Never Fuck Up: A Novel (27 page)

“Well, that doesn’t sound too bad.”

“I might lose my job, too.”

“But you’ve paid unemployment insurance this past year, right?”

Of course he hadn’t. Unemployment insurance was for parasites. He tried his best to calm her.

It was all so damned terrible.

At one o’clock, a guy came to install an alarm system in the house. Åsa’d wondered about that too, but he’d explained that break-ins were on the rise in the area.

An hour later: finally—he rolled into the dark under the Cadillac. The beam of light from his headlamp played across the underside of the car. It was cleaner than snow. He waited to pick up his tools. Lay still for a moment. Collected his anxieties like cogs in a row.

The man who’d stood outside his window, Ljunggren’s strange behavior, the risk of being fired. The forensic pathologist who insisted that a report that was fucked all to hell was correct. Bullshit, all of it.

He thought about the murder investigation. The few cell-phone
numbers that’d been called from the prepaid card didn’t lead anywhere. Thomas’s conversation with the forensic pathologist yielded nothing. But it’d gotten a reaction—the man outside his house. Hägerström still seemed to think they had something to go on, but Thomas didn’t see what. Maybe the lab’s further analysis would yield something—fabric fibers, hairs, skin cells—but the odds were low. The prepaid card number ought to lead somewhere. The drunks and junkies always used prepaid cards. Prepaid cards were the street equivalent of pin codes. If you wanted to play safe, you never got a registered phone plan.

Then he thought of something. Crazy that he and Hägerström hadn’t thought of it before. Rule on the street: switch out your prepaid card as often as possible and switch out your phone as often as possible. Why would you switch out your phone if you used a prepaid card, anyway? The answer filled his head right away—because everyone knew that a phone’s serial number could be tracked even to a prepaid card. In other words: every phone’s individual so-called IMEI number showed up in the plan. The IMEI number was always sent to the carrier you used for every phone call that was made. He didn’t know what the acronym IMEI stood for, but one thing was certain—the hunt wasn’t over yet.

He rolled out from under the car. Stood up in the garage. Took off the headlamp. Stretched. Felt like he’d gotten up after an entire morning lazing around in bed. A new chance. A new day.

The thought was so clear. Life boils down to a few moments and this was one of them. A crossroads. He could choose. Either he had a seat on the bench, let some clowny detectives crush him. Let the rabble win. Or else he and Hägerström solved this thing, even if he risked losing his job doing it, even if Hägerström was a quisling. They wouldn’t walk all over him.

He called Åsa again, asked when she was coming home. She would be home in an hour. Didn’t dare call Hägerström from the landline or his cell phone. He considered going to police headquarters at Kronoberg to get ahold of him personally. But that wasn’t a good idea—the person or persons who were monitoring him didn’t need to know what was on his mind right now.

Thomas felt too worked up to roll back under the car again. He sat down in an armchair in the living room and waited. He could hear birdsong outside. It was two-thirty. Summer was in full swing. The
neighborhood was silent except for a car or two that was shuttling home grocery bags and kids from soccer practice.

He turned on the stereo. The Boss, rocking.

In Thomas’s mind the step was already taken. Maybe he would lose his job. Maybe worse things would happen. But this was one of those moments. When life takes a turn.

Mahmud and Wisam Jibril were sitting together with Beshar in the kitchen. Unlikely. Unbelievable. Totally unreal. Dad was serving coffee, wanted to hear what Wisam was up to these days. The
blatte
gave a sketchy answer. “I work with venture capital, invest in different companies. I buy all or part of the stock and try to redesign a little.”

Mahmud smiled. His dad probably understood Wisam’s so-called business about as much as he understood Swedish stand-up comedians on TV—but he loved it when boys from the block became successful the honest way. Too bad it was a lie.

Dad prattled on. Buzzed about old memories. About excursions to the Alby public pool and the Malmsjön lake near Södertälje, a music festival with the Caravan society, Ramadan nights in the Muslim Cultural Center. Everything used to be better. Before. Before his wife, Mahmud’s mom, died. Wisam’s parents’d gone back to the home country. “Maybe we should all do that,” Beshar said.

Wisam nodded along. Probably to be nice to Dad. Mahmud didn’t remember shit. But it was okay—this way he didn’t have to come up with what to tell Wisam.

After twenty minutes, Mahmud said, “Abu, is it okay if you let us talk alone for a minute? I have to discuss some business with Wisam.”

Dad told him to calm down. Remained seated for another five minutes. Babbling.

When Dad’d settled down in front of the TV in the living room, Mahmud closed the door.

“Your dad is awesome.”

“Absolutely. We’re a small family, as you know.”

“How are your sisters doing?”

“Jamila and Jivan are good. Jamila’s dude just caged out from the pen. He’s an asshole.”

“Why?”

“He beats her.”

“Fuck that, man, but you know how some people are. They have to do that shit, or whatever. But you know what happens with people like that on the inside.”

“I know. I did time, too.”

“I know. How long was your stint? And what was it you didn’t do?”

Mahmud laughed.

“Six months. And I hadn’t sold testosterone ampoules. But it’s enough for a
blatte
to have broad shoulders to get nailed for shit like that.”

Wisam grinned back. A couple seconds of silence. Mahmud eyed Wisam’s watch: a Breitling.

“It’s gotta be ten years since we were in school together. What do you live on now?”

