Easy Money

38

Abdulkarim and Fahdi arrived in London two days after JW.

Picking up the gun was the first thing they did after landing. Cabbed it to Euston Square, where a black guy waited by the newspaper stand at the station. They handed over an envelope with the agreed-upon sum. The guy counted quickly and nodded. Then gave them a slip of paper.

Abdulkarim refused to be ripped off, made sure the guy didn’t vaporize, held on to him. If there was no weapon, the guy’d have to take the hit.

The storage boxes had combination locks. The guy showed them to the correct box right away. The combination on the slip of paper worked. In the box was a sports bag. Fahdi took hold of the bag and reached his hand in. Copped a feel. Smiled broadly.

JW took them sightseeing with a hired tour guide for the rest of the day. Abdulkarim was in rapture, hadn’t been abroad since he’d come to Sweden as a boy in 1985.

They saw the Houses of Parliament, Big Ben, London Dungeon, took a spin in the London Eye. Abdulkarim’s favorite: London Dungeon, the horror museum with distorted wax dolls, guillotines, garrote irons, gallows.

The guide was a middle-aged Swedish man who’d lived in London for seventeen years. Was used to teens on language-course trips and traveling groups from middle Svenland. The guide couldn’t really get a grip on his customers that day, maybe thought they were nice, normal guys. Instead, Abdulkarim and Fahdi poured on the questions. “Where’s the closest strip club?” “Any idea about the price of snow?” “You gonna help us buy cheap ganja?”

Nervous drops gleamed on the guide’s brow. He was probably sweating bullets.

JW grinned.

By the end of the day, the guide appeared visibly shaken. Shifty-eyed, probably scared a bobby’d pop around the next corner and collar him. They thanked him and gave a fat tip.

Before they parted ways, Abdulkarim said, “We’re planning on going to Hothouse Inn tonight. Wanna come?”

The Hothouse Inn: JW’d scored tix. It was one of Soho’s glammest strip joints.

The dopest part: The geezer guide said yes.

Abdulkarim’s grimaced. “Oh my. I was just joking. We definitely weren’t gonna go there. That’s dirty. You do stuff like that?”

The guide: like a Jersey tomato. The red lights on the streets paled in comparison. Turned and hurried off.

They died laughing.

Day two. JW, Abdulkarim, and Fahdi invaded the shopping districts.

London, the Holy Land of luxury department stores: Selfridges, Harrods. But best of all: Harvey Nichols.

They’d booked a limo for the whole day.

JW’d moved to Abdulkarim’s hotel the previous day, when Abdulkarim deemed it safe. Fahdi’d moved somewhat later the same day.

They began with a hotel brunch, model XL: sausages, bacon, spareribs, chicken clubs, fried potatoes, pancakes with syrup, seven kinds of bread, granola, Kellogg’s cereal, scrambled eggs, three kinds of fresh-squeezed juice, marmalade, Marmite, Vegemite, tons of cheeses-Stilton, cheddar, Brie-jam, Nutella, ice cream, fruit salad. No end to it.

They binged. Fahdi loved the scrambled eggs, loaded up two plates. The middle-aged women one table over stared. Abdulkarim ordered new fresh-squeezed juice four times. JW was ashamed, and still not. He straightened his cuff links and looked toward their neighbors at the next table. Winked.

Enjoyed it somehow.

The limo picked them up at one.

Abdulkarim was coasting, boasting about how much they were going to make on the blow Jorge’d scored through that Brazilian. Blabbered on about all they were going to do in London. All the bea-ches were going to get a piece of Abdulkarim. All the knuckleheads were going to get a taste of Fahdi.

Abdulkarim hadn’t talked about anything else the night before, couldn’t let it drop: Jorge’s infamous flight from the Vasterbron bridge. JW was impressed. Seven pounds of coke was theirs. Exactly what they needed-quantity.

They stopped outside Selfridges. Abdulkarim opened the door and looked out. Roared in crappy English, “Get us outta here. This place don’t look fancy enough.”

JW glanced at Fahdi and laughed. Had Abdulkarim sucked a nose before breakfast?

