Easy Money

10

Jorge the man, rey de los bandidos, blew the popo outta the water. The 5–0 could drag their bloodhounds around. Forget it-they weren’t finding Jorge-boy.

He was out. He was loose. He was the city’s slickest slumdog.

He thought about how the gab must be rolling. The man who ran faster than Ben Johnson. The man who screwed the screws up the ass with his smarts. The man who caged out of Osteraker with the help of a couple of bedsheets and a hook from a basketball hoop. Slam dunk. Gracias y adios.

The man. The myth. The legend.

And they didn’t have a fuckin’ clue.

Jorge’s plans before the break had been well oiled. His plan now: stay alive, and stay free. Get cash. Bust the border. In other words: not much of a plan.

Santo Sergio’d delivered the ladder at the right place. Hauled ass to his car and driven outta the woods before Jorge’d even gotten halfway over the clearing. He’d parked the other car perfectly.

Fugitivo fantastico. A Latino with balls.

Jorge’d driven like a maniac down the forest road. Like a back-road racer. The COs missed his curveball, didn’t see him get in the car. Thought he was still booking it on foot. He’d planned it that way. The road forked three times. By the time the screws realized he was on wheels, it’d probably take them an hour to figure out which road he’d taken. Out on the highway. Past Akersberga. Exit. Into the woods. That’s where he’d met Sergio. Sergio’d jacked the car that he’d left waiting for Jorge three days earlier. They dumped it. A tank of gas in the trunk. Torched it. Not worth waiting around to watch the flames.

That’s where the trail ended: deep in Hansel and Gretel land.

If the 5–0 even got that far.

He’d arrived at the apartment at two-thirty in the morning. They’d waited all night in the car until the coast was clear-wanted to avoid neighbors seeing Jorge go in. They ate falafel, drank Coke and coffee. Listened to Hit FM. Chatted. Stayed awake. Jorge chillin’, coming down off the adrenaline high.

The following days: Jorge could live in the empty apartment. It belonged to Sergio’s aunt. The old lady’d been in a retirement home since seven weeks back.

The deal: Jorge could stay for ten days tops. Jorge couldn’t so much as wiggle a foot out the door. Jorge had to lay subterranean low. After that, he could do what he liked, but he had to pay Sergio back for everything-he’d sworn his life on it.

Jorge was grateful. Sergio was an angel. Had already done more than anyone. Sacrificed. Gambled. Taken risks. Like family oughta do for one other, but what no one’d ever done for him. He was planning on staying no more than a week.

Shut in the apartment. Heavy-he was supposed to be free. Now this, caged again. The only difference between this and the cell at Osteraker was a few additional square feet. He had to prepare for his new life on the run.

Jorge let his beard grow. Cut his hair. Dyed it blacker.

He asked Sergio to buy small curlers and perm solution: thio balance perm. Read the instructions over and over, all the fine print. Stood over the bathtub. Rinsed his hair under the water. Carefully rolled his hair on the curlers. Good thing no one was watching. Felt like a real fairy.

Practiced a new walk. Tried to disguise his voice as much as possible.

Jorge knew: People instinctively recognize you by your body language, the way you walk, talk, run your hand through your hair, and smile. Your unconscious tics. The way you use certain expressions. Rodriguez’s only good deed, according to Jorge: The dude’d recorded home videos of him and Paola when they were kids. Two completely different people: a boy and a girl, sinewy and graceful, angular and round. And still, their body language was almost identical. Jorge remembered. Codes of character more dangerous than looks.

Change that kind of stuff, Jorge-boy-fast as fuck.

The apartment was rough. He wanted out. Took down the mirror from the hall and propped it up against the wall in the living room. Walked around from 10:00 a.m. to 7:00 p.m. that first day with Marge Simpson hair and rehearsed new moves. Practiced new tics. Practiced new lingo.

After twelve hours, his new hair-curly. It wasn’t as kinky as he’d hoped, even though he’d kept the rollers in double the instructed time.

