He Who Kills the Dragon

51.

Messrs. Bäckström and GeGurra had met in the main dining room of Operakällaren just after eight o’clock in the evening, and an extremely obliging headwaiter had shown them to their discreet table out on the veranda. He had taken their drink order, bowed once more, and hurried away. As was traditional, GeGurra was picking up the tab.

‘Marvelous to see you, Superintendent,’ GeGurra said, raising his large dry martini as he cautiously nibbled at an olive that had been delivered on a saucer alongside.

‘Good to see you too,’ Bäckström chimed in, raising his own ice-chilled double vodka. Even though you’re becoming more like a standard ass-bandit every day, he thought.

Then they had ordered. Bäckström had taken the lead and even GeGurra the faggot had gone along with his selection and chosen to eat like a normal person. More or less, at least.

‘To start I’d like Skagen toast with a side dish of salt salmon, the steak à la Rydberg with two egg yolks. Beer and schnapps throughout, and I’ll get back to you about the rest.’

‘And what sort of schnapps would monsieur le directeur like?’ the headwaiter asked, leaning sideways another few inches.

‘Czech lager, Russian vodka. Do you have Standard?’ What do you mean, directeur? Bäckström thought.

‘I’m afraid not,’ the headwaiter lamented. ‘But we do have Stolichnaya. Both Cristal and Gold.’

‘Stalichnaya,’ Bäckström corrected, with his newly acquired knowledge of Russian. ‘In that case I’ll start with a Gold with the fish and Cristal with the steak,’ he declared, like a true connoisseur.

‘Single or double?’

Is he pulling my leg? Bäckström thought. What’s he doing, handing out samples?

‘Large doubles,’ Bäckström said. ‘All the way through. No half-measures.’

GeGurra had concurred, and complimented Bäckström on his choice. He had abstained from the salt salmon and the extra egg yolk, and made do with a single shot with the starter and red wine with the main.

‘If you have a decent cabernet sauvignon by the glass?’

Naturally they did, according to the headwaiter. They had a fine American wine from 2003, Sonoma Valley, ninety percent cabernet.

‘And just the slightest touch of petit verdot to give it a lift.’

Queers, Bäckström thought. Where the fuck do they get all that shit from? A lift. Shirt lifters, maybe.

But they had a pleasant evening. GeGurra was in an expansive mood. He thanked Bäckström for his latest assistance in informing him most admirably about the developments in the big art racket that the police had spent the whole winter investigating. Naturally Bäckström’s half-witted colleagues had made a mess of things again, but GeGurra hadn’t even figured on the preliminary investigation.

It had been Bäckström’s last contribution as a lost-property cop, and because he didn’t himself have access to that sort of material, he had logged in, like so many times before, on a seriously mentally handicapped colleague’s computer, a former forensics officer who had had to cut his hours to part-time since he tried to poison his wife. He had taken a couple copies of the files on disc. One for GeGurra and one for himself, just to be on the safe side.

‘Don’t mention it,’ Bäckström said modestly.

‘And our new payment arrangements are working?’ GeGurra said, for some reason. ‘I hope you’re happy with them, my dear?’

‘It’s all fine,’ Bäckström said, because in spite of his tragic proclivities, GeGurra was at least a very generous fag. Credit where credit’s due, he thought.

‘On an entirely different matter, now that I am fortunate enough to have you here,’ GeGurra said.

‘I saw on television about that dreadful armed robbery out at Bromma Airport,’ he went on. ‘Where they shot those poor guards. Those robbers seem utterly ruthless. It must have been a professional job, surely? From what I saw on television, one could almost get the impression that one of those military commando units had been involved.’

‘Not your usual queer bashers,’ Bäckström agreed, remembering some of Juha Valentin’s early efforts in the parks and alleys of Stockholm.

‘I was talking to a good friend who owns a large number of shops here in the city center, and every day a number of his employees have to go to the bank with fairly large amounts of cash. He’s terribly worried,’ GeGurra said.

‘It’s a jungle out there,’ Bäckström agreed. ‘He’s probably right to worry.’

