Never Fuck Up: A Novel (44 page)

He pointed the needle toward his arm. Made sure the vein didn’t roll away. Pressed. A drop of blood shot up into the barrel. He pressed some more. He let the blood flow up into the barrel again. Then into the vein. Ten second wait. Nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one. Blast off! Like a bolt of lightning straight to the brain. Weed paled in comparison, snorting felt weak, boozing was for pussies.

The green color of the football field on the TV screen looked greener than the Amazon. This was life, deluxe.

Where the fuck were Robert and the others? They were supposed to call. Maybe come by and check out his digs. Then they were hitting the town. Mahmud did a line. Regular old feeling. Nice, but once you’ve tried intravenous, intravenose just doesn’t feel the same.

He considered his situation. Other than on nights like this, it sucked fag cock. He worked like a Sven, forty-hour weeks or whatever. Might as well’ve had a regular nine to five, as Erika’d suggested. He drove around the projects all day. Picked up the shit at Shurgard storage facilities over half of Stockholm. Sold to clockers in Norra Botkyrka, Norsborg, Skärholmen, Tumba, everywhere. At pizzerias after closing, at pubs, clubs, gyms, fighter clubs, in basement storage units, attics, at party pads, in continuing-education hallways, subway stations, the glassed-in meeting spots of the indoor malls, parks, playgrounds. Most of all, he dealt from the driver’s seat. ’Cause that’s how it was: he rolled in a real sweet ride—a Benz CLS 500. He was paying in installments, sure, but fuck it, you know? And he never would’ve gotten wheels like that with a regular gig.

Under him he had six, seven dudes, and one chick, as a matter of fact: his regular dealers. Dijma was one of the best. Bought at least seven ounces a month. Mahmud—on his way to becoming the Snow King of southern Stockholm. Flipped at least two kilos a week. At least half a million on the street, cash. He paid the Yugos four hundred and thirty G’s for every kilo. Seventy G’s left for him. He was riding high, but had to work like a dog for the paper. And the heavy downside: Radovan wouldn’t loosen his grip. Mahmud: a well-paid serf. No matter how much he wanted to make his old man, his sisters, Erika, and everyone else happy. He couldn’t do it. So, he’d made up his mind: he might as well become the king. It was high time for an Arab at the top. Bigger than the Yugo Godfather.

He got less time over at the gym. His training suffered. He wasn’t feeling too hot. The juice he’d been taking’d had side effects. The Winstrol fuckers were lethal, man. Acne’d spread all over his face and back like Ebola or something. His kidneys hurt. Weird, thick hairs’d started sprouting on his back. He hadn’t even slept two hours last night. But he had to take the Winstrol. The juice wouldn’t work otherwise.

Now he had to take it down a notch. Couldn’t crank up both juice and C at the same time. He ordered better protein online instead. Upped his usage. But it could never make up for the fact that he was putting in less time at Fitness Center, or that he wasn’t taking steroids.

The thoughts made his head spin: everything he was gonna do with the dough. At the same time: the Yugos could bring him down anytime. They were motherfuckers, all of ’em.

The clock struck eleven. He picked up his cell. Called Robert. Homeboy didn’t have proper voice mail, just some blaring Arabic music as his message. No point in recording anything. Rob would see that he’d called, anyway.

The clock kept ticking. Mahmud did another line. Played PlayStation like a video-game god.

His cell phone rang. It was Rob, keyed up like a kid: “Fuck man, come out, we’re down the street. We’re gonna own this city.”

Mahmud put his coat on. A leather jacket with Benz logos on the arms. Tucked a tin-foil ball with two grams in his pocket. Tonight: he was gonna show Stockholm—slay bitches like never before.

First thing, Mahmud and Javier each did a line. Heavy beats on Rob’s car stereo. Mood: soaring. The only thing Mahmud was missing: Babak next to him in the backseat.

Obvious: Rob’d tricked himself out for pussy-catching. Major backslick, short but well-trimmed stubble, gold chain around his neck, tight V-neck silk shirt. His biceps were stretching out the fabric.

“Ey, you hot tonight or what?”

Robert laughed. “Shit, I’m so hot I’m almost coming right now, man.”