He smeared himself with self-tanner: Piz Buin, the darkest kind. According to the directions on the back of the tube, the color would last for three days. Should work.

Finally, the total effect: he looked like a zambo — el zambo macanudo. A lip and nose job and his own mother wouldn’t even know him.

Amazing.

Blinds shut. A constant pale gray light in the room.

The apartment was small-two rooms and a kitchen. There was a narrow bed with no sheets in the bedroom. Jorge thought they’d have that kind of stuff in the retirement home, but they seemed to have emptied every drawer when they picked up the old lady. The living room had a couch, a TV, a rug, and a dark wood coffee table in it. There was a yellow glass lamp suspended from the ceiling. The bookshelves were filled with family photos, postcards from Chile, and books. Mostly in Spanish. He caught himself wondering if she’d had a family. Tried to check out the postcards. Read a few. Got bored after a while. The Asics shoes hadn’t cut it. His foot still hurt. It might be sprained.

Midday, he rang the doorbells of the neighbors over, under, and next to him. Hid in the stairwell in case they opened. No one was home. He could watch TV.

Lowered the volume anyway. There was no cable. Listened to the news. Nothing about him. He watched reruns, matinee movies, and shopping shows. Got nervous.

Kept practicing his new walk. Nail the rhythm. Swing your arms. His right leg made an extra little swerve with each step. Nigga with attitude. Walk with soul. Movements with flow. Don’t overdo it; make it seem real. Felt as if he’d moved like this all his life. Had it in his blood. From birth.

He read the evening papers that Sergio’d brought with him. They hadn’t written much about the escape. Just a short article in Expressen on the first day after and a small notice in Aftonbladet.

According to Expressen:

A man convicted of possession with intent escaped from the Osteraker Penitentiary on Thursday afternoon under spectacular circumstances. One of the correctional officers told Expressen that the fugitive, Jorge Salinas Barrio, was not a troublemaker and that the staff did not suspect that he was planning an escape. According to a source at the facility, Jorge Salinas Barrio climbed over the exterior wall with help from the outside. Then he is said to have run toward the woods, where it is probable that a car was waiting for him. The same source stated that the fugitive had been training long-distance running in what is described as a “manic” way for months before the incident. The prison administration has expressed self-criticism over what has happened, though they are pleased that the incident involved very little violence.

After the wave of escapes in 2004 when, among others, Tony Olsson, convicted of the murder of a police officer in Malexander, succeeded in escaping on two separate occasions during the same year, the control and security at the country’s penitentiaries have been improved. After yesterday’s incident, the Criminal Investigation Department has given word that an eventual investigation will be implemented to further heighten the level of security at penitentiaries of this kind.

Jorge smiled. So, they’d thought his training was exaggerated. Wonder what they’d thought about his studies at the city library? Had they even connected the dots?

There was nothing in the papers on day two. He was disappointed. At the same time, relieved-the less attention the better.

He missed running. Disliked the silence. Was scared his endurance and his fit body would break down.

Time slower than a Prius without a plug-in. He tried to plan. Jacked off. Peered between the blinds. Got nervous. Practiced the new Jorge over and over again. Listened for suspicious sounds on the street or in the stairwell. Fantasized about his success abroad.

Boredom: ten times worse than in the slammer.

He slept poorly. Woke up. Listened. Raised the blinds. Stared through the peephole in the door.

Paced. Looked himself in the mirror. Who would he become?

Jorge’s dilemma: The blow biz was all he knew. But how could he get back into it without disclosing his identity? As Jorge, he was respected. Not as whatever his name would be now. It was a tough scene to break into solo. Impossible without support.

He needed a personal identification number and an address in order to hide behind a temporary identity. Besides, he wanted to jump stiles. If you got collared, you could always give someone else’s digits and address to placate the subway controllers.