‘You don’t think you might be able to help him? Take a look at his routines, give him some good advice? I’m sure he’d be immensely grateful.’

‘Is he the sort who can keep his mouth shut?’ Bäckström asked. ‘This sort of thing can be a bit sensitive, as I’m sure you appreciate.’

‘Of course, of course,’ GeGurra said, emphasizing the point by holding up a blue-veined hand in a calming gesture. ‘He’s a most discreet man.’

‘You can always give him my cell number,’ Bäckström said. He had a well-developed plan to revitalize his wardrobe before the summer.

‘He’s also extremely generous,’ GeGurra added, raising his glass in a toast.

They suddenly had company for the dessert course. GeGurra, true to his proclivities, had chosen fresh berries, whereas Bäckström made do with a good cognac. Their company was ‘an old and very dear friend’ of GeGurra’s, and, like him, in the art business.

Old and old, Bäckström thought. Thirty-five at most, and what fucking hooters — it’s a good job the retarded folk dancer isn’t here, he thought.

After the introductory kisses on the cheek between old friends, GeGurra had taken care of the formalities.

‘My very dear friend Evert Bäckström,’ GeGurra said, ‘and this is my utterly delightful friend Tatiana Thorén. She used to be married to one of my old business contacts who didn’t always know what was good for him,’ he clarified.

What would people like you want with someone like her? Bäckström thought. He held out his hand for a manly handshake and gave her a taste of his Clint Eastwood smile.

‘Are you interested in art as well, Evert?’ Tatiana Thorén asked as soon as GeGurra had pulled out her chair for her so that she could position her well-shaped rear at the right height for Bäckström to be able to enjoy her generous cleavage from exactly the right angle.

‘I’m a police officer,’ Bäckström said with a stern nod.

‘A police officer, goodness, how exciting,’ Tatiana said, her big, dark eyes opening wide. ‘And what sort of police officer are you?’

‘Murders, violent crime, superintendent,’ Bäckström said. ‘I don’t get involved in the other stuff.’ And Clint can kiss my ass, he thought.

Then they had kept Tatiana company as she satisfied the worst of her hunger with a simple salmon sandwich and a glass of champagne, while devoting at least ninety percent of her attention to Bäckström.

‘Goodness, how exciting,’ Tatiana repeated, smiling with her red lips and her white teeth. ‘I’ve never met a real murder detective before. Only seen them on television.’

Bäckström had given her the usual selection of heroic deeds from his action-packed career as a legendary police officer. The super-salami had already started to move, and once everything was starting to happen, it all went like clockwork.

GeGurra had made his excuses as soon as he had settled the bill. At his age he needed a good night’s sleep. Then Tatiana and Bäckström had looked in on the nightclub Café Opera, next door to the restaurant, where they had had a couple extra drinks to help them warm up. I don’t know why I should need those, Bäckström thought, since the super-salami had definitely woken up. A good thing I’m not standing here naked with some damn baseball cap on my head, Bäckström thought, as he leaned against the bar. I’d have looked like a fucking capital F, he thought, thrusting out his broad chest and sucking in his stomach.

‘Wow, Superintendent,’ Tatiana said, running her hand over the front of his shirt. ‘I don’t think this is any ordinary six-pack, is it?’

Tatiana lived in a small two-room apartment on Jungfrugatan in Östermalm. The girl’s got a sense of humor, living on ‘Maiden Street,’ Bäckström thought. He lost his trousers in the hallway and removed the rest of his clothes on the way to her bedroom. He was in fine form once he had tipped her onto the broad bed. There he had given her a serious seeing-to, according to the usual routine for the first patrol on the scene. Bäckström had groaned and grunted and Tatiana had screamed out loud. Then he had shifted position and let her ride the salami lift up and down for at least a kilometer before it was time once again.

Then he had fallen asleep, and by the time he came to again the sun was already high in the blue sky above Jungfrugatan. Tatiana had provided breakfast. Gave him her phone number and made him promise to see her again as soon as she got back from her holiday in Greece.