The driver remained impassive. Abdulkarim’s behavior was probably nothing compared to the really rich and famous people he’d chauffeured around.

They drove on. The sidewalks were crammed and the streets teeming with cars. Classic double-deckers squeezed past, pulled up to bus stops.

The limo stopped outside Harvey Nichols.

They walked into the department store and quickly found the men’s section. It was gigantic. For JW, the shopping freak, the luxury leech, this was one of life’s happier moments.

He drooled, dug, danced the consumer dance. Merch Mecca. Brand Bethlehem: Dior, Alexandre of London, Fendi, Giuseppe Zanotti, Canali, Hugo Boss, Cerruti 1881, Ralph Lauren, Comme des Garcons, Costume National, Dolce amp; Gabbana, Duffer of St. George, Yves Saint Laurent, Dunhill, Calvin Klein, Armani, Givenchy, Energie, Evisu, Gianfranco Ferre, Versace, Gucci, Guerlain, Helmut Lang, Hermes, Iceberg, Issey Miyake, J. Lindeberg, Christian Lacroix, Jean Paul Gaultier, C. P. Company, John Galliano, John Smedley, Kenzo, Lacoste, Marc Jacobs, Dries Van Noten, Martin Margiela, Miu Miu, Nicole Farhi, Oscar de la Renta, Paul Smith, Punk Royal, Ermenegildo Zegna, Roberto Cavalli, Jil Sander, Burberry, Tod’s, Tommy Hilfiger, Trussardi, Valentino, Yohji Yamamoto.

It was all there.

Abdulkarim had a sales rep guide him around the store and drove around with his own little shopping cart. He plucked suits, shirts, shoes, and sweaters off the racks.

JW made the rounds by himself. Chose a club blazer by Alexandre of Savile Row, a pair of Helmut Lang jeans, two shirts-one from Paul Smith and one Prada-and a Gucci belt. Total damage: one thousand pounds.

Fahdi looked lost. He was most comfortable in a simple leather jacket and blue jeans and so he bought a pair of Hilfiger jeans and a leather jacket from Gucci. Price of the leather jacket alone: three thousand pounds. Gucci-all luxury lovers’ favorite feature.

JW thought about how much easier it all would be when he had clean fleece. The ability to use proper credit cards: a dream on the British horizon. The feeling he longed for: to be able to toss an American Express platinum card on the counter.

They got help lugging all the bags out to the limousine. The salesclerks seemed used to this kind of thing. London was the place for the disgustingly rich.

The limo kept driving along Sloane Street, the flagship stores’ mainline: Louis Vuitton, Prada, Gucci, Chanel, Hermes in a row.

JW’s eyes were glued to the logos’ luring lines. After a minute or so, Abdulkarim started yelling.

They got out.

Abdulkarim ran toward the Louis Vuitton store. JW saw his billowing pants and too-short jacket over his blazer and thought, Dressing like that ought to be a criminal offense.

At first the bouncer at the boutique looked skeptically at Abdulkarim-a swarthy maniac? Then he saw the limo. Waved him in.

They spent another hour and a half pillaging the street.

JW’s final count was four thousand pounds, not including what he’d dropped at Harvey Nichols. Trophies to show the boyz back home: a leather briefcase from Gucci, a coat from Miu Miu, a shirt from Burberry. Not bad.

A thought flitted through his head: Is this Life, or is this a sham? JW felt elated, almost ecstatic. Still, he couldn’t help but connect it to how Camilla must’ve felt when she’d been given a ride in the man from Belgrade’s yellow Ferrari. How similar were she and JW?

They had lunch at Wagamama, at the end of Sloane Street, a trendy Asian restaurant chain with minimalistic interiors. Abdulkarim complained that too many dishes contained pork.

“Tomorrow night, we gonna celebrate,” he said, “by eating at some halal place.”

Fahdi looked surprised. “What’re we celebrating?”

Abdulkarim grinned. “Buddy, tomorrow we gonna meet the guys we came here to meet. Tomorrow we gonna know if we gonna be millionaires.”