What’s more, he had to find a tanning bed so he could cut the self-tanner. Needed contacts with a darker brown tint than his natural eye color. Needed more threads than the dingy tracksuit Sergio’d given him. Needed a cell phone. Needed to get in touch with certain people. Most of all, J-boy needed cash. He missed Paola. Wanted to call but knew he shouldn’t. It’d have to wait. After five days, he started wigging out. Thought every single car that stopped on the street was the 5–0. Sergio came that night; they talked the situation over. The cops hadn’t visited Sergio yet. Everything seemed cool. Jorge, still buggin’. Wanted out.

Sergio picked him up at 6:00 a.m. the next day. Jorge was totally spent. Hadn’t slept a wink. Had crawled around the apartment with a sponge, wiping every piece of hair and other possible traces of himself off the floor.

They drove to Kallhall. Jorge asked Sergio to make a few extra loops to lose any eventual tails.

Sergio shook his head, “You tweakin’ out, primo. ”

The next place for Jorge to sleep: a room at Sergio’s best bud’s place, Eddie’s. The advantage: If the cops were on his heels, they’d definitely lose the trail now. The downside: The circle of trust widened.

Really, the optimal thing would be to stay with people who didn’t know who he was, or who wouldn’t recognize him. You couldn’t fool Eddie. Laughed when he saw Jorge. El negrito. He was introduced to Eddie’s wife and two kids. Didn’t know squat about Jorge’s story. Not perfect, but okay.

Jorge lay on a bed for days on end. Listened to the kids crying. Studied the patterns on the ceiling. Thought about what it must’ve been like when his mom came to Sweden big with him. From the dictatorship. Alone with the memories. He was ashamed that he knew so little. Hadn’t asked enough.

The room was small. Belonged to one of the kids. Legos all over the floor. Kid posters on the walls. Some teen idols Jorge didn’t even recognize. Flowery curtains over the windows. He read comics. Wished he could play Eddie’s Xbox but didn’t dare leave the room. Yearned to be back in the old lady’s crib, but still knew he was safer where he was. Yearned for real freedom. Yearned to be out.

A few days later. Eddie knocked on the door at around 2:00 p.m. He should have been at work. Jorge knew right away: Something was wrong. Eddie was sweaty. His shoes were still on. His kids were screaming in the background.

“Jorge, you gotta go. They’ve picked Sergio up for questioning.”

“When? How do you know?”

“They called this morning and told him he had to show up before one p.m. He called me right away and said I had to tell you but that I couldn’t call.”

“Good. I’m the one that told him no calls. They can tap ’em, and God knows what else they can do. You weren’t followed?”

Eddie: not the world’s sharpest Latino. But he’d been around the block. Knew to keep a lookout.

Jorge started getting dressed. Besides the tracksuit, he’d borrowed a jacket from Sergio. Not much to pack: a tube of Piz Buin, the curlers, a toothbrush, two pairs of boxers, and an extra pair of socks. It’d all come from Sergio, along with five grand he’d borrowed.

Shoved the stuff into a plastic bag. Kissed Eddie on the cheeks. Waved to the screaming kids. Thanked the oldest nino for the use of his room. Hoped Eddie hadn’t told his wife his name or who he was.

He’d been on the run for ten days. Was it already going to hell?

Wrote a note in Spanish for Sergio, coded according to their agreement. Gave it to Eddie.

Stepped out of the apartment. Thought he heard a siren outside.

Opened the door to the street.

Looked around. No cars on the street. No people. Coast clear. Paranoid Latino on the run.

What the fuck was he gonna do now?

The air was getting chillier. September ninth. Jorge walked around the city all day. Downtown: Drottninggatan, Gamla Brogatan, Hotorget, Kungsgatan, Stureplan. Ate at McDonald’s. Window-shopped. Tried to check out chicas.

Couldn’t enjoy. Only stress. Whichever it was-OCD or rational security measures-he kept looking around like every hombre on the street was an undercover on the LO.

Get to know broken Jorge: El Jorgelito — a scared little shit. He wanted to call his sister. He wanted to talk to his mama. He almost wanted to go back to prison.

This wouldn’t fly; he had to wise up. Stop thinking about his mama and sister all the time. What the fuck was wrong with him anyway? Family’s everything, sure. That was rule numero uno. But if you didn’t have a real family, if you had to take care of yourself, then other rules applied. He focused on the important stuff.

