Easy Money

27

Psychological borders carved into the Stockholm territory. Kungsgatan was divided into three geographical regions. Farthest down, by Stureplan, were stylish clothing stores, cafes, bars, movie theaters, and electronics retailers. All types of people walked this stretch: Svens, Stureplaners, slumdogs. The next segment led from Hotorget down to Vasagatan. Crap central: shitty dives and rowdy restaurants. Street-fight central: populated by blattes and Svens. The last part, the intersection with Vasagatan down to the bridge, was empty of restaurants and regular bars, stores, or cafes. Only places with a specialized profile were found here. An indie theater, a jazz joint, and the gambling pit-Casino Cosmopol. Older clientele. Revitalizing mix of theater fanatics, jazzers, and gamblers.

A slash through Stockholm’s nightlife/shopping/entertainment scene. Kungsgatan-the sidewalks were always warm, always clean of snow, always crowded. Always racked by consumer hysteria. Three different strata. Three different worlds along the same street.

Mrado was sitting at the bar at Kicki’s Bar amp; Co., one of the crappy dives in the street’s middle section. He was waiting for Ratko. Bar hang with beer amp; co.: ale, light brew, hard cider.

He was so damn beat.

Staring vacantly. Twenty-year-old bad boys in stolen puffies hung in clusters around the place. Refused to check their coats-the Canada Goose label, with its implied price tag, was a symbol of a world they’d never really gain access to. Stared at a safe distance. They didn’t know who he was. Clocked anyway-don’t mess with the giant in the bar. If the coat check in this place were his, those downy-lipped niggers’ Geese would’ve been on hangers ages ago.

There was neon lettering on the walls. Formed the words Kicki’s Cocktails. Written in red, blue, and yellow, interlaced.

Mrado and Ratko’d decided to grab a beer before going to Casino Cosmopol, farther up on Kungsgatan. Mrado had to get some clean cash. The video-rental stores/laundromats weren’t working as they should. Weren’t able to handle the required volumes. The casino was always a last resort for cleaning cash.

The clock struck 10:05. Ratko wasn’t usually late. Had his grouse increased lately? Couldn’t be tolerated. Mrado was above Ratko in the Yugo hierarchy. Therefore, he was only gonna wait for ten more minutes.

Ordered another beer. Thought through the past months.

The Jorge situation’d cleared out well. Four months’d passed and the Latino’d taken it easy ever since. Laid low. No more attempts to fuck with them. Mrado’d gotten some indications. Jorge was still in the city, probably still rockin’ the dark look in order to survive on the lam. Scraping by the only way he knew how: pushing blow for some dealer. Mrado couldn’t care less, as long as the shit didn’t affect him.

Mrado’d been trudging along in the same old tracks. Longing for Lovisa. Cursing Annika. On February 23, the district court’d ruled: mixed verdict. A relief that he was allowed to maintain joint custody. Fucking ridiculous that he got a visitation day only once every other week. Sweden betraying the Serbs yet again.

Mrado woke up every night between 4:00 and 5:00 a.m., couldn’t sleep. Like an old hag. Usually downed a fat whiskey to fall back asleep. What the hell was going on?

Once, he went into Lovisa’s room to find peace of mind. Sat down on her bed. It creaked. The sound reminded him of something. Couldn’t think of what. He pulled out a drawer in her desk. Saw the crayons. Realized what the creaking reminded him of. He felt depleted. Racked with anxiety. What would Lovisa think of him if she ever found out about all the shit he’d done? Was it possible to be a good father and still break people’s fingers? He should stop.

Other than that, it was the same old. Business was booming. Cash was flowing. Important to-dos right now: fix the video-rental stores and figure out how to deal with the pigs and their new Nova Project. Radovan’d called everyone to a meeting about Nova. All the colleagues were supposed to talk about the cops’ efforts to stop them. Mrado, Goran, Nenad, and Stefanovic. Circle-jerk.

The video-rental companies’d been created after thorough research’d been done on the straw man, Christer Lindberg. Mrado didn’t want anyone who’d raise suspicions with the Man. He’d checked the public records to make sure the guy was registered as a Swedish resident, that he didn’t have any red flag-raising German-imported Beamers, that he was in the clear with tax records, bankruptcy records, and latepayment records. Finally, he’d checked the police’s internal lists-everything had to look clean as a Tide commercial. Mrado thanked his police hookup, Rolf, for the latter registry printouts.

