But Anna came up to him. Said she thought he was really nice, thanked him for their conversation at dinner, and started dancing with him. They got more and more entwined. Half the party’d passed out. The rest’d crashed on the couches, talking or making out.
JW and Anna went up to her room.
It was five-thirty in the morning. JW felt like he could go forever.
They locked the door and sat down on the bed.
Anna giggled. They looked at each other. Got turned on. JW caressed her breasts through her top. She unzipped his fly, pulled out his cock, bent down, and started sucking. Lip gloss on his cock. Groaned. Really tried to hold it, didn’t want to come yet. He pushed himself away and sat up, undressed her instead. Licked her tits. She grabbed hold of his cock again and guided him inside her.
They fucked furiously.
It was way too quick.
He pulled out, came in his hand.
Wiped himself on the sheets.
They lay still, chilled for a moment.
Anna kept talking; wanted to go over the events of the night.
JW didn’t want to talk. Cocaine better than Viagra-after fifteen minutes, he was fit for fight.
Cut the foreplay-just fucked right away.
He came after two minutes, max. Embarrassing.
He felt empty.
Slept like shit.
12
Mrado’s areas of responsibility within Radovan’s sphere: the coat checks, general racketeering, keeping the lackeys in line. He sometimes helped to set dealers or pimps straight who thought they were Dragan Joksovic, or took care of whores who thought they could make their own decisions. Mostly used Ratko or other guys from the gym as backup.
Mrado had his own business on the side. Import firm. Bought wood from Thailand: teak, ebony, balsa. Sold to fine carpenters, interior designers, and contractors. Smooth sailing. Above all, he needed clean, taxable income.
Mrado’s headaches: Patrik convicted. The ex-skin probably wouldn’t hang anyone, but there was always a risk. Fucking shit luck that the skinhead’d been such a hothead. Even worse: that Mrado’d been stupid enough to bring up his demand for a bigger cut when Rado’d already been pissed. Was a crisis of trust between him and Radovan on the horizon? What’s more: Mrado should find that coke monkey, Jorge. Even more: Mrado’d been given the order from Rado to deal with the so-called Nova Project, the cops and the courts in cahoots on a big-budget crackdown to bring the city’s organized-crime scene to its knees. Finally: Mrado had to see Lovisa, or else he’d explode. Annika, that cunt, was battling him in court. He was preparing to fight for his daughter. Felt like all of society was against him. He had a fucking right to have a good relationship with his kid, just like anyone else.
He was having trouble sleeping. It wasn’t what he had to do or the sheer number of things he had to take care of that made him wake up in the middle of the night; it was thoughts of Lovisa and of a different kind of life that did it. The risk of not being permitted to see her. Thoughts about what he’d do if he stopped doing what he was doing now. Maybe there was another way to live, other businesses where he’d fit in. And still, no. Mrado was who he was. This city needed men like him. The smallest of his current problems was finding a straw man for the video-rental companies. That’s where he’d begin.
He made the rounds at the gym. No one wanted to be a part of it. Not because they had fortunes to lose-at least not any that Big Brother knew of-but because they didn’t want to fold. The boys had big biz dreams. In the end, everyone had to play somewhat by the legal rules. Conclusion: Don’t dirty your record unnecessarily.
Mrado didn’t want to fuck things up. At the same time-if things got messy, someone else’d have to take the hit.
He could call one of his peers: Goran, Nenad, or Stefanovic. All were underlings of the Yugo king, on the same level as Mrado in the hierarchy. Guys with their ears to the ground. But also competitors in the race for Radovan’s favor.
He called Goran.
The guy was Radovan’s smokes and booze importer. A greasy prick. A brownie. If Rado chewed Goran out, he’d lie on his back and wag his legs in the air. Like a bitch. Despite that, the dude was disgustingly good with his gear. Big profits, a turnaround of seventeen million a year.
Smokes and booze import: complicated logistics, administrative mathematics, well-developed transportation and freight methodology. A global enterprise based in Stockholm’s criminal underworld. Cheap booze and chic booze. Via Finland from Russia, the Baltic countries, Poland, and Germany. Repackaged, with the country of origin and mode of production blacked out. Goran knew the business. Had solid connections within the Swedish Transportation Union. Had his eye on the teamsters. Was friendly with the bosses. Knew which ones to bribe. Knew what European smuggle routes to use. Faked freight passes, rigged credible chains of transport, recipients and senders. Stuck with the tough guys. The ones who wanted to make easy money. Who set the bar low. Old-timers who worked full-time without giving a cent to the Man.
Mrado wanted to get at the latter group. A different type from the guys at the gym. Older. Prestige-free. Saw the world through the bottom of a bottle. Were done striving. Had seen better days.
Mrado on the line with Goran. Even made himself believe he liked the guy. In Serbian: “Goran, my friend. It’s me.”
“Mrado, I hear. Since when did we become friends?”
Goran: a dick to everyone and anyone except il Padre, Mr. R. Mrado bit his lip. Let it slide-his mission was more important.
“We work for the same man. We’re countrymen. We’ve gotten shit-faced together. Aren’t we friends? We’re more than friends.”
“You’d do best to remember that we’re not friends, and we’re not family. I’m a businessman. I’ve never really understood what the hell it is you do. Beat the crap out of poor coat-check people. Do you steal their jackets, too?”
“What’re you talkin’ about?”
“Last weekend, I lost my jacket at Cafe Opera. The faggots in the coat check didn’t have a clue. Someone pointed to it and claimed he’d lost his tag.”
“Shit happens.”
“Is that the kind of shit that happens at your coat checks?”
“No idea.”
“You should check up on that.”
“Goran, it’s not often that I ask for help. And that’s not what I’m doing now, either. I’m going to reward you; that’s not what I call help.”
“Stop speaking in riddles. Something good can come of this talk. I can feel it. My only question is, What? You started this off so nicely. Calling me a friend.”
If it’d been anyone else, Mrado would’ve hung up. Hunted the person down. Ended said person. But first, preferably, snipped off one finger at a time with a ratchet lopper.
“Witty as usual, Goran. I need someone who’s got the DL on the teamsters. A trusty old-timer. If you hook me up with a good contact, I’ll let you in on five percent of the profits.”
“What’ll that be for me per month?”
“Honestly, I don’t really know yet, but it’s a supertight Rado gig I’ve got going. I’m supposed to set up two companies for him. I’d guess we’re talking at least five grand a month and up. Clean.”
“Five thousand and up, for a name? Per month? What hole are you fucking me in, exactly?”
“I’m not fucking you. It’s just really important to me that this works out. That’s why I’m ready to pay.”
“What the hell. Shoot. What can I lose? What exactly do you need?”
Mrado explained without saying too much.
Goran said, “I’ve got a guy. Christer Lindberg. I’ll text you his number. That cool?”
“Sure. Thanks. I’ll call you this week to let you know how it goes. Maybe you’re a good guy after all.”
“‘Good’? Good is just my middle name. Remember that.”
Mrado hung up. Wondered if he’d been smart or a total dipshit.