“Hustler’s hustler. Wanna take my CLS instead?”

“If you cool. We’ll be big pimpin’, man.”

Javier just grinned at their buzz. They switched to Mahmud’s car.

The feeling: so fly.

On the road. Robert turned to Mahmud: wide piranha grin.

“If I don’t score a hat trick tonight, I’ll give you ten times the cash. You feel me?”

“What, you gonna fuck three chicks, or what?”

“No,
habibi
. Hat trick, you don’t know what that is?”

Mahmud could imagine a bunch of things, but he wanted to hear Rob’s latest idea.

“Hat trick, okay. That’s when you get to spray in all three holes in one night.”

Mahmud roared. Javier threw his head back. Rob looked pleased—
laughed at himself. Three fly hustlers on a bitch safari—man, if they didn’t score some pussy tonight, they never fucking would.

Mahmud, between the laugh attacks: “Fuck, man, I swear, I’m gonna rock a hat trick tonight too. You watch.”

The laughter died down. They were approaching the city.

Mahmud grew solemn. Wanted to run some serious stuff by his buds.

“Something’s got me real pissed.”

“What, something about Babak? Just drop it, man.”

“No, not that. And I swear, I don’t wanna fight with Babak. Tell him hey from me,
salaam
.”

“So, what’s the deal?” Mahmud could see Robert’s face in the rearview mirror. He looked curious for real.

“Man, those Yugos are fucking me so hard. I wanna quit.”

“So quit. Tell them to fuck themselves.”

“No, I’m not the kinda guy who lights a fire. I burn low and slow like a spliff. But it can boil over. You follow?”

Javier leaned back. “I don’t follow. You make mad cheddar. Cruise in an ill car. What’s the problem?”

“I’m like their bitch. It’s different for you, Rob, you do your own thing. Entrepreneur, or whatever, but they keep me on a leash like a fucking whore. They’re like COs, decide what I do, when I do it. Threaten to tell my old man if I don’t do what they say, to ruin shit for my sister. They’re assholes, man. I gotta do something.”

Robert, in a serious tone for the first time all night: “Mahmud, listen to me. I might not believe in the Yugos in ten years, but right now—watch yourself. That’s all I’m gonna say. Watch yourself. They’re animals, don’t play with them. As long as you’re bringing it home, keep working and smile while you do it. I swear.”

Silence in the car.

The energy in the city: white hot. Mahmud remembered: the Svens were celebrating some kind of All Saints’ Day. The November darkness was lit up by platinum-blond pieces of ass rockin’ stilettos, legs shivering. Slick brats with Barbour vests that looked more like inner linings than like jackets.

But the night was theirs. Javier’d booked bottle service at White Room. If Mahmud’d tried to make the reservation: he’d have been given the cold shoulder right away. He couldn’t gloss over his immigrant
Swedish. And there was no way he’d get in the front door without a reservation. Been proven time and time again by some little
blattes
who were college educated or something: the kids’d filmed the apartheid regime ruling the Stockholm nightlife and made a big show of suing the clubs. They ought to be heroes in Sweden—but nothing changed for Mahmud.

But Javier was almost like a Sven. Tight.

Inside at White Room: ice buckets built into the tables, crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, bar lit up in pink with top-shelf vodka and bubbly. Jewelry on the walls—some kind of exhibit. The dance floor was a circle in the middle of the room. Crazy pull. The only shitty thing was that they didn’t get into the VIP room. Fuck it: they were gonna throw down. But don’t misunderstand: throwing down didn’t mean that Mahmud danced. A Million
blatte
like him would never humiliate himself like that. That was reserved for the Svens, the fairies.

Still: the feeling of being on the inside couldn’t be beat. He thought of the time he’d seen Daniel and his boys at Hell’s Kitchen. The anxiety in his gut. The flashes of panic pulsing through his brain. He wondered what was worse: to owe Born to Be Hated stash or to whore for the Yugos?

Three lines later: Mahmud, Robert, and Javier were sitting at their table. Mahmud went easy on the alcohol, as usual. The booze was for the bitches. The plan: get ’em drunk enough to fuck ’em, but not too trashed—no one wanted to end up with a vomit-stained cock. Mahmud thought the Sven brats were staring at him and his bros threateningly. Weren’t digging their game. The
blatte
kings were plucking the honeys.