Christer Lindberg was, at least on the surface, a responsible citizen. It would work.

Mrado didn’t want to meet Lindberg personally, kept his distance. He’d had Goran explain most of it. Mrado’d only spoken with the guy once on the phone. All he was told: Mrado was a friend of Goran and could fix fine flow in exchange for signatures on various documents and possible questions from the tax man.

Lindberg according to Mrado: proletarian caricature. Talked intense Sven Swedish, peppered with cliches and shallow insights. Mrado thought about their one and only conversation. Couldn’t help grinning to himself.

“Hi, I’m a friend of Goran. I’m calling about a business idea with video-rental stores. Has he mentioned something about it to you?”

“Yes siree.”

“Do you know what it’s about?”

“Let’s put it this way: I wasn’t born yesterday. I get the idea.”

“Can I ask you a question? What did you do before you started working for Goran?”

“Yours truly worked as a truck driver for Ostman Akeri, in Haninge.”

“And how was that?”

“That was like night and day, so to speak.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you know, Ostman wasn’t exactly the type to turn down a drink. Goran showed up one day. Took over the entire operation. Strongly done, so to speak.”

“His name is Goran.”

“Ha, ha. Right, Goran. I’m not too good with names.”

That was enough. Mrado didn’t want to get close to Lindberg in any way.

He sent the guy paperwork. Asked him to sign. Explained some more what it was about, that a friend of Mrado and Goran was gonna open video-rental stores. Needed someone registered in Sweden to be on the board of the company. Lindberg would get a one-time fee of twelve thousand kronor if he signed. After that, they’d give him ten thousand every six months, as long as it all flowed smoothly. Mrado instructed him what to do if any nosy authorities got in touch with him.

It was “good as gold,” as Lindberg put it.

Mrado got in touch with a company that sold shelf companies. Bought two. Paid a hundred grand per company. Sent in all the paperwork that Lindberg’d signed. Changed the names: the Stockholm Video Specialist, Ltd., and Video Buddy, Ltd. Set up bank accounts. Switched accountants. Landed storefronts.

One of the stores was on Karlavagen. They took over an old videorental place, Karlaplan’s Video. Some poor Turks owned it. Mrado sent Ratko and Bobban to scare them a little. They stopped by ten minutes before closing one night in October. Explained the situation. The two Turks refused. Two days later, when the guys opened the DVD case for Batman Begins that’d been returned through the slot in the door- boom boom. One of the Turks lost four fingers and the sight in his left eye.

Mrado bought the space a month later for thirty grand. A steal.

The other video-rental store was in the Sodertalje Mall. The store-front used to be a dry cleaner’s. Business was bad for the previous owner, also a Turk. Chance changed channels-the Yugos against the Turks. Low odds on the Yugos. The dry cleaner’s sold for twenty thousand kronor. Didn’t need convincing. They just moved right in.

He renovated and rebuilt the storefronts during the month of November. Used a Rado-owned demolition firm. Neat way to give the demolition firm clean, taxable profits.

Mrado threw out the pornos at Karlaplan’s Video. Bought a ton of children’s films-full-stocked Disney paradise. Lined one wall with shelves of penny candy. Rebuilt the registers, made sure you could buy lottery tickets, magazines, membership. Repainted the place, started selling paperbacks in one corner. The final product: the mildest, most child-friendly video store in all of Ostermalm.

Good impression.

The store in Sodertalje: Mrado sold the dry-cleaning machines to some old contacts, Syrians. Sodertalje was their Jerusalem. Mrado knew-he’d hung out with Syrians growing up. Was even invited to weddings sometimes. The Syrians: one of the tightest networks in Stockholm. Dominated the dry-cleaning and B-list barber biz. Entrepreneurs. Mrado nurtured his connections. Dry cleaners and hairdressers-just as good for money laundering as video rentals. Could come in handy.

