Easy Money

51

A week’d passed since the night at Smadalaro. Jorge was lying low. The cops were still on high alert because of the Brothel Murders, as the evening press’d dubbed them. What bullshit-who the hell cared about some ubercriminal Serbs?

Jorge hung out at home. Sometimes he had to go out on the street to deal with immediate concerns regarding sales and distribution, but not often. He’d been outside a total of three times.

Abdulkarim was happy as long as the plan panned out-to spread the white gold in the boroughs. Lower the prices. Set the bar. Instead of: “Wanna grab a few beers?” make it: “Wanna snort a few lines?”

It worked. Jorge dealt to eight different contacts in the northern boroughs-from Solna to Marsta. Dudes who knew their turf. Knew the right people. Sold at pubs, pizza joints, discotheques, billiard halls, malls, parks, outside Social Services. And he also distributed to some of the city’s southern boroughs.

Jorge: a mini Abdul in his own territory. But he still wanted to avoid being seen.

Petter, the soccer hooligan, was his main man. Kept track of the dealers. Dealt with logistics. Drove around all day with baggies. Called himself “Mr. Icee.” The only thing missing was a catchy jingle as he drove past.

Peddled K-12. At house and apartment parties, outside hot dog stands and after-school programs. In common rooms, commuter rail stations, housing-project basements.

A competently cold-blooded coke invasion of the boroughs.

The money rolled in. Abdulkarim was generous. So far, Jorge’d collected over 400,000. Stored half the cash at home in six DVD cases on his bookshelf. Rolled the thousand-kronor bills side by side, like cigars. The rest he buried in a wooded area outside Helenelund-pirate-style.

He consumed some but saved most of it.

Couldn’t find peace. Woke up at least once an hour on the hour every night.

Disturbing images from his dreams: couches covered in brain matter, Osteraker’s walls from the inside, old guys with tongues like erect penises.

Didn’t need Freud to interpret that.

Jorge was scared.

If he was put away again, it’d probably be for life.

That wouldn’t fly now that he was gonna be an uncle.

He needed to act.

Exploit the positive sides of the situation.

Sodermalm, Stockholm’s south side. On the way to Lundagatan. Unknown territory for Jorge. The subway stop was Zinkensdamm.

Jorge got off the subway. A forceful wind struck him in the face as he walked up the stairs to the exit.

The weather outside, milder. Spring was on its way.

Lundagatan up. The Skinnarvik Park was snow-free. Jorge knew the rumor: Gay Central Station.

Street number: fifty-five.

He entered the key code he’d been given: 1914. Jorge thought, People have poor imaginations. Almost all building key codes begin with nineteen. Like dates.

Checked the list of tenants in the entry. Ahl-three flights. Jorge was in the right place.

He took the elevator up.

Heard music in the foyer.

Rang the doorbell.

Nothing happened.

Rang again. He heard the music stop.

Someone turned the lock from the inside.

A guy in sweatpants and a wifebeater opened. He had bedhead, round glasses, and mad acne issues. The caricature of a computer geek.

Jorge introduced himself. Was let in.

They’d spoken two days earlier. Arranged a time and place.

Richard Ahl: a twenty-one-year-old kid who studied film at Sodertorn College and worked nights at Windows XP tech support. According to him: a crack shot who spent at least eight hours a day in the world of Counter-Strike with a gun in his hand. Richard: online gaming’s unknown guru. “You gotta practice if you wanna be a pro. You know how much dough is in this industry?” he asked Jorge after he’d explained what he did.

Jorge couldn’t have cared less. He played Game Boy, Max; more advanced stuff wasn’t part of his repertoire.

Richard explained, “Counter-Strike, it’s the cash cow of the online gaming world. You know, that industry has a bigger turnover than Hollywood.” He buzzed on.

Jorge’d found Richard through Petter. According to Petter, the dude was a computer genius. Too bad he wasted his talent on games. The guy could easily hack into the Swedish Security Service, the CIA, or the Pentagon, if he’d only give it a whirl.

The apartment: a studio with a sleeping nook. Hardly any furniture save for a bed. Clothes and magazines all over the floor. Most striking, against one wall: the computer desk, completely cluttered. Two screens, one flat screen and one older model. Floppy discs, CDs and DVDs, cases, manuals, joysticks, controllers, keyboards, magazines, three mouse pads, each with a different pattern, one with a water-lily pond by Monet, two different mice, a laptop slightly ajar, cords, a Web camera, empty Coca-Cola cans, and empty pizza cartons.

A computer geek’s natural habitat.

Richard sat down on the chair by the computer desk. “Petter said you wanted some help. Spruce up some pics and get into a computer?”

Jorge wasn’t totally sure he’d understood. He remained standing in the middle of the room.

“First and foremost, I need to get into this laptop. I don’t have the user name or password, and there’s info on it that’s very important. Then I need your help to up the quality of a couple of pictures I took with a cell phone camera.”

“Right. Wasn’t that what I just said?” The dude rocked a cocky style. Knew he was smart. But not smart enough to be humble.

Jorge handed over the laptop that he’d swiped from Hallonbergen.

Richard leaned back in his desk chair. Rolled forward. Opened the laptop. Turned it on.

The computer asked for user name and password.

Richard typed something in.

