they should crash a party nearby that Babak knew about. Babak sold E to the guy having the bash, Simon. So it was his time to cash in on some of Simon’s debt tonight: sweet Sven with a severe smiley habit. It was the kid’s birthday. And Babak wasn’t invited. That alone was a reason to show the boy who was boss.

The mood heightened. After a few minutes, it got even better—Robert surprised them with a bonus for the night: Rohypnol.

Three pills and two beers. Unbeatable combination: Benzo-buzz. Aggro-energy.

Mahmud felt it clearly: his blood was pumping better than the others’—he could do whatever he wanted.

They rolled to Simon’s birthday party.

It was cold out. They parked Robert’s car. Mahmud, Babak, and Robert waited outside the kid’s building. Babak’d called. Asked to come up and say happy birthday. Simon’d been reluctant. Worlds colliding—he didn’t want his low life to mix with his high life. The whole thing was simple: Babak wasn’t invited. Babak wasn’t happy. Simon knew that Babak wasn’t invited. Ergo: Simon knew that Babak wasn’t happy. Simon’d managed to have Babak agree to meet outside. Pleaded, “It’s my birthday, can’t you cut me some slack today?”

The guy came out of the building. Stood waiting outside by the road. A pale bean pole with hair dyed black. Another guy, maybe Simon’s friend, remained standing in the entranceway. Hard to see, the streetlight was reflecting in the glass section of the door.

Babak: high as a Dubai skyscraper. Looked at Simon.

“Happy birthday. You got my cash or what?”

Mahmud remained in the background. Eyed Babak’s forehead. He was breaking out. His forehead gleamed. Typical side effect of muscle pills.

“Babak, I’m not supposed to pay you until next Sunday. And there’s no chance in hell I can get it for today, anyway. Forget about it. You’ve already pocketed half of what I made last month.”

Simon knew the rules. He had to be punished now. But the thing about tonight: he would’ve been punished either way.

A shove. Simon stumbled back a couple of steps. Babak was steaming. Robert was steaming. Mahmud felt so happy—back on the street, a
chance to score. He wanted in. Wanted to feel the kick. Took a step forward.

“You fucking cunt. What are you, slow? Hand over the cash.”

The friend stuck his head out through the front door. From a distance, he looked tired, dark circles under his eyes. He yelled, “What the hell are you doing?”

Babak took a solid grip on Simon’s arm.

“Tell your nasty little buddy over there to shut up. You say you don’t got cash, but someone’s gotta pay, right? You bought four bottles from me, but you only paid for two. Who you think’s gonna cover the other two, huh? You promised you’d fix it. You want me to spend my own money, huh?”

“But I promised I’d get it.”

“Forget that. We’re gonna go up to your little fag fest and you’re gonna get the dough now.”

There were fourteen people in the apartment, a large studio with a spacious kitchen. The boys were playing FIFA on a PS3. Ill graphics.

Babak went straight into the kitchen. Dragged Simon along. Mahmud sat down in front of a computer, scrolled through the MP3s. Fucking pussy music. Didn’t they have any black beats?

Robert leaned against the wall. Arms crossed. Both he and Mahmud knew something was gonna pop. Knew they were perceived as gorillas. Waited for Babak’s signal.

Obvious: Robert was bugging out. Mahmud could feel the brass knuckles in his pocket. Babak was out in the kitchen with Simon, could feel the vibes, was probably tweaking.

The party seemed more like a dull night in than a birthday bash.

Aside from Babak and Simon, there were some chicks in the kitchen. When Babak walked in, the bitches went into the living room.

One of the chicks put her hands on her hips. Said, “You have to stop playing. It’s so boring when you just sit there.”

No real response. The soccer playing continued.

Obvious tension in the room.

Babak came into the living room. The number one
blatte.
No sign of Simon. Mahmud dug the situation. Babak nodded. Finally time to
rumble. Babak took a step forward. Mahmud positioned himself in front of the couch, broad stance. The gamers looked up.

Babak, with a thicker accent than usual: “Turn off the fucking PlayStation. This is a robbery.”

Real R2-aggression, no boundaries. Mahmud slipped on the brass knuckles. “And don’t whine, you’ll regret it.” He slid his hand over his throat. Robert, next to him: backed up with a butterfly.

“Empty your pockets. Cash, phones, subway passes, whatever you got. You know what we want. Put the shit on the table.”

The guys looked like they were gonna shit themselves. Mahmud thought the girls’ faces grew as white as cocaine, despite the layer of self-tanner. They pulled out their cell phones reluctantly. A couple of them fished out subway passes and wallets.

Mahmud did the collecting. Emptied cash out of wallets. Left the plastic. Gathered the subway passes and cell phones. Hauled stuff over to Babak and Robert. They shoved it all into their jacket pockets.

So easy. The Svens just handed it over.

One of the girls looked totally gone. Like someone’d slipped a Valium in her beer. Mahmud shoved her.

“Ey, yo. Give us your stuff.”

She hardly reacted. Handed over her subway pass. Nothing else.

Time to split.

Robert was riled up. Wanted to fight. Started roaring. Waving the knife around. Aimed a kick at one of the guys in front of the TV. Mahmud dragged him out. Babak slammed the door shut.

They ran down the stairs.

The high was still thick. He felt so fucking angry.

Could easily’ve beaten the shit out of anybody.

Yelled in the stairwell.

Almost forgot all the stress and anxiety over his problems: the Gürhan fucker, Erika at the parole office, Dad’s whining.

Down on the street.

Into Robert’s car.

Tried to calm down.

One final roar. They rolled the window down, hollered, “Alby forever!”

The effect of the Rohypnol was dropping off. Soon back to reality.

They counted the money in the car: 4,800 kronor. Twelve subway passes. Could be flipped for 200 kronor a pass. Sweet phones. Twenty
DVDs from Simon’s bookshelf. And, yup: the PS3 game. Nice haul. Mahmud tried to do the math in his head. Hoped the boys would lend him more. Maybe it’d be enough.

Babak and Robert: angel homies—let Mahmud keep the whole enchilada on credit.

Now he had one day to flip the subway passes, the phones, the movies, and the game.

He hoped it would be enough.

Niklas and Benjamin ordered a second round of beers. Type: Norrlands, bottles. The Swedish smoking ban was sweet. But Benjamin was complaining. “Honestly, before all you had to do was treat the ladies to a smoke, get a free reason to start chatting.”

His T-shirt today was black with
Outlaws
written in white letters across the front, plus the image of a motorcycle. Niklas thought either his old buddy was acting like a bad boy, or he actually was one.

The bar was situated in Fridhemsplan. According to Benjamin: Fridhemsplan was sweet dank-dive paradise. And this bar, Friden, was apparently the mother of all dank-dives. They laughed.