Within two months, the video stores were working perfectly. The basic idea was simple. Mrado had 400,000 kronor in cash. Two hundred thousand went to buying the companies. The remaining hundred grand per company, divided into smaller sums, was added to each company’s account. The money covered the storefronts, the renovations, and the purchase of DVDs. Guys from the gym manned the stores from 4:00 to 10:00 p.m. every night. Everything under the table. RIP-right in pocket. On paper, Radovan was employed and was a stockholder. Mrado was employed part-time. He added money to each company’s account every other day. When it was running smoothly, each store actually made fifty thousand a month. With Mrado’s creative bookkeeping: three hundred thousand a month. Left after Radovan was paid a salary of twenty-five grand a month, Mrado twenty, and other general costs and taxes were taken out: around 150,000 kronor per store. Clean. Summa summarum: the salaries plus the stores’ remaining assets-white as snow.

Money from the coat checks was run through the video business on paper-after tax payments, what came out at the other end were honest bills. Best of all, if the business went to hell, it was Lindberg who went there with it. Mrado and Radovan were not on the board and were not registered on paper anywhere.

Despite the laundromats, he had problems. They weren’t enough. In the past months, his insomnia’d only gotten worse. The Radovan situation-more aggravated than ever. Was it because of Mrado’s demand for a larger cut of the coat-check business? The Yugo boss seemed patronizing. Gave responsibilities to Goran and the others but not to Mrado. R. was planning something without M. Indications leaked out via Ratko and Bobban. The question: Had R. just put Mrado on building up the video stores in order to keep him busy? Question number two: What could Mrado do without this crap in his life? Would he even exist without it?

He longed for the good old days.

Ratko didn’t show. Mrado got up. Paid. Walked toward the casino alone.

Casino Cosmopol: state gambling nest par excellence. The philosophy of hypocrisy perfected. To gamble is a Lutheran sin. To gamble is a waste/stupid/socially deviant. To gamble leads to addiction; at the same time, it sows a clover field for the finance minister. The people need entertainment, bread and circuses. Come on-gambling’s just a little thrill, right? The automatic game machines were the worst-cashed in five billion kronor for Big Brother every year. Put people in financial ruin. Sunk families like mini Titanic s. Crushed dreams. Along with obesity, the new welfare disease was gambling addiction. Up 75 percent since the automatic game machines and casinos’d opened.

The casino bouncers greeted Mrado. He glided past the entry-fee registers. For regular folks, they checked IDs and compared with head shots in their database. The first time you went to the casino, you had your picture taken. Mrado didn’t need to do that stuff-he had a membership. Anyway, Mrado was Mrado.

The place was a cross between a well-refurbished turn-of-the-century amusement park and a cheap yacht. Five floors. The street level was the slickest. High ceilings, fifty feet. Nicely painted wood paneling. Original moldings and designs. Four enormous crystal chandeliers. Mirrored walls made the room feel even bigger than it was. Red carpeting. Eight big roulette tables in pairs of two. Between every pair, on an elevated platform, was a tux- or suit-clad casino employee in a black leather swivel chair. Job: to keep their eyes on the game, make sure no one pulled any moves. Minimum bet on the roulette table: five hundred on color, evens, or columns. You could blow a grand in five minutes, easy.

Moving on: five blackjack and punto banco tables. Two sic bo tables for the Asians. Various one-armed bandits everywhere.

Blatant hypocrisy 2.0-someone handed Mrado a pamphlet: Do you have a gambling problem? Don’t be ashamed. Over 300,000 Swedes suffer from the same addiction as you do. But there is help. Call us at THE ADDICTION CENTER. Dig this shit: They handed out pamphlets against gambling at the same time as it was possible, without a problem, to withdraw 100,000 kronor at Casino Cosmopol’s own cash counters.

As usual, the clientele was at least 30 percent Asian. The rest were Sven dudes, older blatte dudes, middle-aged women with shirts cut too low, a group of young guys, and the pros-the regulars who came every night.

Mrado greeted a few familiar faces. Headed up toward the fourth floor, where the real game was being played. Poker.

The second floor: brown carpeting, blackjack tables, a couple of midsize roulettes, lots of slot machines. A bar. Mrado went up to the bar. Greeted the bartender. Asked what was up. Things were cool. Frankie boy was crooning in the background. He kept moving.

