Maloof elbowed his tall friend. “Is that him?
Petrovic turned and instantly lost interest in the blonde.
“Manne!” he shouted. “Come, come.”
The invitation was unnecessary. Manne Lagerström was already next to them. He smelled awful.
“Are we going?” Manne asked.
He stared at Petrovic without acknowledging either Maloof or the blonde.
“Sure,” said Petrovic. “Behave now, Manne. This is Michel. I don’t think you’ve met before.”
Maloof held out a hand. Manne had a limp, wet handshake.
“I hate this fucking place,” he mumbled.
Then he leaned forward to say something else, but the music was too loud and Maloof heard only every other word.
“What’s he saying?” asked Petrovic.
“He’s asking for money.”
Petrovic shook his head and rolled his eyes. “Let’s go,” he said.
The pretty blonde seemed to have completely vanished from his consciousness.
“Right, right,” Maloof agreed.
The bartender had just returned with two glasses of champagne and a bottle of sparkling water. Petrovic dug around in his pocket and fished out a couple of 500 kronor notes. He threw them onto the bar, put a hand on Manne’s shoulder and steered him toward the exit.
“Next time,” he shouted over his shoulder to the blond woman. “Next time.”
She picked up her champagne and turned her back to them.
When they came out onto the street, Manne started protesting again.
“It’s payment in advance, you know?” he said. “Money. Now.”
His voice was weak and shrill. It was as though Lagerström’s sweaty body contained too much energy, and part of it had found an outlet through his mouth.
Petrovic shook his head. They were walking west, along Birger Jarlsgatan, and there seemed to be as many drunk people out on the sidewalk as there were inside the clubs. The taxis were parked up in rows three deep, waiting for customers to stagger into their backseats; the police had positioned a patrol car on Biblioteksgatan as a reminder of their existence; and techno music was leaking out through doors and windows.
“Shut it, Manne. You promised to show us what you had. Then I’ll show you what I’ve got.”
“It’s four in the damn morning,” Manne whined. “I’m not going all the way up there for fun. Because it’s not fun.”
They had reached the car, and Petrovic opened the door for the skinny man, whose entire body seemed to be trembling. But he shook his head and refused to get in.
“I swear,” he said, and his weak voice reached a falsetto. “I don’t work for the Red Cross. I’m not some free app.”
Petrovic sighed, shoved a hand into his pocket and pulled out a roll of banknotes held in place with a rubber band. He threw the money into the backseat, and Manne jumped in after it. Petrovic closed the door behind him.
“He’s like a dog,” Petrovic said to Maloof, glancing at the man in the backseat with a look of disgust. “Just easier to train.”
Petrovic was driving toward Roslagstull. He had changed 500-kronor notes into twenties to make the roll seem thicker, and Manne was deep in concentration in the backseat, counting them. When he finished, he started counting from the beginning again. That kept him busy until they reached the Stocksund Bridge. By then, he was satisfied that the roll contained the amount they had agreed on, and he shoved it into his pocket and stuck his head between the two front seats. The energy that had made him shake with anxiety earlier seemed to have undergone a transformation, and it was now directed at the two men sitting in front of him.
“OK, guys,” he said. “Since we’re on this little trip together, we need to make the most of the situation. Will one of you sing me a song?”
Manne Lagerström laughed at his own joke as though it were the funniest thing he had ever heard. His laugh was bright and piercing, and it barely stopped before he continued:
“No, no, serious now, no singing tonight. But, Jesus, when I was little, that was all my mom and dad used to do when we went on car trips. Sang all those old songs and smoked menthol cigarettes. But you two aren’t singers. Or smokers. Right, lads?”
The roar of laughter that followed was like a minor explosion, though neither Petrovic nor Maloof knew which part of his monologue was meant to be funny. But Manne Lagerström wasn’t a performer who relied on the reactions of his audience; just having an audience was enough. He talked without break all the way to Norrtälje. He laughed uncontrollably at his own jokes, was moved to tears by his admissions, and told them his entire life story—everything from the early years in Sollentuna to the lonely man he was today.
Manne worked as a caretaker at the helicopter hangar in Roslagen. He had been in the job almost ten years now, and he hated it. He almost never saw the owners of the helicopters, other than when they turned up and shouted at him for doing something wrong. The pilots were invariably bullies who thought they were better than everyone else just because they could pull on a lever and step on a pedal at the same time.
“It isn’t fucking difficult to fly a helicopter,” Manne explained. And having a stupid certificate didn’t give anyone the right to act like an utter shithead. Not bothering to say hello, stubbing out cigarettes on the floor or putting chewing gum under the seats.
“You know how to fly?” Maloof asked.
“Course I fucking do!” Manne replied.
He was like a child in the back of the car, shifting back and forth on his seat and pulling at the dials for the air-conditioning before he realized that the backseats could be raised and lowered. That kept him busy for a long time, but he kept talking all the while.
“Can you?” Petrovic repeated. “Do you really know how?”
“Of course I can!” Manne yelled. “But who the hell can afford doing the cert? Who the hell has access to a helicopter?”
This was yet another joke that seemed to surprise him with its finesse. He laughed loudly.
“Right, right,” Maloof agreed, and in an attempt to bring some clarity to the matter, he asked, “But you’ve… never actually flown?”
“No, I’ve never flown a helicopter,” Manne Lagerström shouted. “I can, but I never have. Forget that now. Forget it. Did I tell you about when my dad chased the bloody badger that lived in the earth cellar?”
“Shut up, Manne,” Petrovic ordered as the forest on the sides of the road seemed to grow darker. “We don’t care about your dad. Just shut up.”
The story about the badger lasted almost all the way to Östhamra.
When they arrived, Manne jumped out of the car and ran around the hood to open the door for Petrovic. Then he ran across the parking lot to make it to the helicopter hangar first.
“So… Manne,” said Maloof, “seems… pretty special?”
“There aren’t enough letters in the alphabet to describe his combination,” Petrovic said with a sigh. “But beggars can’t be choosers.”
To the sides of the open landing site in front of the building were a number of tall pines. They formed a wide alley down toward Lake Limmaren. The office park on the other side of the main road was quiet and deserted, but the breeze carried with it the smell of burned rubber and wood.
On the way over to the hangar, Petrovic told Maloof what was what.
There were fifteen or so helicopters based in Roslagen. They were either owned directly by multinational corporations or else by private individuals who recouped the costs by renting out their expensive investments to the multinationals. Manne was the caretaker and the helicopter club’s only employee. His job was to make sure the hangar always looked clean and tidy. If management groups were going out on shorter day trips, the machines had to be ready, tanks full, all the paperwork in order. Manne could even carry out a basic service on them, if necessary.