Life Deluxe (22 page)

In the bar: Samuel Adams, Guinness, Kilkenny. And—despite the fact that French usually didn’t jibe with this kind of style—Pelforth in all flavors: dark, blond,
ambrée
.

There was a mixed clientele. In the corner to the left of the door, facing the window, was where the old guys always sat—whiskered, half fat, fully sloshed. Södermalm’s native population. Before the gentrification. At the tables in the middle, in front of the bar, were ordinary moms and dads, friends and work colleagues. Grabbing a beer, chilling out, talking about life. And farthest in, near the digital jukebox, that’s where the trendy, hipster crowd sat. Hägerström had seen them change their clothing style over the years, but they never varied in relation to one another. Beige chinos, white sneakers, and full beards on the guys. Hats and tattoos on the girls. Fashion could apparently only have one look at a time in Södermalm. Same story with his own brother and friends—they were clones too, but of a very different variety.

Two hours later, he left.

Spinning house facades. Red teeth. Wine taste in his palate. It was twelve-thirty at night.

The bartender was in the process of chaining the outdoor café furniture together in order to close up. He pushed the pub’s fake plants toward the wall and turned to Hägerström. “Should I call you a cab?”

Hägerström shook his head. He wasn’t planning on going home. He wanted to fuck.

The Side Track Bar was right next to the Half Way Inn.

There was no line outside.

A bouncer nodded, let him in.

The upstairs was minimal. He took the stairs down. A rainbow flag was pinned above the staircase leading down. Hägerström held the banister in a tight grip. Leaned back, tried to maintain his balance. The stairs turned, and Hägerström turned with them. One step at a time.

A large room. Crystal chandeliers suspended from the ceiling, and lit candles on the tables. Loud, with lots of tables with checked tablecloths and diners. No one took note of him.

He continued farther in.

The lighting got dimmer down there. A bar stretched out in front of him.

They were playing ABBA.

The ceilings were pretty low here. A crystal disco ball was rotating slowly above the bar. Red spotlights were reflected in thousands of small red diamonds of light all over the room. Farther in was yet another room and a dance floor with black-painted walls.

Straight ahead: clusters of men. Men in tank tops. Men in blue jeans and jewelry. Hägerström lowered his eyes. The floor was made up of porcelain mosaic. He looked down at his feet. The mosaic was the color of the rainbow. Someone touched his shoulder. He looked up. Was met by a set of pale blue eyes.

“Are you nearsighted?” The guy smiled.

Hägerström smiled back. “No, I just wanted to get some attention.”

“It worked.”

The guy’s head was shaved, but he had a beard. He put his arm around Hägerström. Led him farther into the venue.

Hägerström’s spine was shooting out signals. Strong synapses. Sending tickling sensations all throughout his body.

They were playing Lou Reed.
“Said, hey baby. Take a walk on the wild side. And the colored girls go doo do doo do dooo do do dooo.
”

Hägerström followed the man with the beard out onto the dance floor.

The crystal ball rotated slowly.

Doo do doo do doo do do dooo
.

It was two-thirty in the morning. Hägerström and the man with the beard stumbled out onto the street.

Hägerström heard a voice. “Hi?”

He turned around. Focused his gaze.

It was one of his brother’s closest friends, Fredric Adlercreutz, who was standing there on the street, dressed in a dark coat with a tux underneath.

Hägerström returned the greeting. “What are
you
doing here?” He parroted his brother’s tone of voice whenever they talked about Södermalm.

“What do you mean?” Fredric asked.

“I mean, in Södermalm. What else would I mean?”

“I was at a gentlemen’s dinner.” Fredric looked away. He probably didn’t know how to handle the fact that he had just seen Hägerström hand in hand with another man. Polite as ever.

A taxi pulled up. Hägerström took his chance. Grabbed hold of the man with the beard and jumped into the car. He couldn’t drop Fredric’s expression. It wasn’t the first time someone had seen him like this, but it still always felt kind of shitty.

Then he thought: a gentlemen’s dinner in Södermalm? Maybe Fredric Adlercreutz had actually been on his way into the same place that Hägerström had just stumbled out of. But if so, why had he chosen to greet him at all?

They drove to the man’s apartment on Torsgatan. His name was Mats. They started making out as soon as they got into the foyer.

Tore each other’s clothes off. Caressed each other’s arms, chests, necks.

Mats smelled musky, of perfume that had been worn all day.

They fell into his bedroom. The bed was unmade. He had pictures of his kids on one wall and a smoking jacket on a hook on the other.

Mats was a PR guy, he said.

Mats took Hägerström in his mouth on the edge of the bed.

Mats saw his kids every other weekend.

Mats brought out lube. Put his finger up Hägerström’s ass.

Mats said he had seen Hägerström at the Side Track Bar before.

Mats put his cock inside Hägerström.

They both groaned.

It felt unbelievably good.

Back at the prison. One morning after breakfast, Hägerström knocked on JW’s cell door. The guy barricaded himself in there, but you couldn’t exactly lock out a CO.

Hägerström eyed JW. The stitches over his eyebrow were still visible. The blond hair wasn’t as slicked back as usual—it was hanging more in wisps around his ears. Still, he looked pretty calm. Considering.

According to plan. Exactly the way Hägerström wanted it.

He had a seat on the edge of JW’s cot.