The third floor: same as the second story, but without a bar. In the stairwell, he ran into the guys from the welcome desk at the gym.

Mrado greeted them. “What’s up?”

“Do an old friend a favor. Come to the Klaraberg viaduct and push me in the water.”

Mrado laughed. “You blow your whole load again?”

“Yup, goddamn it. This is all geharget, totally fucked, man. Dropped thirty big ones tonight. I can forget about that vacation. It’s hard to yell when the barrel’s in your mouth. ”

“Get it together. You’re always saying that. It’s fine. You’ll be back.”

“I’ve got to practice more on the guys at the gym. People more in my class. Right? We should organize a little poker night. Sip whiskey, puff cigars.”

“Not a bad idea, but a lotta guys are gonna pass on the booze. Too many dangerous calories.”

“Yeah, but what the fuck am I supposed to do? I don’t have a pissing chance against these guys.”

“Just the heavy hitters here tonight?”

“You can say that again.”

“You seen Ratko?”

“No, not yet. Didn’t see him at the gym today, either. You guys have a date?”

“He better have a good excuse. We were supposed to meet twenty minutes ago.”

“If I see him, I’ll tell him you’re up there and you’re steaming. I’ve gotta head home, or this might get ugly for real.”

Mrado resumed his upward climb. The guy in the stairwell was obviously on the verge of becoming a gambling junkie. Mrado wondered what was worse, gambling addiction or steroid addiction.

He pushed through the doors to the upper level. Green carpeting. The same color as the felt on the poker tables. Black ceiling with discreetly angled spotlights. No mirrored walls here-cheaters thrived anyway. Mrado made the rounds. Stockholm’s legendary professional players were there: Berra K., the Joker, Piotr B., the Major, and others. Men who’d flipped the day just like Mrado. Worked from 10:00 p.m. until the casino closed at 5:00 a.m. Players who never had less than fifty grand in rubber-banded wads. Maladjusted mathematical masterminds.

Half the room was filled exclusively by one-armed bandits.

The other half housed the poker tables. Thick velvet ropes kept curious bystanders and Peeping Toms at bay. Poker was popular. At the middle of each table’s long end stood the state-employed dealer, dressed in a white shirt, red silk vest, and pressed black slacks. The mood was solemn, tense, deeply concentrated.

Two of the tables were reserved for high-stakes play. Someone looked desperate-maybe the family’s savings were all blown. Someone beamed-maybe they’d just pulled in twenty, thirty grand in one pot. The rest just looked incredibly immersed in the game.

There were free spots by one of the expensive tables. No limit: no restrictions on the stakes, possible to do all in. About twenty deals an hour. The state took 5 percent of the pot. Expensive hobby-excluding losses.

Mrado’s idea was based on the fact that you were provided with receipts for all wins of over twenty grand at the state poker tables-the money was white as fleece. Mrado wasn’t the world’s best player, but it happened that he got lucky. In that case, play high stakes. The odds were bad tonight-a lot of good players at the table. On the other hand, that’d make it a higher-stakes game, more money that could be laundered. With luck, he might be able to clean a hundred grand. His plan: play tight. Only bid if he had a good opening hand. Cautious low-risk tactic.

He sat down.

The game: Texas hold ’em. Supertrendy since Channel 5 started airing American competitions. Lured lots of greenhorns to the poker tables, even though it was the toughest type of poker. Fast, most deals per hour meant greatest chances of winning. Bigger pot than in Omaha or seven-card stud, with more players at the table. No open cards except for the five community cards. The game for fast, fat wins.

From the look of it, there were only staples around the table tonight.

Bernhard Kaitkinen, better known as Berra K. Even more famous as the man with Stockholm’s longest schlong, which he never passed up an opportunity to point out-Berra with the Boa. Always dressed in a light suit, as though he were in a casino in Monte Carlo. Been paired off with most of the city’s society dames: Susanna Roos, editor in chief of Svensk Damtidning, the royal gossip rag, was just one in a long line of Botoxed bellas. Berra K.: a loudmouth, a romance scammer, a gentleman. Most of all: a fantastic poker player. Mrado knew his tricks. The dude always buzzed about other stuff, distracted, created a poker face by letting his mouth run nonstop.

