Easy Money

57

The load-out was quick.

Jorge’s head, like a soup. A mix of fear, triumph, confusion.

Disgust.

It was JW’s sister he’d seen in the video on the computer.

Raped, abused. Beaten to bits. Murdered?

As soon as Jorge got in the car with JW, he’d thought the Ostermalm brat reminded him of someone. At first couldn’t think of whom. Half an hour later, he knew for sure.

Ay, que sorpresa.

JW’s sister-a whore. Taken by the Yugos.

He couldn’t bear to say anything.

They’d driven the boxes in on dollies. Ten of them. Heavy and difficult to maneuver. They weren’t exactly truckers.

Abdulkarim, revved up. Fahdi, sweaty. JW was calm, for being him. Jorge himself didn’t know how he was feeling.

The Arab ordered Petter to keep watch outside. The dude was supposed to call if he saw anything shady. The pigs were on their backs like crazy these days.

The cold-storage facility had white walls and steel beams in the high ceiling in which to fasten lifting devices. Abdulkarim swore, wished they’d rented an indoor crane. The floor was made of metal. Smelled like cold fruit. It echoed.

Cool temperature in the entire space.

Two doors, the one they’d come in through and one at the other end of the room.

Four pallets were sin C-the ones that’d been farthest out. That was their safety margin if customs’d taken a random sample-always a chance they only checked the veggies on the end.

They began to empty the other cabbages.

Jorge and JW tore open the cabbages. Cut them open. Plucked out the small plastic bags with the white powder.

Abdulkarim stood by calmly and watched. Weighed and counted every single bag. It had to be correct down to the last gram.

Fahdi packed the bags into a couple of suitcases that they’d lined up against the wall.

Jorge’d already opened one of the bags. Stuck down his finger. Rubbed it against his gums in the classic manner. Tasted good. Tasted 90 percent.

JW was pleased. The eagle’d landed.

After fifteen minutes in the cold-storage facility, they had three pallets left to unpack.

Thirteen suitcases filled with bags. Bulked with old blankets.

They were almost done. Soon they’d load half the suitcases on Jorge and JW’s pickup, and the rest in the car that Abdulkarim, Fahdi, and Petter’d come in.

Abdulkarim, ardent. Every single bag’s weight was written down. Added up. Every suitcase had to contain 13.75 pounds of C. To be stored at different hiding places around town. Spread the risks.

Then something strange happened. The door out toward the loading dock opened.

Jorge turned around. Looked at whoever came in. He was still holding a cabbage in his hand.

Was it Petter?

No.

Big guys.

The 5–0?

Maybe.

No.

Men with ski masks over their heads. Both wearing blazers. Reservoir Dogs, or what?

Guns in their hands.

Abdulkarim screamed. Jorge pulled his gun. JW got behind a pallet. Fahdi was suddenly holding his gun in hand. Fired shots. Too late. The bigger of the men-and he was really enormous-held a small revolver in his hand. Smoke from the barrel. Fahdi collapsed. Jorge didn’t see any blood. The other man, the one with a handkerchief in the breast pocket of his blazer, yelled, “Get down on the floor, fast as fuck, or I’ll pop another one.” JW obeyed. Jorge remained standing. Abdulkarim hollered. Cursed. Called for Allah. His constant squire was on the floor. Blood was beginning to show. Trickling from Fahdi’s head. The man with the handkerchief in his pocket said in drawling voice, “Shut up and get down.” Pointed his gun at Abdulkarim. The man who’d shot Fahdi said, “You, too, Latino fag, get down.” Jorge lay down. Dropped his weapon. Could hardly see JW behind the packing case. Abdulkarim was on the floor, his hands on his head.

Jorge thought he almost recognized the voice of the man with the handkerchief.

He definitely recognized the voice of the man who’d shot Fahdi.