They thought that panel was smart. Jorge-the Salsa Breaker-was smarter. Honestly: He thought even his sister would be proud. No matter how college-educated she was, she could still recognize finesse when she saw it.
The rope: twined out of long strips of bedsheet. The ritual before turning his sheets into the laundry once a week: tearing off a strip, about half an inch wide. The dude who picked up the sheets was Colombian. Their deaclass="underline" Hombre didn’t say anything about Jorge’s sheets looking funny in exchange for one pack of smokes a week.
The rope would hold. He’d tested every segment after every new foot he twisted into shape.
He walked out.
It was sunny outside. Sweet. Swedish summertime.
The rec yard was full of people. The screw on duty was playing soccer with the guys. Rolando was on the screw’s opposing team. Beautiful.
Jorge checked the time.
Showtime in exactly thirty seconds.
Rolando glanced at him. After ten seconds, he made the sign they’d agreed on. Rolando braced himself. Ran toward the screw. Full-on slide tackle a la Vieira. The screw went flying. Screamed like a pig. Writhed in pain. Attention: zero.
Jorge ran to the wall. Got in position.
Waited.
Saw what he’d planned now for so long: The top of an aluminum ladder appeared above the wall, on the other side.
Sergio, the savior, had followed instructions. Driven as close as he could, parked the car at the edge of the woods, where the cleared land was at its narrowest. Ran the last yards, placed the ladder, leaning, against the outside of the wall at the point they’d agreed upon. At the right place. At the right time. At the right second. Incredible.
Jorge got out the rope. Had kept it coiled in his pocket. Clasped the hook onto the end. It’d been crafted out of one of the rings on the basketball hoops, which he’d paid a pretty sum to have removed. Bent it into shape with Rolando’s help an hour ago.
Positioned himself opposite the top of the ladder. Looked up. He’d calculated this.
Felt the mass of the hook in his hand. Weighed it. This was the only part he hadn’t been able to practice. Everything depended on his succeeding in hooking the rope onto the top of the ladder and pulling it over the wall, to his side.
He pitched it. The white rope arched in the sky. Settled over the rounded edge of the wall. Didn’t connect with the top of the ladder. He pulled the rope to the side. Hoped to make the hook catch somewhere lower down on the ladder. Didn’t feel any resistance. Shit. Tugged again. Nothing. No resistance. He pulled at the rope. The hook fell down on his side of the wall. Fucking cock. He ran to it. Picked it up again and got into position. The ladder remained on the other side of the wall; he could see the top of it plainly. The way out. He had to get it right this time. Pitched it again. Come on. The clank of metal. Had he gotten it? He pulled the rope. There. Resistance. The hook had caught onto something-it was the ladder. He made a test tug. It worked. Started to pull. Pulled harder. The ladder scraped. More than half was visible over the wall. He tugged. Even though it was aluminum, it was heavy. Finally: It fell down on his side. He heard yelling in the background. He turned around. Saw the screw get up. Fumble for his walkie-talkie. Jorge moved quickly. Leaned the ladder up against the wall. Glanced over his shoulder. The screw was running toward him. Jorge climbed up as fast as he could. Good grip. Didn’t weigh too much. Strong arms. Up at the top. Looked down, then back: more screws in action. He kicked the ladder aside. It fell into the grass. He heaved himself down, dangling on the outside of the wall. Let go. Jumped. Sixteen feet down. Rough landing. Asics 2080 DuoMax with gel in the heel-his foot still suffered the impact. Mierda.
He ran. Felt good to weigh 147 pounds today. The adrenaline pumped. The clearing like a mirage.
The map in his mind. His foot hurt. Sight set on point number two. Felt the sweat on his back. Heard himself pant. Heavily. Fuck, wasn’t he in better shape? Relax. Lower your shoulders. Enter the zone. Think about your breathing.
Remember: guaranteed the best shape you’ve ever been in. Guaranteed the best shape of any of the inmates. Guaranteed the smartest slumdog. For real. Fuck the fucked-up foot.
Run.
Through the woods. Along the small gravel road.
Sergio should’ve peaced long ago.
His back, completely drenched. In the middle of his mad rush, a thought about his sweat. His smell now: sharp, strong, stressed.
Keep going down the gravel road.
Never slow down.
And there was the car. Sergio’d parked it exactly where they’d agreed. Point number two. Oh, you beautiful new world. Jorge heard the sirens in the distance. Jumped in. The key was in the ignition. He gunned it.
There was a God.
The sirens in the distance came closer.
8
The line could be seen all the way from Sturecompagniet. JW walked up Sturegatan with the boyz. They were pumped, amped, ready to roll. JW felt the energy like currents of electricity through his body-they were riding high.
Earlier that night, they’d eaten at Nox. Ordered fine wine with dinner. It’d been two weeks since the last time they’d gone out. The boyz’ needs were making themselves known: Putte wanted to hook up, Fredrik to booze, Nippe to chase tail. JW was speeded; he wanted to test his new job, mark his territory.
Thirty grams of his own ice, on credit from the Arab, were packaged in ten mini zip baggies-Red Line brand. He had six grams in his pockets right now. The rest was stashed behind a radiator in Mrs. Reuterskiold’s foyer.
The boyz strutted down the street. JW kicked his feet widely with each step. Thought about the Men in Black sound track.
The line wasn’t a line-it was an organism made up of human bodies. People screamed, waved, jammed, pushed, hurled, cried, flirted. The bouncers tried to keep things under wraps. Drove people like cattle into a number of lines behind the roped-off area. The line for you with Kharma Cards. The line for you with VIP Kharma Cards. The line for you with VIP VIP cards. The rest needn’t bother. We’re at capacity. Only regulars tonight. Don’t you get it? We’re at capacity.
Oversized ghetto kids threatened to beat them up. Banker boys pressed crumpled bills into their hands. Girls offered blow jobs. They were denied, one bouncer at a time. The air was thick with one word that no one said but everyone who wasn’t ushered in through the velvet rope felt: humiliation.
It took five minutes just to push through the crowd and up to the bouncers. Some got the drift and let the boyz through. Others thought the world was a fair place, tried to keep them back. Sharpened their elbows and jabbed.
Nippe nodded to one of the bouncers.
The never-flagging confidence that JW was doing his utmost to copy worked its magic. They floated past the crowd. Humiliation was reserved for other people. The feeling: better than sex.
At the cash register, they were welcomed by a tall blond guy with clean features: Carl. The guy was 100 percent jet set. Hence his nickname: “Jet Set Carl.” He and a partner owned the place. Kharma: premier hub of the riches-royales. Brat central. Backslick bay.
Nippe threw open his arms. “What’s up, Calle? Things going well, as usual, I see. Incredible amount of people out tonight. Awesome.”
“Yes, we’re pleased. Af Drangler is running the club tonight, really sweet crowd. You guys have a table?”
“Of course, always.”
“Great. We’ll have to chat more later. Have a good night, boys.” Jet Set Carl turned and walked in toward the venue.
For a brief moment, Nippe looked like he was fumbling. Cut off with his mouth full of brownnosing shit. JW thought, It worked, so who cares?
The girl at the register recognized Nippe. She waved them past without asking them to pay.