Jorge lay on a bed for days on end. Listened to the kids crying. Studied the patterns on the ceiling. Thought about what it must’ve been like when his mom came to Sweden big with him. From the dictatorship. Alone with the memories. He was ashamed that he knew so little. Hadn’t asked enough.
The room was small. Belonged to one of the kids. Legos all over the floor. Kid posters on the walls. Some teen idols Jorge didn’t even recognize. Flowery curtains over the windows. He read comics. Wished he could play Eddie’s Xbox but didn’t dare leave the room. Yearned to be back in the old lady’s crib, but still knew he was safer where he was. Yearned for real freedom. Yearned to be out.
A few days later. Eddie knocked on the door at around 2:00 p.m. He should have been at work. Jorge knew right away: Something was wrong. Eddie was sweaty. His shoes were still on. His kids were screaming in the background.
“Jorge, you gotta go. They’ve picked Sergio up for questioning.”
“When? How do you know?”
“They called this morning and told him he had to show up before one p.m. He called me right away and said I had to tell you but that I couldn’t call.”
“Good. I’m the one that told him no calls. They can tap ’em, and God knows what else they can do. You weren’t followed?”
Eddie: not the world’s sharpest Latino. But he’d been around the block. Knew to keep a lookout.
Jorge started getting dressed. Besides the tracksuit, he’d borrowed a jacket from Sergio. Not much to pack: a tube of Piz Buin, the curlers, a toothbrush, two pairs of boxers, and an extra pair of socks. It’d all come from Sergio, along with five grand he’d borrowed.
Shoved the stuff into a plastic bag. Kissed Eddie on the cheeks. Waved to the screaming kids. Thanked the oldest nino for the use of his room. Hoped Eddie hadn’t told his wife his name or who he was.
He’d been on the run for ten days. Was it already going to hell?
Wrote a note in Spanish for Sergio, coded according to their agreement. Gave it to Eddie.
Stepped out of the apartment. Thought he heard a siren outside.
Opened the door to the street.
Looked around. No cars on the street. No people. Coast clear. Paranoid Latino on the run.
What the fuck was he gonna do now?
The air was getting chillier. September ninth. Jorge walked around the city all day. Downtown: Drottninggatan, Gamla Brogatan, Hotorget, Kungsgatan, Stureplan. Ate at McDonald’s. Window-shopped. Tried to check out chicas.
Couldn’t enjoy. Only stress. Whichever it was-OCD or rational security measures-he kept looking around like every hombre on the street was an undercover on the LO.
Get to know broken Jorge: El Jorgelito — a scared little shit. He wanted to call his sister. He wanted to talk to his mama. He almost wanted to go back to prison.
This wouldn’t fly; he had to wise up. Stop thinking about his mama and sister all the time. What the fuck was wrong with him anyway? Family’s everything, sure. That was rule numero uno. But if you didn’t have a real family, if you had to take care of yourself, then other rules applied. He focused on the important stuff.
Nowhere to sleep and no bros/co-dees he could trust right now.
Five grand in his pocket. He could pay some old blow buddy to put him up for a few nights. But the risk was too big; they’d rat for anything, just show them the cheese.
He couldn’t stay at a motel. Probably too expensive. Besides, they’d want to see some kind of ID.
He could get in touch with his mama or his sister, but they were probably under surveillance by the cops and it was unnecessary to put them through that kind of crap.
Mierda.
During the days on the bed in the kid’s room, an idea had started to take shape: Go to a homeless shelter. Would solve the problem of needing a bed, but his need for cash remained. There was another, bigger idea, too. Dangerous. Dicey. He tried to push it away, since it involved Radovan.
Jorge asked some junkies downtown where he could sleep. They told him about two places: Stadsmissionen’s place by Slussen, Night Owl, and KarismaCare by Fridhemsplan.
He walked down to the Hotorget subway stop. It was eight o’clock at night. The turnstiles didn’t look like how he remembered them before he was locked up. Harder to jump. High Plexiglas barriers that slid open and closed like doors when you swiped your pass at the front of the turnstile. He didn’t want to waste money. He didn’t want to walk to Slussen. Risk analysis. The turnstiles were too high to jump. He glanced toward the guard in his booth: He was reading the paper. Seemed to care less about his job. He watched the flow of the crowd. Not a lot of people. He made loops. Navigated. Speculated. Calculated. Finally, a group of youngsters approached. He walked into their group. Slid along. Close behind a guy in his early twenties. There was a beep from the turnstile when it sensed that he’d slipped through behind someone. The guard didn’t give a fuck.
Rode to Slussen. Checked the address on a map in the subway station.
He was tired. Longed for a bed.
Rang the doorbell. Was let in.
It looked cozy. The reception desk was right by the entrance. Farther in: a group of tables and chairs, a sink and an oven against one wall. A TV stood in a corner. People sat and played cards. Chowed. Watched TV. Talked. No one so much as glanced at him. There was no one there that he recognized. No one there seemed to recognize him. Super.
The receptionist looked like the librarian at the city lib. Same style, same dowdy threads.
“Hi, can I help you?” she said, looking up from a crossword puzzle.
Jorge said, “Yeah, I’ve had some trouble finding a place to stay lately. Heard this is a good place.”
Put on that saccharine-sweet pity-me voice. He didn’t have to fake it. He was broken, for real. The woman seemed to get it. Social Services ladies/welfare officers/shrinks were always understanding. Jorge knew their kind.
“We’ve got some beds open, so it should be fine. Have you been without a residence for long?”
Converse. Be nice. Say something believable. “Not too long. About two weeks. It’s been rough. My girlfriend kicked me out.”
“That sounds difficult. But at least you can stay here for a few nights. Maybe things will work out with your girlfriend. In order for you to stay here, all I need is your name and personal identification number.”
Fuck.
“Do you really need that info? Why?” He thought, I do have a personal identification number. Can I give it out?
“I know that a lot of people may not want to disclose that kind of information, but even a place like this costs money. We’ll send an invoice directly to your social welfare officer, if you have one. Two hundred kronor per night. So, unfortunately, I’m going to need your personal identification number.”
Cunt. He couldn’t give her fake digits. No way it’d work.
“I can’t do that. I’d be happy to pay cash.”
“I’m sorry, but we don’t take any cash payments anymore. We stopped doing that two years ago. Maybe you should be in touch with your social welfare office?”
Fucking cunt fuck.
Jorge gave up. Said his thanks. Stepped back out on the street.
Regretted trying. Hoped he hadn’t raised any red flags.
Wondered if anyone’d recognized him. Looked at his reflection in a shop window. Black hair. Curly. His beard was getting longer. His skin darker than it really was. It should be enough.
A thermometer pointed to fourteen degrees Celsius.
Where would he sleep?
He thought about his other plan-his cash idea. Did he dare? Challenge Radovan.
11
JW counted the money again. Twenty-two thousand clean, and then he’d still partied like Paris Hilton four weekends in a row, and on top of that been able to buy a Canali blazer.
He weighed the forty-four five-hundred-kronor bills wrapped with a rubber band in the palm of his hand. Usually, he kept them hidden in a pair of socks in the closet. Selling coke paid well. He’d made the money in a month. Paid back his debt to Abdulkarim and passed his Financial Analysis exam, too.