“Life is so sweet I can taste it, you feel me? I do business, like I told your dad. Venture capital, sort of. I venture my money, but I can get fat capital back.” He laughed at his own joke.

Mahmud laughed along. Acted all nice. Wanted the W-
blatte
to feel trust.

Wisam stopped himself in the middle of his laugh. “But my money is for a good cause. I donate to the Fight.”

“The fight?”

“Yeah, twenty-five percent goes to the Fight. We brothers gotta understand what these fucking places, Europe and the U.S., are doing to us. They don’t want us here, they don’t want us to live like we want to live. They don’t want to follow moral codes. Really, if you think about it, they act like the heathen monkeys they are. How did you miss the Fight? What planet’ve you been living on these last few years?”

“Planet Alby.”

“The Zionists, the U.S., Great Britain, all are sworn enemies of us brothers. And you know, they’re after me personally, too. The Serbs. You know what they did to people like us in Bosnia? They’re worse than Jews.”

What was he smoking? Was he kidding? Wisam sounded like fucking Osama bin Laden. Mahmud didn’t want to get into that whole discussion.

Wisam kept pouring it on: U.S.A., the great Satan. The humiliation of Muslim brothers. The Western world’s contempt for all righteous people.

Mahmud didn’t really know what he was supposed to do now. Should he call Stefanovic right away? But he didn’t, under any circumstances, want anything to go down in the apartment while Dad was home. Maybe it was better to get as much info as possible out of Wisam about where to find him later. And decide to meet up at some good place, just to be safe.

He brownnosed: “The Fight is important. The crusaders and the Zionists are humiliating our entire world.”

Wisam nodded.

Mahmud switched topics. “Another thing, I heard about your business. That’s why I wanted to see you. I’ve got an idea that I’d like to run by you. Maybe you’ll dig it. Maybe you’ll even want to support it.”

“Shit, man. You gotta be eager for some financing. I’ve heard from, like, five people that you’re looking for me. What’s your story?”

“It’s got to do with hair and tanning salons.” Mahmud actually thought the idea was sweet. “You know, there are hair and tanning salons all over the city. My sister works at a tanning salon. It’s crazy how people can tan and cut their hair as much as they do, but somehow it runs. The money’s almost all under the table. But there’s a problem, there’re no chains. You follow?”

Wisam looked interested.

“We gotta do a chain, like 7-Eleven or Wayne’s Coffee, except for hair and tanning salons.”

“You know, chains are hard. There’s crazy competition. Hard to get in, like shoving a sofa up Paris Hilton’s asshole, you feel me? Not an easy thing to do. It takes investments, slick marketing, all that shit. But it’s an interesting idea. I like that you’re thinking business. You thought more about it? Like, what places do we buy, for example?”

Mahmud took a deep breath. This was the important part.

“I don’t want to talk about it here. Not with Dad sitting in the next room. The idea isn’t exactly lily white, you know what I’m sayin’, and my dad is the most law-abiding person I know. And, I gotta get to the gym now. But I have a suggestion, can I buy you lunch sometime? What do you think?”

Niklas needed alcohol. He went into the Old Beefeater Inn on Götgatan. Sat down at a small table. Popped two tablets of Nitrazepam. Ordered a bottle of Staropramen. The waitress arrived with the bottle and a tall glass on a tray. Poured the beer slowly, as if it were a Guinness.

Niklas looked around. Packed with people. The big windows were open toward the street. It was four o’clock. Götgatan went through a costume change—the keffiyeh-wearing hipsters and families with kids were exchanged for a different mix of people. More Benjamin’s style: beefy boys with tattoos, tired-looking broads with frizzy hair, young guys in soccer jerseys.

The beer tasted good in the heat. He ordered another one before he’d even drained half the glass. Staropramen, the spring of life.

Niklas’s thoughts were spinning. Safe Haven’d given him the cold shoulder. But the battered women out there’d just been given reinforcement by elite forces number one. The mercenary who gutted more dirty men than a dull Swedish cop could even count. It was time for an offensive strategy, a mission on enemy territory. He’d trained eight years for this.

He fingered his concealed backup knife. It was strapped to his leg, as always. Sipped his beer. Wiped the foam from his upper lip.

Calculated: in Sweden, people always got off work around five o’clock. In an hour, someone ought to come out of Safe Haven.

He ordered another beer.

The air outside was still warm. People were walking slowly back and forth along Götgatan, scouting outdoor spots at the bars and restaurants. So far, the mood was calm, but in a few hours, loud male roars would explode the night like mortars.

He leaned against the fence across from the entrance to Safe Haven. Waited. The time: quarter to five.

Thought about how he would introduce himself. If he should explain what he wanted right away, or if he should talk about other stuff first. Decided not to refer to the conversation over the intercom system.

Finally, the front door opened. A slight woman dressed in jeans and a jean jacket came out. A shoulder bag slung over one shoulder and a bike helmet in hand. He wondered if she was the one he’d spoken to earlier. He had to act now, or else she would get away on her bike.

Niklas stepped forward.

“Hi, my name is Niklas and I think I can be of help to you.”

The woman looked jumpy. Scanned the street. Seemed to be searching for an answer.

“No, I think you’re mistaken. I don’t think we know each other. Have a nice day.”

“Wait. We don’t know each other. But I know about you. You’re doing good work.”

The woman tried to smile. “Are you the person I spoke to on the intercom two hours ago? I’m sorry, I don’t think I can help you. But here, take a card and give it to your mother.”