The computer responded with a text message: You were not logged in. The user name or password you entered is incorrect. Please try again or contact customer service.

Richard sighed. Tried new letter combinations.

Nothing happened.

He restarted the computer. Inserted a CD.

Started writing in DOS format.

Nothing happened.

He continued to pound the keyboard frenetically.

Jorge pushed aside a pile of dirty laundry and sat down on the bed. Didn’t even try to understand what the computer geek was doing. As long as he could hack into the computer. Looked around. On the walls: posters from the first Star Wars movies. Might be originals. Luke Skywalker in a messianic pose, with the light saber pointed to the universe’s sky. Yoda with a cane and wrinkled face. Probably artsy pictures. Jorge’d never understood science fiction.

He thought about the girls at Smadalaro. Many of Eastern European origin. Like Nadja. Some’d spoken fluent Swedish. Other were regular Swedish chicks. The mix: Svens, blattes, Asians. He understood the imported Eastern women. They were living in the country illegally. Were on drugs. Lived under constant threat from their pimps. They didn’t have much choice. But the others? How’d they ended up in the shit?

Richard started explaining. “I can’t do it. The info you want is on the hard drive. I’ve tried to reinstall Windows XP, which is the operating system on this computer, from my own CD. The user name and password are just parts of the operating system, so if I installed a new one, those would disappear, I thought. The problem is that the system’s somehow encrypted the info on the hard drive. Installing Windows won’t cut it. I have to decrypt. Could take a while.”

“How long?”

“Well, I don’t have the programs to do it here at home. I have to download them. Play around a little. Need three, four weeks maybe.”

“You really can’t get it any faster?”

“I don’t know. I’ve got a lot do in school right now.”

Jorge thought, Might as well kiss this computer geek’s ass a little. He said, “Do the best you can. I’ll pay good.”

Richard closed the laptop.

“You were gonna look at some pictures, too,” Jorge said.

They surfed up Jorge’s Hotmail account. Downloaded the photos.

Richard opened an Adobe imaging system.

Chose File/Open.

Five pictures popped up on the screen.

The first: Sven Bolinder in an armchair with a young girl on his lap. In profile.

The second: a man in another armchair. A girl sat on the armrest. They were kissing.

Third photo: the back of a man making out with a girl against the wall. No face. Fuck.

Fourth: same man against the wall. His face peeked out from behind the girl’s shoulder. Broad smile.

Last one: a fourth man next to an armchair. A girl on her knees in the armchair, one hand over the man’s pants, over his cock. He was smiling.

All the photos: terrible quality. Looked like Jorge’d photographed fuzzy ghosts.

Richard zoomed in on the pictures. “What the hell is this?”

Jorge wasn’t sure-did the computer geek mean he couldn’t tell what the pictures were of, or was he shocked because he did see what the pictures were of?

“Pictures that I need to make clearer. I guess I’m the only one who can see what’s going on in them now, huh?”

“Jorge. What’re you doing, exactly?” Richard’s eyes were wide.

“Relax. I’m no private eye, if that’s what you think. I don’t even know who these old guys are. It’s nothing bad. Just help me out.”

Richard muttered. Turned back to the screen. Started clicking on the program’s icons and the images.

He fiddled. Changed the exposure. Tested different resolutions, pixel qualities, rendering, contrasts. Enlarged the pictures, changed the color tone, retouched blurred bits.

Worked keenly.

An hour passed.

Jorge wondered how long it would take.

Richard didn’t seem to understand. “This? This’ll take all night. Once I’ve started, I don’t stop.”

Jorge got the hint. Thanked him, excused himself.

They were gonna be in touch the next day at lunchtime.

He left.

Walked down Lundagatan.

In the subway on the way home: thoughts. The nasty, fancy gold guys weren’t satisfied with their lives. Had to fuck teenage whores to feel good. Sven hypocrisy demasked. The blatte world was more honest. Immigrant Sweden was better. That night, for some reason, he slept okay.

The next day at twelve-thirty, the computer geek called.

“Did you fix the photos?”

“Hell yeah. Looks like they were taken with a three-megapixel camera with flash, at least.”

“And.”

“I’ve run the pictures though some databases. Thought you might like that.”

“Databases?”

“Yup. Don’t you wanna know who the old guys are?”

More than Jorge’d expected. He felt goose bumps rise on his skin.

This was big.

Richard went on: “The guy with the chick in his lap, that’s Sven Bolinder, the chairman of the board and CEO of one of Sweden’s biggest publicly traded companies. The guy kissing, that’s the heir to a company. Don’t think you’d know it, but it’s huge. The oldie against the wall with that nerdy-ass smile is buds with the king and a real high roller. Finally, the guy getting his dick massaged, he was the easiest. That’s a Wallstrom.”

Jorge had no idea about the companies Richard’d listed. Big business wasn’t his specialty, at least not the legal kind.

But he clocked the basics-they were big-timers.

He and Richard made arrangements. Jorge was gonna go there and pick up the photos in altered form.

He threw himself out of the apartment. Ran toward the commuter rail station.

J-boy: like he’d always said-king of kings. Finance men/brokers/CEOs-beware. Jorgelito: blatte of blattes you’ll wish you’d never met.

Some sort of victory was within reach.