He felt vibrations in his pocket. His phone was bothering him. And he had to check it. It could be business. The text was an order, straight-up: “D wants 50 tickets tonight.” In other words: he had to go to some Shurgard storage place, pick up fifty grams of C, and then deliver the shit to Dijma. Here he was, with his homeboys and three, four willing females, life on top, a hat trick within reach. And right then, Mr. R. had to force him on duty. A bad fucking hand. He ought to refuse, give them the finger. All his hate welled up at once. Knocked around inside him. It was as if his glowing anger was ignited into a roaring fire. Turned into an insane lava stream. He ought to screw the Yugos. Tell them to fuck off. But at the same time—so strong, more powerful than the hate, the rush, the heat: he knew what he had to do. Time to deliver.

He was happy that he’d laid off the booze. Better to drive on a fading
C-rush than with vodka running through his veins. He turned the stereo up to a blare. Snoop killing it. Not the way Mahmud felt right now.

Through the city, over the dreary South Side, the highway a straight shot south. Past Liljeholmen, Årsta, and so on. Kungens Kurwa—
kurwa,
as in whore.

The storage facility was empty of people. Of course: it was twelve-thirty on a Saturday night. Ice-cold drops of drizzle. He checked in, rummaged through the boxes in the unit for a while, pocketed all the grams that were in there—six bags with five G’s in each. Back to the car. Swish-swish through the night. To the next storage unit, Årstaberg. He knew these places like the back of his hand. In/out like a speed racer.

An hour and a half later: fifty grams in a bag in his pocket. Stupid dangerous: if he got collared by the 5-0 now, he’d get locked up for two years. At least. The courts made decisions based on a rising scale of possession, rigid assessments, mad tough sentences for dealers.

Back in the city. Hard to find a parking spot. Mahmud didn’t have the energy to drive around and around. Didn’t care if he got a ticket—he parked the car in front of a building that said Royal Library on it. Fired off a text to Dijma on the number he thought the Albanian was using this week. Waited ten minutes. The November night was dark. It was far between the streetlamps where he was parked. He thought about Dad. If he found out about this shit he’d cry himself to death.

A silver-colored Saab pulled up next to him. Mahmud almost jumped in his seat. Had he dozed off in the darkness in the car?

He had time to see Dijma in the front seat. A dude climbed out of the Saab. Opened the back door of Mahmud’s Benz. Slid into the backseat. Mahmud, tense as hell. Didn’t recognize the guy. The grams in his pocket were worth almost three hundred large on the street. Was Dijma trying to pull a fast one?

The dude looked pasty. Circles under his eyes, mouse-colored hair with straight-cut bangs that looked Eastern.

“Move,” he said in English.

Mahmud started the car. Saw the Saab in front of him.

They rolled out onto Sturegatan. Mahmud was getting bad vibes. This wasn’t the way things usually went down.

The dude in the backseat met his quizzical eyes in the rearview mirror. “Park the car at Stadion.” Mahmud got a weird feeling: the guy
pronounced the word
Stadion
a little too good to be a freshly imported Albanian dealer.

He drove up Sturegatan. The Saab took a right at Karlavägen.

“Don’t follow him,” the pickup man ordered.

Mahmud slowed down. “I don’t know you,” he said.

“Are you delivering or not?” the Albanian replied.

Mahmud didn’t respond. Didn’t want to pick a fight. Wanted to get back to the honeys.

They drove across Valhallavägen. Hardly any traffic. Mahmud parked the car next to Stadion’s reddish stadium building. The rain continued to fall in fat drops.

Mahmud killed the engine. Played with the grams in his pocket. A dark Volvo pulled up next to the car. Parked, locking the Benz in.

The dude in the backseat leaned forward. Said in Swedish, “You’re a good guy, Mahmud.” What the fuck was this? Suddenly the Albanian was speaking Swedish. Mahmud had to figure out what was happening. Was Dijma trying to rip him off? Was it the Yugos, playing with him? Or the cops? Tonight, of all fucking nights, his butterfly was at home in his apartment.