Piotr Biekowski: pale Polack. Won the World Championship in backgammon a few years back. Switched over to poker-more money in it. Dressed in a dark blazer and black pants. Wrinkly white shirt with the two top buttons undone. Rocked a nervous, insecure style. Sighed, oy’ ed, eyes flitted. That might fool the casino rookies. Not Mrado. He knew: Never play too high against Piotr-best way to empty your wallet.

Across from Mrado: a young guy with sunglasses that Mrado didn’t recognize. Mrado stared. Did the kid think he was in Las Vegas, or what?

Mrado started with the big blind: one thousand that someone-in this particular round, Mrado-had to chip in to incite play. No one could stay in the game without betting at least the same sum.

Piotr sat with the small blind — five hundred kronor.

The dealer dealt the cards.

Mrado’s hand: five of hearts and six of hearts.

The flop hadn’t happened yet.

Berra K. was the first to act. Said, “These cards remind me of a game I played on a boat in the archipelago last summer. We had to stop because a huge fuckin’ thunderstorm blew in.” Mrado tuned out the nitwit nonsense.

Berra K. folded.

The Sunglass Kid posted a grand.

Piotr bet five hundred, up at the same level as the big blind.

Mrado looked at his cards again. It was a pretty shitty hand, but still- suited connectors were consecutive cards of the same suit, and it didn’t cost him anything to stick out the round. He checked, kept pace.

Flop: the first three cards on the table. Seven of hearts, six of clubs, and ace of spades. Nothing perfect for his hand. Small chance of suit remained. Piotr starting whining-his style.

Mrado had to really think things through. The game was high. Piotr could bluff, try to get the rest of the players to raise the stakes by grumbling and moaning. In that case, Mrado should fold, even though he had a chance at suit or flush. Had promised himself to show tableside restraint.

He folded; the betting went on without him.

The Sunglass Kid called. Put in four grand. Not bad. Maybe he was one of the newbies who’d learned everything from online gaming. But it was different in real life. With hard cards.

Turn: the fourth card on the table. A seven of diamonds.

Piotr first out. Added fifteen big ones.

The Sunglass Kid put in thirty grand. Doubled the bet fast as hell.

All eyes on Piotr. Mrado knew: The Polack could have three of a kind, even a full house. Also possible: The guy could be blowing smoke.

Piotr went for it-put all in, 100,000 kronor. A murmur of disbelief swept over the table.

The Sunglass Kid cleared his throat. Fingered his chips.

Mrado eyed Piotr. Was convinced the Polack was bluffing-a brief glitter in his gaze gave him away. Their eyes met. Piotr saw that Mrado knew.

The Sunglass Kid didn’t see. The strong offense turned him yellow.

He folded.

River: the final card-was never dealt.

Mrado thought, The Polack is shooting high tonight. Playing tough with nothing.

Time for the next round.

The game continued.

Deal after deal.

Mrado stayed afloat.

Piotr played aggressively. Berra K. babbled about broads. Distracted. The Sunglass Kid tried to win back what he’d just blown.

After twenty-four deals: Mrado’s hand-the big slick of hearts. A classic in the poker world: an ace and a king. You’ve got a chance to get the best-possible hand, royal straight, and you’ve got the highest cards. And still, you’ve got nothing. Binary: If it flies, you soar; if it crashes, you’re done for.

A single drop of sweat on Mrado’s forehead. Could be his chance. So far, he’d played tight. Piotr, Berra K., and the Sunglass Kid didn’t think he’d put all his chips in without having something. But it could be a trick, too. You play steady, trick everyone into thinking that you never take risks. Then you bluff like Abagnale.

His best opening hand of the night. He made up his mind, for the sake of the companies, to save the Rado situation-bid high.

The drop of sweat lodged itself in Mrado’s eyebrow. So close to a royal straight and still, hardly one in several thousands of a chance.

He twirled a chip around his fingers.

Thought, Let’s do this thing.

Bid five grand.

Berra K. called his bet. Five grand. High-stakes game.

The Sunglass Kid pulled out. Would be crazy to ride out a game this aggressive without really sitting on anything good.

Piotr, with the big blind, raised him. Twenty-five total. Crazy.

