The Demon of Dakar aka The Demon from Dakar

Thirty-Seven

Lorenzo was not happy, but the people around him did not usually notice a difference, since he was trained to maintain his composure. Olaf González was nonetheless experienced enough to take heed of Lorenzo’s right hand nervously pulling through his hair, smoothing it back.

“Who?” he asked, and Gonzo wished he had an answer.

“There are a couple of possibilities,” he began gingerly, “either someone in the business that Armas went too far with, or someone from his past has turned up.”

When Gonzo found out that Armas had been murdered, his initial reaction had been to leave town. He was convinced that it was Lorenzo who was behind it, and since he was the only one who knew about Armas’s relationship with Lorenzo, he felt he was in a vulnerable position. Perhaps Lorenzo wanted to silence him in order to cover his tracks.

“That much I have figured out on my own,” Lorenzo said. “But since you worked closely with Armas, I would have expected you to have picked something up, for god’s sake.”

Lorenzo seldom cursed or raised his voice. They were sitting at Pub 19, each with a beer in front of him. It was half past six and there were only a few other people in the room. A couple of students were standing at the bar and a group of women, whom Gonzo assumed all worked together, had claimed two tables at the window looking out onto Svart-bäcksgatan. One of the women looked up and stared at them.

Gonzo chose not to answer. Whatever he said, it would most likely rub Lorenzo the wrong way. Gonzo wanted to stay on his good side. That was his only chance. Since he had been fired from Dakar there was no possibility of working for another restaurant in town-Slobodan would see to that-and so Lorenzo was his only hope.

Damn it, he thought, why did I have to go poking my nose in other peoples’ business? The first time Lorenzo contacted him, he assumed that it was about work, that Lorenzo was fishing for information and was looking to establish contacts in the restaurant business. That was at least how he made it seem, that he was thinking of establishing himself in the city and needed “points of entry.”

Gonzo was flattered and saw before him the chance of advancement, and the very thought of walking into Slobodan’s office and tossing the keys on the table made him willingly tell everything he knew about Dakar and Alhambra. He did not feel disloyal because Armas and Slobodan had always treated him like shit. And then that Tessie bitch came along who thought she owned the place and could order him around like a house slave. What did she know about waitressing? He had worked his ass off for fifteen years while Tessie had taken it easy at some burger joint in Boston.

He had realized too late that Lorenzo was aiming higher than that. He wanted to break Armas and in this way weaken Slobodan and perhaps take over his restaurants. But there was also something more that Lorenzo was after. Gonzo had never managed to put his finger on what that was. This feeling had grown stronger during the past week. Lorenzo’s anxiety could not be explained in any other way. There was more at stake than two restaurants in Uppsala.

“What do the cops say?”

“They said nothing to me,” Gonzo said and recalled how the police had peppered him with questions about his disagreement with Armas and why he had quit Dakar. “They thought I had something to do with his murder.”

“And do you?”

Lorenzo smiled as he posed the question.

“Fuck you!” Gonzo exclaimed, and one of the youths at the bar turned his head to stare with curiosity at the duo tucked away in the corner.

Gonzo took a large gulp of beer. He kept his eyes closed as he drank but felt Lorenzo’s gaze. When he opened his eyes again he decided to tell him what he knew.

“I passed a package on to Armas,” Gonzo said, “but that turned out to be a mistake. He double-crossed me.”

“Stolen goods.”

Lorenzo nodded, posed no further questions, sipped some beer and smiled again.

“If you wish to join us when we sail, you will have to step on board soon,” he said.

“And what is the cargo?”

“To join the crew, one does not have to know the nature of the cargo,” Lorenzo said.

He stood up, pulled out a hundred kronor note, and tossed it on the table.

“Multiply that with a thousand,” he said cryptically, and left the pub.

Gonzo signaled to the bartender that he wanted another beer, mostly to quell the temptation to stand up and follow Lorenzo. He stared at the bill and mentally added three zeros.

The beer was placed in front of him and at the same moment he saw an image from his childhood. A clothing line was suspended between two trees for his mother to hang the family’s laundry. His father’s colorful shirts were next to his own T-shirts and underwear, a red dress, and some sheets.

“How’s it going?”

Gonzo looked up bewildered.

“It’s fine,” he said.

“You’re leaving Dakar, I hear,” the bartender said.

Gonzo nodded, but the image of laundry was fixed in his mind. The clothes billowed gently in the breeze. It was the height of summer and Gonzo was standing in the open window on the second floor. For a moment he thought he could smell the laundry detergent.

The bartender looked at him devoid of expression, and then left the table. Gonzo drank some more beer and wondered why he was seeing laundry. He had not been back to Norway for several years. Was this vision a sign that he should leave Uppsala and go home? The house was still there and his mother was probably still hanging the laundry in the same place.

Gonzo finished his beer, stood up from the table, and walked briskly through the pub, suddenly extremely irritated at the women who were growing increasingly raucous. It was as if their laughter was aimed at him.

What the hell do those bitches know about Uppsala, he thought and glared at one of them as he negotiated his way through the narrow spaces between tables and chairs. She met his gaze defiantly as if she sensed his thoughts and wanted to express her resistance and disdain.

Once out on the sidewalk he could not decide which way to go. His own will had left him. He felt there was trouble brewing, a kind that was considerably worse than losing his job. An inner voice told him to go home, pool his assets, and book a ticket to Oslo. Maybe he could start over there, find a job and put Uppsala behind him forever. Another voice urged him to take revenge, even if Armas was no longer reachable. Slobodan was still there.

An old man was pushing a walker along on the other side of the street. A plastic bag hung from the handle. The old man was making his way forward with the utmost of effort. But still he smiled. Gonzo shook his head and turned left toward downtown.