Never Fuck Up: A Novel (29 page)

Finally: Radovan seemed to be getting to the point. He sipped his drink. “Okay. So, now you know what it is I work with primarily. But I do some other stuff on the side, too. I’m active in what we call the erotica business, if you know what I mean. The subject’s gotten so touchy in Sweden these days. We try to provide our customers with the most pleasant environment and staff possible. Erotica doesn’t have to be filthy movie theaters where lonely men sneak in at night. Erotica can be professional, businesslike, and well managed. After all, erotica is the world’s largest form of entertainment. Our girls are classy and maintain high international standards. Do you understand what I’m getting at?”

Thomas sat in silence. Wound tight. At the same time, elated. What was this all about? Why was Stockholm’s most powerful mafia boss sitting here and telling him about the next big thing in pimping? Was it a test? Had they gotten hold of the wrong person? Was this connected to the murder investigation he and Hägerström’d been caught up in?

Then he realized that Radovan’d asked him a question. He met the Yugo boss’s gaze. “I think I understand what you’re getting at.”

Radovan went on, “You can make yourself money when you’re young. With money you get boats, fast whips, babes. Whatever you want. But when you get older, like me, you want something more—control over the situation. The ability to feel at ease. And that’s where you come in, Thomas. I have, as you noted, a certain reputation. But so do you. We need people like you in our organization. Men who don’t back down when the situation calls for some extra effort. Men who don’t follow narrow rules out of old habit, but who think about what is right and rational instead. Men who are men, to put it simply.”

Radovan made a theatrical pause. Let the flattery sink in.

Thomas dropped his gaze. Looked out over Stockholm again.

“You’re a cop, I’m aware of that. That’s what makes you so interesting. You’ve got connections, credibility, insight. At the same time, we know that you, just like me, write your own rules when you need to. It’s important to have your own rules, you know. Without your own rules, you won’t get far in life. We have information that you do some things on the side now and then. You’re a cop who does everything, as people usually say. We need people like you.”

Thomas didn’t respond.

Radovan went on, “Let me make this brief. You’re probably going to lose your job because you defended yourself and your female colleague against an inebriated animal. I can turn that catastrophe into a new beginning for you. I want to hire you for my organization.”

Mahmud’d talked to his Yugo contact for a helluva long time—the perfect place’d been decided: Saman’s Coal Grill in Tumba. It had outdoor seating, there were a lot of people in motion around there, the right kind of joint for a
blatte
like Mahmud to meet up at. Not suspicious. The only downside he could think of was that it was hard to park nearby.

They were gonna meet up at five on Tuesday afternoon. Wisam’d suggested the time himself. Jibril dug Mahmud’s chosen meeting spot. “Our kind of grub,” he’d said.

Tumba in the summer: almost empty of people except for some teens with too little to do. Mahmud arrived at a quarter to five, grabbed a table near the exit.

Beyond the outdoor seating area, parked more or less on the sidewalk: a pimped Range Rover with tinted windows. Mahmud glimpsed Ratko. Both hands resting on the steering wheel, steel expression. If the 5-0 or some ticket bitch showed up he’d have to move right away. On the other side of the street: a BMW with even darker windows. Mahmud couldn’t see who was sitting in it, but his contact, Stefanovic, had instructed him, “If anything derails, you call me. I’ll be nearby.”

Mahmud waited. Eyed the kids farther down the street. He saw himself in them. Thought about the little marijuana plantation that Robert’d had in that apartment he’d been house-sitting for his aunt.

He wondered why Wisam didn’t show. He’d sounded upbeat on the phone the day before. Mahmud was proud of the hair-and-tanning-salon buzz, the made-up business ideas he’d pulled in Dad’s kitchen—really, it was Jamila’s idea. And all that about the Fight. Mahmud knew the talk—he’d met friends from before who didn’t talk about anything else. The U.S.’s hate toward the righteous around the world. The Jewish conspiracy to start a war against the Muslims by plotting 9/11. Great Britain’s colonial imperialist capitalism. But Mahmud knew
better: cash was king. The secret Jew Americans who sought to repress
blattes
like him didn’t have enough power. The British clown-lords who wanted to dominate his brothers—their days were pretty numbered. Lack of cash was the problem. And the answer was simple. His people needed dough. As soon as you got money, everything got solved. Especially for him.

Quarter past five. Wisam still hadn’t shown. Stefanovic’d instructed him: we can’t wait with the Range Rover for more than twenty minutes. The risk of whiny meter maids and cops was too great.

A couple minutes passed. Mahmud didn’t understand what’d happened.

He eyed the clock on his phone. Eighteen minutes past five. Suck a dick.

And then, by the pedestrian crossing—there he was: Wisam. Track pants. Hoodie. Sneakers. Real Million style. Mahmud was surprised by his own thought: Am I doing the right thing? The guy is like me. A project
blatte
with swag. My brother.

No way. He had to let the thought go.

