“Learn one more thing: We do more than we talk. Sometimes you’ve got to do stuff that ain’t pretty. What can I say? Like, for example, I’ve had to take care of friends who weren’t reliable, or women, hookers, who messed around. That kind of thing, I wouldn’t say it’s what I’d put at the top of my resume.”
Patrik fell silent. Understood. There are some things you just don’t discuss.
They jabbered on about other things.
An hour went by.
The general party mood in the beer hall was on the rise.
The bouncer guy was still standing in his spot. It was quarter past two. The place closed at four. They waited. The party people were shit-faced. Mrado drank a seltzer. Patrik ordered his sixth beer. Was getting really tanked. Ratko drank coffee. Patrik returned to their treatment at the door. Stoked the fire. The bouncer fags would be schooled. The bouncer fags would cry. Crawl. Beg. Groan. Concuss.
Mrado calmed him down. Glanced at the coat check. The bouncers couldn’t have cared less about them. Were they stupid? Didn’t they get who they were dealing with?
Another hour went by.
They waited. Jabbered on.
At one point, the head bouncer left his position.
Patrik drained his glass. Got up. Mrado saw he was okay, not too trashed. Mrado got up, right by Patrik. Face-to-face.
Patrik was wide-eyed. His breath reeked. Put a lighter in front of his mouth and the place would explode worse than a gas station.
Mrado took his face in his hands. The noise in the hall was deafening. He yelled, “You okay?”
Patrik nodded. Pointed toward the bathrooms. Probably had to piss after all that beer.
He walked in that direction.
Mrado sat back down. Ratko looked at him, leaned across the table. Asked, “Where he goin’?”
“Bathroom.”
Like a bolt of lightning through Mrado’s head. Fuck, how could he be so dense. The bouncer’d probably gone to the bathroom and Patrik was following him there-without Mrado or Ratko.
Mrado got up. Waved at Ratko. “Follow me. Now.”
They hurried after Patrik.
Stepped into the bathroom.
White tiles and large metal sinks. One wall covered by a mirror. Five urinals on the opposite wall. Stalls farther in. Leaking toilets. Piss on the floor.
Contact.
The head bouncer was standing at one of the urinals. At the sinks, three guys were talking. Looked like losers: unbuttoned shirts over T-shirts. Farther in, two kids were queuing at the toilet stalls.
Patrik on his way to the guy.
The bouncer turned around, cock still in hand.
Patrik stood only inches away from him. “Remember me? You dissed me, straight out. Totally wrote off our services. You think I’d let that go unpunished?”
The bouncer understood. Mumbled something. Tried to calm Patrik down. The guy’d been around the block. Started fumbling for his earpiece with his free hand.
Patrik took another step, unclear if he’d registered that Mrado and Ratko’d followed him into the bathroom.
He head-butted the bouncer guy on the nose. The blood appeared even redder against the white tiles as it sprayed the wall. The bouncer yelled for his colleagues. Tried to shove Patrik aside. The bouncer, strong. Big. But Patrick, amped. The losers at the sink started hollering. The boys by the stalls ran forward to break it up. Mrado stepped between them. Pushed them away. Not exactly tough guys. Ratko positioned himself by the exit. Blocked. Patrik grabbed hold of the bouncer’s short hair. Pounded his head against the urinal. Teeth went flying. Pounded again. More teeth. His nose broke in x number of places. The urinal looked like a butcher’s sink. Patrik pounded the bouncer’s head again. It sounded hollow. He let go. The bouncer guy collapsed on the floor. Unconscious. His face, unrecognizable. The losers by the sinks were crying. The kids by the toilet stalls were screaming.
Two bouncer colleagues rushed past Ratko. Patrik shoved one of them aside. Ratko got out of there. Mrado reached for one of the bouncer’s knees. Grabbed hold. Did a lock. Twisted. The guy crumpled like a marionette with cut strings. Mrado grabbed the guy’s foot in another lock. Twisted. Patrik ran amuck, yelled, swore. Mrado said in a measured voice, “Leave, Patrik. Now.”
The ex-skin walked out. Mrado was the only one left. Saw Ratko and Patrik outside the bathroom. Twisted the foot in his grip a little more. The bloody bouncer under the urinal shook. The bouncer in Mrado’s grip whimpered. One bouncer left standing. Hesitated. Looked like he was calculating the odds. Two bouncers on the floor. Immediate knockout. Left in the ring: him, alone, against a huge Yugo. And two more guys out there. Where was backup?
Tumult outside.
Quiet inside.
Mrado said, “Guys. You made a little mistake tonight. You messed with the wrong people. We’ll be in touch regarding our business with you. One more thing, don’t make a big deal outta this. I think you can figure out why.”
Mrado released his grip and walked out of the bathroom. Three bouncers left in there. Like fools.
Mrado, Ratko, and Patrik pushed their way through the crowd. Outside Kvarnen, the cop cars’ blue lights lit up the night. They jumped into a taxi. Patrik with blood on his jacket and T-shirt. Bad.
The place was crawling with cops.
7
It was almost time.
Jorge sat still in the chow hall. Concentrated. He didn’t give a damn about the clatter, the crunching and munching. Today was the day.
Rolando called after him when he stood up. “Jorge, you gonna come blaze later?” Rolando was being ironic. The only one who knew.
Jorge said, “Don’t holler like that. The screw over there can hear you.”
Rolando grinned. “He don’t know words like that. He just a small-town guy.”
Jorge put his hand on Rolando’s shoulder. “I’m gonna miss you, hombre. ”
Rolando looked serious. “Damn, Jorge, you doin’ the right thing, you know it. Come on, wontcha tell old gangsta Rolando how you gonna do it? Who wanna be caged for the rest o’ his life?”
“ Loco, I can’t tell you today. You’ll see for yourself. Just watch and enjoy. As long as you do your thing.” Jorge got up. He honestly felt like he would miss Rolando, his bullshit about cocaine paste, long lectures on the OG community and armored-car heists.
He’d tested Rolando several times. Revealed a few things to see what would happen. For example, that he exercised the way he did to prep an escape. If Rolando was gonna snitch, Jorge could’ve laughed it off as a joke. But it was cool. Rolando’d kept his mouth shut. No leaks. The Latino was trustworthy. Jorge’d made up his mind: Rolando would play an important part in the actual Plan. He would do his thing today.
But everything hinged on Sergio, who Jorge’d met on his jam roll. That he could fix what needed fixing on the outside. Thirty-odd yards beyond the walls: cleared land-would be hard to do anything that took too long without being spotted. If things worked out today, Jorge would be forever indebted to him. Jorge knew enough to fix this thing. The COs’ routines. Where Sergio’d come from. Where the car would be parked. The best way to drive. The forks in the roads. Jorge knew he could run 440 in less than fifty seconds, two miles in less than eleven minutes. Knew people’d have to pick their jaws up off the ground. Jorge had the know. Jorge had the skill. He got this-without violence and without Sergio’s ass too much on the line. Man, he was el rey.
After lunch they had an hour break from work. Everything ready to go. Now was the time. The plan was simple and genius. Jorge, surprisingly calm. If the shit hit the fan, so be it.
Jorge went back to his cell. Closed the door. Removed the Che Guevara poster from the wall. Unscrewed the wooden panel with his fingernails. It came off easily. He’d done it many times before.
Took out the rope that lay coiled like a thin snake in the space he’d carved into the concrete. The only place the screws didn’t check when they searched the cell. A shallow but long hole. Perfect for a cable.