“So how are you doing? Really.”

JW was sitting on his chair, the laptop open in front of him on the table. “You’re pretty new in here, Hägerström, but you know what happened. It’s part of life on the inside, but that doesn’t make it fun.”

“I understand. And your boys have been transferred.”

Hägerström had devised his word choice carefully:
your boys
. A signal referring to the basic premise of prison life. You had your boys, your camaraderie—in JW’s case: your protectors.

“Yeah, bus therapy. Too bad—they were good people.”

The way he breathed when he spoke: Hägerström thought he could hear his suppressed northern dialect.

“I have a proposition,” he said.

He rose, walked over to JW’s cell door. Carefully pushed it shut. Sat back down on the edge of the bed.

“Abdi Husseini is still here. His people are still here. You’re left here, alone. That’s not a good combination, to put it simply. Like a cat and a mouse. But I could make sure he gets transferred.”

JW closed his computer. Slowly, attentively. Hägerström could tell: JW was listening, closely.

“You don’t know me,” Hägerström continued, “but I’ve got good connections. Good feel for the Department of Corrections. A few phone calls, and it’s a done deal. Abdi Husseini disappears from here, and you don’t have to worry anymore. How many months do you have left?”

“Less than three.”

“Okay, almost three months with Omar. Or three relaxed months without that lunatic.”

“The second option sounds nicer.”

“So what do you say?”

JW smiled. A crooked smile. A business smile. He understood—in the end, it all comes down to price. That was his basic outlook in life too.

“What do you want?”

Hägerström bounced back like a ricochet: “Fifteen thousand.”

JW played the ball right back to him: “Ten thousand. And how fast can you make him disappear?”

Hägerström could hear his own victory cry ringing through his head. “In max four days, I think. But in that case I want fifteen.”

JW chuckled. His teeth were as white and shiny as Torsfjäll’s. “We have a deal.”

Hägerström thought,
I’ve got you on my hook
.

Now all I have to do is reel you in
.

The day after the funeral: Natalie was sitting in the armchair in her room. Gazing at her reflection in the switched-off television set.

Dad’d given her the television.

Really, what she should do was go into the city and meet up with a friend. Take a walk with Mom. Work out. Or download a movie. Do something.

But nothing worked.

She was supposed to meet Stefanovic this afternoon. The note Goran’d given her after the funeral: not a question—an order. But he wasn’t in a position to command Natalie to do anything. She wasn’t at anyone’s beck and call. No one made decisions for her—Dad’s employees were only supposed to shut up and obey. But still: she actually did want to see Stefanovic right now. See how he was doing, hear what he had to say.

She remained sitting in the armchair. The same reflection in the television’s black screen. The same meaninglessness.

On the wall: the photo of Dad when he was young.

On the dresser: the diamond earrings from Tiffany’s that Dad’d given her.

Dad.

She saw the same images flicker past in her mind over and over again.

The dark blue BMW across the street. Dad’s voice from the car. The flames. The smell of burned leather and human flesh.

Then she heard a sound. An irritating, penetrating indoor sound. It was the warning signal from the gate. Someone was making their way up to the house. Someone who’d chosen not to announce themselves through the intercom. Neither Mom nor Patrik seemed to hear it. The signal continued to blare out. It was only ten o’clock in the morning.

For a brief moment, she considered running to the safe room. But
that seemed a little over the top. She should check the monitors to see who it was.

The doorbell rang. Whoever it was, he was apparently standing outside the door, wanting to get in.

She rose. She’d owned the T-shirt she was wearing now since she was fourteen. It’d been washed so many times that it was soft as silk.

She walked out into the hall. Looked at the security monitor. Standing outside the door were three men she didn’t recognize. They didn’t look like murderers.

“Can you see who it is?”

Natalie turned around. Patrik was standing behind her.

“No, no idea. There are three of them. Should I ask?”

“No. I’ll take care of it. Get out of the hall, Natalie, until I’ve checked who they are.”

Natalie walked into the kitchen.

She heard Patrik’s voice: “Who are you?”

That canned sound from the speaker by the door: “This is the police.”

At least it wasn’t someone who was out to hurt them on a physical level.

She heard Patrik open the door.

Natalie was about to go out and greet them. She hesitated for a second before walking back out into the hall. A feeling coursed through her body—might be good to take it a little easy.

She heard their voices.

“We’re from the Economic Crimes Bureau.”

“Okay, and who are you looking for?”

“We’re not looking for anyone. May I ask your name?”

“My name is Patrik Sjöquist.”

“Please identify yourself.”

A rustling sound. Natalie was tense like a rubber band about to spring. It didn’t seem like these cops were here to talk to her, not to solve Dad’s murder. There was something else they wanted.

She heard one of them say, “We are here to go over Radovan Kranjic’s papers. Accounting, that sort of thing. So if you would be so kind as to show us where he kept that kind of material, we’ll take it from there.”

Patrik wasn’t going to match their game of pretend politesse. “You’re in the wrong place. We don’t keep paperwork here. It’s all kept in the offices of the businesses themselves or with the accounting firm.
You’ll have to go there. This is where the family lives. And they are in mourning.”

Natalie tried to evaluate the situation quickly. She didn’t know if Dad kept bookkeeping and stuff like that at home. But she knew that whatever they wanted to get at, she didn’t want them to succeed.