Wisam passed the Range Rover. Saw Mahmud. Nodded. At the same time: two guys jumped out of the car. Dark jeans. Leather jackets. Yugo
classique
. Stepped up behind Wisam. One said something to him. The other was hiding something in his hand. Put it against Wisam’s stomach. The
blatte
’s eyes grew wide. Looked down at the thing against his stomach. After that, it was like he grew limp. The beefcakes led him into the Range Rover. It started up.

Mahmud stood up. Slapped a hundred-kronor bill on the table. Left the change.

Saw the Range Rover drive up a side street. Disappear.

*  *  *

It was always quiet down in the basement. But the silence didn’t bother Niklas. He actually liked it, it gave him time to think. But he hated the dark. Or, rather, the risk that the dark would come. Because if you didn’t flip the timed switch often enough, the lights would switch off automatically. He had devised his own simple system. He flipped the switch every other minute so as not to risk it. It was lucky that he knew how to tell time.

When he got down there, he pulled out the table-hockey game. It was old. The outer players couldn’t move behind the goalie like in the newer games.
But the goalie himself could move behind the goal, which was a big danger—to leave the net unattended. But now it didn’t matter—he couldn’t trick himself, after all. Instead, he practiced passes. The right wing to the center, who made a goal. The center back to the right wing, who whipped the puck with the back of his stick into the net.

He was really pretty good. Too bad they didn’t have a table-hockey game at his after-school program.

Still, time crawled.

He flipped the light switch at even intervals. He had time to do about fifteen strings of passes between times.

Mom should’ve come down ages ago to tell him to come back up. It was already nine-thirty.

Maybe he should go up on his own. But he wanted to wait. One time he hadn’t waited—when he’d tired of the table-hockey game he’d taken the elevator up of his own accord. The living room and kitchen were empty and the door to Mom’s bedroom was closed. He called for her without getting an answer. He called again and finally heard her yell from her bedroom, “Stay where you are, Niklas. I’ll be out.”

Mom came out dressed in a bathrobe—which was strange—and she was really mad. She grabbed his arm, hard, harder than he could ever remember her doing before, and threw him on his bed. Then she yelled at him for a while. Without him really understanding why.

No, he wasn’t going to go upstairs of his own accord. She had to come down and get him.

He kept practicing strings of passes at the goal.

A half hour went by. He kept track of the time well since he was flipping the light switch every other minute.

The hockey game was boring, he thought. Tedious: pass from the wing to the defenseman, make shooting motions using his entire arm, usher the puck into the goal, the left defenseman back to the wing, wrist shot, straight in. The monotony made him tired. But what should he do?

He heard a strange sound.

Behind the hockey game.

Something rustling.

He looked carefully. Followed the wall.

An animal.

It stared at him from its perch on the moving box. A rat.

A huge black rat. The eyes were blank, evil, porcelain marbles. The tail like a long worm on the box.

The terror grabbed hold of him at once. Fear that welled up from his gut. He didn’t dare move.

The rat sat still. Seemed to be watching him.

Niklas stood even more still. The only thing he could think was, Please don’t let it jump at me, please don’t let it touch me.

Then the lights went out.

And he screamed. He screamed like he’d never screamed before. Everything came at once: the tears, the horror, the panic. He bawled out his terror, his fear of the dark and the animal that’d been staring at him.

He fumbled for the light switch. At the same time, it felt like his entire brain would explode at the thought of accidentally touching the animal.

Where was the light switch?

He searched with his hands along the wall in quick motions. Hoped that this would scare the rat away.

Finally, he found it.

He turned the lights on. Tumbled toward the door. Opened it. Sprinted up from the basement to the ground floor. Skipped the elevator. Ran up all the seven flights of stairs in one go.

Tore open the front door. Breathless, with a sob still stuck in his throat.

As soon as he came in, he was struck by another kind of panic. The rat was forgotten. The sounds he heard killed off all his other fears. The screams were coming from the living room. He knew them so well. He’d heard them so many times before.

The coffee table was pushed aside toward the TV. All three sofa cushions were scattered on the floor. A beer lay spilled nearby. Beside the sofa was his mother, on her knees.

Above her stood Claes, beating her.

Niklas started screaming.

Mom was crying. She was bleeding from the nose and her blouse was torn over the shoulder.

Claes turned to him. His fist was still held high in the air. “Go back down to the basement, Niklas.”

Then he let his fist fall. It hit her across the back.

She looked at Niklas. Their eyes met. He saw terror. He saw sorrow and pain. He saw love. But he also saw something else—he saw hate. And he could feel it clearly, clearer than he’d ever felt anything—he hated Claes. More than anything in the world.

She called to him, “Please Niklas, it’s okay. Go to your room. Please.”

Claes’s fist fell again. He roared. “You fucking cunt, you care more about that little shit than me.”

Mom screamed. Collapsed.

Claes kicked her belly.

Niklas ran into his room. Before he closed the door he saw Claes kick her again. This time in the head.

He shut his eyes and covered his ears with his hands.

The sounds pushed their way through.

He tried to think about the rat in the basement.

Time flies when you have a calling. A life mission. A mantra:
Si vis pacem, para bellum
. If you wish for peace, prepare for war.