The men arrived at Dakar, stopped, and discussed something. Slobodan looked even fatter than when Patricio had met him in Mexico. He can afford to eat well, the Mexican thought with hatred.
Suddenly, Patricio felt that it was God’s will that he escape from prison, and this made him happy for a brief moment. The escape had made it possible for him to take revenge.
Slobodan opened the door to Dakar, exchanged a few words with his companion, then entered the restaurant. Patricio took a couple of steps back as the other man passed on the opposite side of the street.
This opportunity had been lost, but the next time perhaps Slobodan would be alone. Then all he had to do was wait him out.
Slobodan Andersson nodded at Måns, looked around in the dining room, greeted some acquaintances, and, against his will, came to think of Lorenzo Wader. I hope he doesn’t drop by, Slobodan thought, and wondered if he should ask his bartender if he had seen the unpleasant gangster, for gangster was what Slobodan was convinced he was. But he said nothing to Måns, who poured a grappa and set it in front of him.
“How is Ms. Post Office doing?”
“Fine,” Måns said. “She’s doing a good job. I think Tessie is pleased. It’s a step up from Gonzo, at least.”
“Don’t remind me,” Slobodan said and raised the glass to his mouth.
In view of last night he shouldn’t have anything to drink, but the force of habit was strong. He could let himself have one glass.
“The dishwasher is a gem,” Måns said. “The waitstaff have much more time now.”
“What?! Is that bastard still here?”
Måns looked at Slobodan in astonishment.
“Yes, that’s good, isn’t it?” Måns said, clearly taken aback at this reaction.
“That little shit is out of here,” Slobodan said and got up with unexpected haste, went around the bar, and opened the door to the kitchen.
“Is the Mexican still here?”
Donald gave him a quick and angry look.
“Venezuela,” he said.
“What? That dishwasher, is he still here?”
Donald gestured at the dishwashing area with his head and sighed.
Slobodan walked out there with only a single thought in his head, to grab that blackmailer by the scruff of his neck and throw him out, but was greeted with a smiling Manuel.
“Hola,” he said.
He was standing at the far end of the dishwashing station. He had a knife in his hand. Slobodan slowed down and steadied himself against the dishwashing machine.
“What the hell are you doing here?” he shouted in English. “Get out!”
“Take it easy,” Manuel said, his smile only getting wider. “We have some things in common. Have you forgotten? I am happy here, and I am useful.”
Slobodan stared at the Mexican. That insolent devil was laughing at him! He recalled the old conflict so many years ago in Malmö. That time he was the one who had been holding the knife.
“Leave!” he screamed.
“I will work a couple of more days,” Manuel said calmly. “Then I’ll go. But by then maybe you have disappeared.”
Slobodan stared, astounded at him. Not a trace of yesterday’s meekness remained. Was it the knife that made the difference? Was he so damned impudent that he was threatening him?
“What are you talking about? What do you mean ‘disappeared’?”
“You are sitting on a fortune; it must be tempting to see other places,” Manuel said with a smile.
Slobodan turned on his heel, pushed open the doors to the dining room, and left. He walked right up to the bar and told Måns to pour him a large Bowmore.
“Has be been fired?” Måns asked, and Slobodan could sense the criticism behind the innocent question.
“That’s none of your damn business.”
Mans made a face, reached for the whiskey bottle, and poured Slobodan a glass.
“He’s still here, in other words,” Måns said, grinning.
By the time the glass was half-empty, Slobodan had managed to calm himself somewhat. It was really not worth getting upset about. The Mexican had a need to assert himself and feel good about himself for once. Slobodan decided to forget about him. He had said he would leave in a couple of days. Never again would he use any of those tortilla guys. In future he would stick to Spaniards.
The reason for his clemency, and he freely admitted this to himself, was that the man’s unusual generosity in delivering the unexpected load of cocaine had solved many problems. After the fateful fire at Konrad’s house he had suddenly found himself without any goods, unable to distribute what he had promised, and that was devastating. The clients would sour and find new channels.
So certainly he was justified in celebrating with a glass or two. He wondered how Manuel had managed to get a hold of the drugs in Germany. He was probably not as innocent as he had made himself out to be. He had probably been with Angel on his journey up through Europe, and then when the brother died, he had simply taken over. They are alike, Slobodan thought smugly, hold up a couple of dollars and they come running.
He waved his chubby hand and Måns poured him a beer.
“Is this going to be a repeat performance?” he asked, but Slobodan did not have time to answer before the bartender had turned his back.
Johnny and Donald were busypicking up in the kitchen, rinsing the floor, and cleaning the stovetops. Tessie and Eva were clearing the tables in the dining room while at the same time being attentive to the remaining guests. A party of six that had eaten their way through appetizers, main courses, and desserts had asked for coffee and cognac, and Eva guessed that they would be sitting around for a while. Apart from them, the room was getting empty. A young couple Eva had served paid and left. They had left a tip of one hundred kronor. A hundred kronor, she thought. I can’t have been so bad. She placed the small tray with the money on the counter with a certain measure of pride. Måns entered the amount, tucked the hundred kronor note in a large partition where the tips were kept, and turned to her and smiled.
“Did you notice that they were newly in love?”
Eva nodded. She had felt old when she looked at them, even though there was probably no more than ten years between her and the couple. She had felt a tinge of envy when she had seen how he placed his hand over hers, how they had joked and bantered with each other, sometimes lowering their voices and whispering what Eva imagined to be words of love.
Tessie called out to her, interrupting her thoughts. Together they moved a couple of tables and set out new tablecloths.
It had been a good evening. She had gotten past her worst nervousness and was no longer as embarrassed about asking Tessie for advice.
Eva cleaned some glasses. She noticed that Slobodan was watching her. He was sitting at the bar with a glass in front of him. Eva had heard from Tessie about last night’s events, how the proprietor had drunk himself into a stupor, thrown up in the kitchen, and how Feo and Manuel had had to help him home.
In a way Eva thought it was good. He had shown a weakness. Maybe the violent drunken episode was an expression of grief at Armas’s death. Eva glanced at him. He really did look worried, and she hoped he would have the sense to stop drinking in time.
A couple of newspapers lay scattered on a table. She had started to fold them up when her gaze fell on a headline. The word extra was printed in bold letters, then “New escape-hostage drama,” and below this a picture of the four men. Astonished, she read the short article, flipped to page five where there was a slightly more detailed report but still not as much as one would have assumed in the case of a dramatic escape in which someone had been taken hostage. She realized it must have been added just before going to press, and that they had not managed to include more than the main points.