Free Easy Money by Jens Lapidus

only bar stools and little tables screwed into the walls serving as parking spots for beers.
    The line stretched all the way out to Götgatan. Nearly forty yards long. Pretty orderly. No drama at the door. Hipsters with complex hairstyles and accessories. Alternative types with tightly laced boots and Palestinian scarves. Popfuckers: dyed black hair with bangs. Bajen soccer fans: no frills.
    Kvarnen drew quite a crowd.
    Mrado, Patrik, and Ratko cut the line. People glared, pissed. But still—no protests. They got it. Unmistakably registered the aura of respect.
    The bouncer said no. “No first-class boarding.” This is the democratic south side. Jackass. Patrik kept cool. Explained that they just wanted to have a chat with the coat-check attendant. The bouncer was clueless. Refused to let them in. Mrado wondered who the loser was. Stared. Patrik tried again. Explained that they didn’t want to cut the line, just had some business with the coat-check attendant. The bouncer turned his head. Saw Mrado. Seemed to get it. Let them in.
    The coat check was run by the bouncers themselves. Unusual. Meant trouble.
    The coat-check bouncers: three big guys. Their shirts bulged, the panels of their bulletproof vests visible beneath the fabric. Controlled the crowd with a rough attitude. Take no prisoners. Real southies. Wouldn’t budge on the fee, didn’t matter that tons of people only had thin jackets. Even the pretty girls had to pay. These boys worked for SWEA Security—a Sven company for real Sven boys.
    The head bouncer, their front man, knew right away whom he was dealing with. Maybe he’d heard the outside discussion in his earpiece. “Hey, hey. Welcome to Kvarnen. Unfortunately, we’re not interested in your business, but feel free to come in and have a drink.”
    Patrik, who’d already gotten fired up from the provocation at the door, was getting his edge back. “You in charge of the coat check here tonight? Why don’t we go have a chat. I’ve got a proposition.”
    Mrado and Ratko stayed put in the background. Mrado, laser-focused. Tried to listen.
    The bouncer said, “I’m in charge here. But I don’t have time to talk right now. You either go in or out. Sorry.”
    “We weren’t treated very well at the door. I want to talk to you now. You follow? Your other two guys’ll be just fine here by themselves for ten minutes.”
    Attitude. The two other bouncers glanced over. Saw there was trouble. The front man said, “Excuse me. Perhaps I wasn’t clear? We’re not interested in your services. We play our own game. I don’t want to be impolite, but you have to understand that we’re fine. Without you.”
    Patrik’s body language screamed, I want to take this fucker down.
    His fists were balled, knuckles whitening. His tattoos seemed to spark.
    Mrado stepped up, laid his hand on Patrik’s shoulder. Calmed him. Turned to the front man, “Okay, we’ll go in. We’ll have a seat and wait for you. Come in when you have time to talk.”
    Shit was tense.
    Mrado tugged at Patrik. Ratko did the same.
    Patrik caved. Went in.
    Anticlimax.
    The bouncers won.
    Mrado ordered beer. They sat down at a table.
    The volume in the beer hall was on high.
    Patrik leaned toward Mrado, “What the fuck was that? We can’t tolerate that kind of shit. Why’d you pull me away?”
    “Patrik, chill out. I’m with you. We’ll talk to him, but not in front of all the guests. Not in front of the other bouncers. That’d be trouble. Listen. We’ll sit here, relax. Maybe he’ll come to us. Maybe not. But we don’t forget, we wait, and when that cunt has to go to the bathroom or is on his way home or whatever, then we’ll have a little chat with him. Tell him what’s up.”
    Patrik calmed down. Looked more relaxed. Ratko cracked his knuckles.
    They chilled. Mrado drank light beer. Checked out the chicks. Checked out the place. Checked out the bouncers on the sly. He was sitting so he could see straight into the coat check. But he