Berra K., Mrado, and Piotr all had a sick number of chips in front of them.

Mrado considered: It’s make it or brake it now. He knew the odds; his hand was one of the top ten opening hands you could get in this game.

He looked at Piotr. Didn’t he glimpse that same glitter in his eyes as in the first deal, when the Polack bluffed? The feeling was the same. Piotr was up to something. Mrado was sure of it-the Polack was trying to pull a fast one-it was Mrado’s turn to make it big this time.

He kept going. Twenty into the pot.

Berra K. started prattling again. Jabbered on about other crazy games he’d played and that this one was the craziest one yet. Then he folded. Not surprising.

Mrado faced off against Piotr, waiting for the first cards on the table.

The Sunglass Kid removed his shades; even Berra K. stopped talking. Silence settled around the table.

The flop gave an ace of clubs, a two of diamonds, and a queen of hearts.

Piotr bet another fifteen. Maybe to check Mrado’s pulse. Disgustingly high stakes.

Mrado still had a pair of aces, the best pair you could get. He just had to be in the clear, since he had the highest kicker, the king. And still a chance he could land a royal straight. He kept going. Bet fifteen grand. Called.

He was gonna crush that fuckin’ Polack.

Turn: jack of hearts. Crazy lucky. Mrado still had a chance at a royal straight. He wasn’t going to give up now. And he kept feeling more and more certain: The Polack didn’t have jackshit. The guy was crazy bluffing.

Crazier than crazy.

Piotr raised him another thirty.

Mrado thought he saw that gleam again.

He took the chance-played all in, the rest of the money he had in front of him, 120 grand. All his chips on one board. Prayed to God that he was right, that Piotr was trying to pull a fast one.

Piotr shot back the call, didn’t miss a beat.

The dealer felt the tension around the table. Both Mrado and Piotr turned up their cards.

Everyone around the table leaned in to get a look.

Mrado: almost royal flush, except for the ten of hearts.

Piotr: three aces.

Mrado’s heart sank. The Polack fucker hadn’t bluffed this time. That gleam in his eye was something else-maybe triumph. Mrado’s only chance was that the river contained a ten of hearts.

The dealer took his time with the river. Piotr shifted uneasily in his seat. Everyone in the poker area stopped what they were doing, sensed that something big was about to happen at one of the tables. If Mrado won, he’d rake in over 300,000.

The dealer dealt the card: three of clubs.

Mrado was dead.

The winner: Piotr. Three of a kind. The entire pot. Mrado’d blown 160,000 on one hand. Congrats.

Mrado could hear his own breathing. Felt dazed, got vertigo. Ready to hurl.

Felt the beating of his own heart. Fast, sad beats.

Piotr stacked the chips. Swept them off the table into a cloth bag.

Got up. Left the table.

Someone called Mrado’s name. Ratko was waiting on the other side of the velvet enclosure. More than two hours after the appointed time. Mrado nodded toward him. Turned back to the poker table.

Remained seated, as though in a fog. Felt a flash of heat. He was sweating.

Finally, the dealer turned to him, asked, “Are you in for the next deal?” Mrado knew-for him, a catastrophe had just occurred. For the dealer, it was only a question of when the next round could begin.

Mrado got up. Walked away.

Bobban used to say, “Things happen quick in hockey.” Mrado knew-things happen even quicker in Texas hold ’em. Burned more than 160 grand within an hour. Not his night tonight. He should’ve known. Too many vets at the table.

Ratko stood at a one-armed bandit with his back to the poker table. Fed bills to the machine.

Mrado knocked him on the shoulder. “You were late?”

“Me, late? Sure, but you’ve been playing for over an hour. Made me wait.”

“But you were the one who was late. We were meeting at ten.”

“My apologies. How’d it go?”

Mrado, silent.

Ratko asked again. “That bad?”

“It went so fuckin’ bad, I’m considering throwing myself off the Klaraberg viaduct.”

“My sympathies.”

Mrado remained standing and watched as Ratko played. He was done for. Shouldn’t have played when he was so beat. Money that belonged to the video-rental stores. This couldn’t get out.

Motherfucker.

Ratko fed a final bill to the machine. Pressed the play button. The symbols started spinning.

Mrado’s head was spinning even faster.