Free Easy Money by Jens Lapidus Page A

didn’t make any obvious eyes in that direction. Easy does it.
    They talked about Ratko’s upper body again. Went over different steroids. Mrado told a few Radovan secrets even though he shouldn’t. Patrik told them how he’d shot a Magnum last weekend: the recoil, the pressure, the bullet holes.
    Patrik got personal. Asked Mrado, “How many’ve you killed?”
    Mrado, dead serious: “I was down in Yugoslavia in 1995. Draw your own conclusions.”
    “Right, but what about here in Sweden?”
    “I don’t talk about that. I do what needs to be done for business to run smoothly. That’s one thing I can teach you, Patrik. Loyalty to R. and business is everything. Sometimes you just gotta roll with the punches. Can’t sit and think about and regret the shit you’ve done. I’m not proud of everything.”
    Patrik pushed him, “Like what?”
    “Learn one more thing: We do more than we talk. Sometimes you’ve got to do stuff that ain’t pretty. What can I say? Like, for example, I’ve had to take care of friends who weren’t reliable, or women, hookers, who messed around. That kind of thing, I wouldn’t say it’s what I’d put at the top of my résumé.”
    Patrik fell silent. Understood. There are some things you just don’t discuss.
    They jabbered on about other things.
    An hour went by.
    The general party mood in the beer hall was on the rise.
    The bouncer guy was still standing in his spot. It was quarter past two. The place closed at four. They waited. The party people were shit-faced. Mrado drank a seltzer. Patrik ordered his sixth beer. Was getting really tanked. Ratko drank coffee. Patrik returned to their treatment at the door. Stoked the fire. The bouncer fags would be schooled. The bouncer fags would cry. Crawl. Beg. Groan. Concuss.
    Mrado calmed him down. Glanced at the coat check. The bouncers couldn’t have cared less about them. Were they stupid? Didn’t they get who they were dealing with?
    Another hour went by.
    They waited. Jabbered on.
    At one point, the head bouncer left his position.
    Patrik drained his glass. Got up. Mrado saw he was okay, not too trashed. Mrado got up, right by Patrik. Face-to-face.
    Patrik was wide-eyed. His breath reeked. Put a lighter in front of his mouth and the place would explode worse than a gas station.
    Mrado took his face in his hands. The noise in the hall was deafening. He yelled, “You okay?”
    Patrik nodded. Pointed toward the bathrooms. Probably had to piss after all that beer.
    He walked in that direction.
    Mrado sat back down. Ratko looked at him, leaned across the table. Asked, “Where he goin’?”
    “Bathroom.”
    Like a bolt of lightning through Mrado’s head. Fuck, how could he be so dense. The bouncer’d probably gone to the bathroom and Patrik was following him there—without Mrado or Ratko.
    Mrado got up. Waved at Ratko. “Follow me. Now.”
    They hurried after Patrik.
    Stepped into the bathroom.
    White tiles and large metal sinks. One wall covered by a mirror. Five urinals on the opposite wall. Stalls farther in. Leaking toilets. Piss on the floor.
    Contact.
    The head bouncer was standing at one of the urinals. At the sinks, three guys were talking. Looked like losers: unbuttoned shirts over T-shirts. Farther in, two kids were queuing at the toilet stalls.
    Patrik on his way to the guy.
    The bouncer turned around, cock still in hand.
    Patrik stood only inches away from him. “Remember me? You dissed me, straight out. Totally wrote off our services. You think I’d let that go unpunished?”
    The bouncer understood. Mumbled something. Tried to calm Patrik down. The guy’d been around the block. Started fumbling for his earpiece with his free hand.
    Patrik took another step, unclear if he’d registered that Mrado and Ratko’d followed him into the bathroom.
    He head-butted the bouncer guy on the nose. The blood appeared even redder against the white tiles as it sprayed the wall. The bouncer yelled for his colleagues. Tried to shove