Easy Money

22

The first thing Jorge wanted to do was eat.

McDonald’s in the Sollentuna Mall: Big Mac, cheeseburgers, extra fries, and ketchup poured into the small white cups. Jorge: in heaven. At the same time: anxiety masiva — he was out of money and there were two days left before he had to call Mrado. The word CASH pulsed through his body like blood.

He’d left the cottage. Brought a handle of whiskey from the cupboard. Fell asleep on the bus. So fuckin’ nice- one of the safest spots in town. Golden relaxation. Went straight to Sollentuna. Hadn’t dared be in touch with Sergio or Eddie. 5–0 might have eyes there. He’d called some homeboys from way back instead, Vadim and Ashur. Co-dees he used to push powder with in the good old days.

He shouldn’t have done it but couldn’t resist-thought he’d get the shakes, his withdrawal from actual human contact was so bad.

They welcomed him like a king. J-boy: the legendary fugitive. The blow myth. The lucky Latino. Lent him paper for McDonald’s. Reminded him of happier times, asphalt jungle bros, Sollentuna hos.

So ill.

Vadim and Ashur: international friends. Vadim’d come to Sweden from Russia in 1992. Ashur: Syrian from Turkey.

According to Jorge, Vadim could’ve gone far. The guy was driven, smart, and had a flush family-they ran computer stores outta every single mall in the area. But gangsta dreams got him. Thought dealing a little blow would make him king of the streets. Okay, the clocker’d made out all right, only been in for shorter stints, not like Jorge. But damn, look at the guy today. Worn down like a fuckin’ Sven with barrel fever. Tragic. Homeboy should curb his habits.

Ashur: always with a big silver cross around his neck. Stayed straight. Worked as a hairdresser. Kept his eye on the chicks in the area. Highlighting by day, riding by night. Charmed the bitches 110 percent with his talk of bangs and toning.

Jorge should be safe. After all, his appearance was pretty altered. Vadim hadn’t even recognized him at first.

After the burgers, they went home to Vadim’s. Dude lived in a dump on Malmvagen. Cigarette butts, snort straws, beer cans, and Rizla papers covered the floor. Lighters, pizza boxes, empty booze bottles, and burned spoons on the coffee table. What vice didn’t Vadim have?

They popped the whiskey. Drank it with lukewarm water like connoisseurs. Plus beer. Later, they built a spliff fat like whoa. Maxed Beenie Man on the stereo. Jorge loved the camaraderie. This was freedom.

They got sloshed. Stoned. Speeded. Vadim spewed fast-cash schemes: We should be pimps. We should build a website and sell mail-order weed. We should sprinkle cocaine in middle schoolers’ lunch boxes so they get hooked early. Exchange their Tootsie Rolls for C paste. Jorge joined in. Riled. Get dough. Bake it out. Bake it out.

Vadim looked mischievous, pulled out a matchbox. Unrolled a homemade bag made of plastic wrap. Poured out two grams of blow on a mirror. “Jorge, man, this is to celebrate your homecoming,” Vadim said as he cut three lines.

What a party.

Jorge hadn’t even dreamed of tasting snow tonight.

Maybe not the most luxurious snort straw-the guys each got a straw that Vadim tore off three juice boxes.

Rapid inhale. First a tickling sensation at the root of the nose. A second later: a tickling sensation in the entire body. Grew into a rush. Felt on top of the world. Everything crystal-clear. Jorge the king. Long live the king. The world was his to conquer.

Ashur buzzed about bitches. He’d arranged to meet up down at the Mingel Room Bar in the Sollentuna Mall with two girls whose hair he usually cut. Good girls. He hollered, “One of ’em, man, you gotta see the back on that female. Beyonce look-alike. Queen-bee bitch. I gonna promise her free stylin’ if one of us get a piece of it tonight.”

Course they were gonna get bitches. Course they were gonna go out.

Jorge, stiff, thinking of giving it to the Beyonce look-alike.

They filled up, more whiskey and another nose each.

The cocaine pounded out the beat of the music.

They went down to Ashur’s car.

Mingel Room Bar: Sollentuna’s Kharma. But still not. Check Jorgelito out front. Jacked on blow, whiskey, and beer. He didn’t feel the chill in the air. Only felt himself. Only felt his party-mood rocket. They eyed the line. Twenty people max, sheepishly cued up. Eyed the chicks approaching the line from the commuter train. Ashur dissed them, “Fuckin’ Sweden, man. In this country, chicks don’t know howtta walk. Only the guys got it. You should see my home country. Smooth like cats.”

Jorge checked them out. Ashur was right: The chicks walked like bros. Straight, with purpose. Without swish, without ass swing, without sex in their steps. He didn’t give a fuck. If that Beyonce broad was inside, he’d butter her into a back bend.

Vadim claimed to know the bouncer. Stepped up. They exchanged Russian pleasantries. Smooth sailing.

Jorge, Vadim, and Ashur were about to glide into the joint, when the bouncer put his hand up. Vadim’s questioning look was ignored. The bouncer gazed out toward the road. The line came to a halt. Grew silent. People turned around.

Blue lights.

A cop car parked along the curb.

Mierda.

Two cops got out. Walked toward the line.

Jorge’s brain made coke-clear assessments: What were they looking for? Should he book it or have faith in his new look? One thing was certain: If he ran, they’d chase him, ’cause it was shady to dash.

He remained standing. How could he be so stupid that he’d gone out and partied?

Vadim shut his eyes. Looked like his lips were moving, but no sound came out.

Jorge felt stiffer than a substitute on the first day of class in his junior high must’ve. Didn’t move. Didn’t think. Did like Vadim-shut his eyes.

Squinted toward the line. Brass with flashlights.

Pointed them in each person’s face. The chicks in the way back giggled.

The dudes next to them tried to play cool. One told the cop with the flashlight, “If you don’t have a VIP card, you’re not getting in.”

The cop replied, “Take it easy, buddy.”

Cunt attitude.

They continued down the line. People wondered what’d happened. The cops mumbled something unintelligible. They turned the light on Ashur. He cracked a smile. Pointed to the cop with the flashlight. “Hi, I run Scissor Central down in the mall. I think you’d look great with some frosted tips.”

The cop actually smiled.

They continued.

Turned the light on Vadim. For a long time. His wasted face attracted the cop’s attention.

“Hey there, Vadim,” said the guy with the flashlight. “What’s up with you?”

“Nothin’. Fancy-free.”

“Everything cool?”

“Sure. Like always.”

“Yeah, right. Like always.” Cop irony.

Jorge stared straight ahead. Felt like it was all a twisted dream. He couldn’t concentrate. Time stood still.

What the FUCK was he supposed to do?

Paralyzed.

They came up to him. Shone the torch in his face. He tried to relax. Smile suitably.