Nowhere to sleep and no bros/co-dees he could trust right now.

Five grand in his pocket. He could pay some old blow buddy to put him up for a few nights. But the risk was too big; they’d rat for anything, just show them the cheese.

He couldn’t stay at a motel. Probably too expensive. Besides, they’d want to see some kind of ID.

He could get in touch with his mama or his sister, but they were probably under surveillance by the cops and it was unnecessary to put them through that kind of crap.

Mierda.

During the days on the bed in the kid’s room, an idea had started to take shape: Go to a homeless shelter. Would solve the problem of needing a bed, but his need for cash remained. There was another, bigger idea, too. Dangerous. Dicey. He tried to push it away, since it involved Radovan.

Jorge asked some junkies downtown where he could sleep. They told him about two places: Stadsmissionen’s place by Slussen, Night Owl, and KarismaCare by Fridhemsplan.

He walked down to the Hotorget subway stop. It was eight o’clock at night. The turnstiles didn’t look like how he remembered them before he was locked up. Harder to jump. High Plexiglas barriers that slid open and closed like doors when you swiped your pass at the front of the turnstile. He didn’t want to waste money. He didn’t want to walk to Slussen. Risk analysis. The turnstiles were too high to jump. He glanced toward the guard in his booth: He was reading the paper. Seemed to care less about his job. He watched the flow of the crowd. Not a lot of people. He made loops. Navigated. Speculated. Calculated. Finally, a group of youngsters approached. He walked into their group. Slid along. Close behind a guy in his early twenties. There was a beep from the turnstile when it sensed that he’d slipped through behind someone. The guard didn’t give a fuck.

Rode to Slussen. Checked the address on a map in the subway station.

He was tired. Longed for a bed.

Rang the doorbell. Was let in.

It looked cozy. The reception desk was right by the entrance. Farther in: a group of tables and chairs, a sink and an oven against one wall. A TV stood in a corner. People sat and played cards. Chowed. Watched TV. Talked. No one so much as glanced at him. There was no one there that he recognized. No one there seemed to recognize him. Super.

The receptionist looked like the librarian at the city lib. Same style, same dowdy threads.

“Hi, can I help you?” she said, looking up from a crossword puzzle.

Jorge said, “Yeah, I’ve had some trouble finding a place to stay lately. Heard this is a good place.”

Put on that saccharine-sweet pity-me voice. He didn’t have to fake it. He was broken, for real. The woman seemed to get it. Social Services ladies/welfare officers/shrinks were always understanding. Jorge knew their kind.

“We’ve got some beds open, so it should be fine. Have you been without a residence for long?”

Converse. Be nice. Say something believable. “Not too long. About two weeks. It’s been rough. My girlfriend kicked me out.”

“That sounds difficult. But at least you can stay here for a few nights. Maybe things will work out with your girlfriend. In order for you to stay here, all I need is your name and personal identification number.”

Fuck.

“Do you really need that info? Why?” He thought, I do have a personal identification number. Can I give it out?

“I know that a lot of people may not want to disclose that kind of information, but even a place like this costs money. We’ll send an invoice directly to your social welfare officer, if you have one. Two hundred kronor per night. So, unfortunately, I’m going to need your personal identification number.”

Cunt. He couldn’t give her fake digits. No way it’d work.

“I can’t do that. I’d be happy to pay cash.”

“I’m sorry, but we don’t take any cash payments anymore. We stopped doing that two years ago. Maybe you should be in touch with your social welfare office?”

Fucking cunt fuck.

Jorge gave up. Said his thanks. Stepped back out on the street.

Regretted trying. Hoped he hadn’t raised any red flags.

Wondered if anyone’d recognized him. Looked at his reflection in a shop window. Black hair. Curly. His beard was getting longer. His skin darker than it really was. It should be enough.

A thermometer pointed to fourteen degrees Celsius.

Where would he sleep?

He thought about his other plan-his cash idea. Did he dare? Challenge Radovan.