Free Easy Money by Jens Lapidus Page B

Patrik aside. The bouncer, strong. Big. But Patrick, amped. The losers at the sink started hollering. The boys by the stalls ran forward to break it up. Mrado stepped between them. Pushed them away. Not exactly tough guys. Ratko positioned himself by the exit. Blocked. Patrik grabbed hold of the bouncer’s short hair. Pounded his head against the urinal. Teeth went flying. Pounded again. More teeth. His nose broke in x number of places. The urinal looked like a butcher’s sink. Patrik pounded the bouncer’s head again. It sounded hollow. He let go. The bouncer guy collapsed on the floor. Unconscious. His face, unrecognizable. The losers by the sinks were crying. The kids by the toilet stalls were screaming.
    Two bouncer colleagues rushed past Ratko. Patrik shoved one of them aside. Ratko got out of there. Mrado reached for one of the bouncer’s knees. Grabbed hold. Did a lock. Twisted. The guy crumpled like a marionette with cut strings. Mrado grabbed the guy’s foot in another lock. Twisted. Patrik ran amuck, yelled, swore. Mrado said in a measured voice, “Leave, Patrik. Now.”
    The ex-skin walked out. Mrado was the only one left. Saw Ratko and Patrik outside the bathroom. Twisted the foot in his grip a little more. The bloody bouncer under the urinal shook. The bouncer in Mrado’s grip whimpered. One bouncer left standing. Hesitated. Looked like he was calculating the odds. Two bouncers on the floor. Immediate knockout. Left in the ring: him, alone, against a huge Yugo. And two more guys out there. Where was backup?
    Tumult outside.
    Quiet inside.
    Mrado said, “Guys. You made a little mistake tonight. You messed with the wrong people. We’ll be in touch regarding our business with you. One more thing, don’t make a big deal outta this. I think you can figure out why.”
    Mrado released his grip and walked out of the bathroom. Three bouncers left in there. Like fools.
    Mrado, Ratko, and Patrik pushed their way through the crowd. Outside Kvarnen, the cop cars’ blue lights lit up the night. They jumped into a taxi. Patrik with blood on his jacket and T-shirt. Bad.
    The place was crawling with cops.

7
    It was almost time.
    Jorge sat still in the chow hall. Concentrated. He didn’t give a damn about the clatter, the crunching and munching. Today was the day.
    Rolando called after him when he stood up. “Jorge, you gonna come blaze later?” Rolando was being ironic. The only one who knew.
    Jorge said, “Don’t holler like that. The screw over there can hear you.”
    Rolando grinned. “He don’t know words like that. He just a small-town guy.”
    Jorge put his hand on Rolando’s shoulder. “I’m gonna miss you,
hombre.
”
    Rolando looked serious. “Damn, Jorge, you doin’ the right thing, you know it. Come on, wontcha tell old gangsta Rolando how you gonna do it? Who wanna be caged for the rest o’ his life?”
    “
Loco,
I can’t tell you today. You’ll see for yourself. Just watch and enjoy. As long as you do your thing.” Jorge got up. He honestly felt like he would miss Rolando, his bullshit about cocaine paste, long lectures on the OG community and armored-car heists.
    He’d tested Rolando several times. Revealed a few things to see what would happen. For example, that he exercised the way he did to prep an escape. If Rolando was gonna snitch, Jorge could’ve laughed it off as a joke. But it was cool. Rolando’d kept his mouth shut. No leaks. The Latino was trustworthy. Jorge’d made up his mind: Rolando would play an important part in the actual Plan. He would do his thing today.
    But everything hinged on Sergio, who Jorge’d met on his jam roll. That he could fix what needed fixing on the outside. Thirty-odd yards beyond the walls: cleared land—would be hard to do anything that took too long without being spotted. If things worked out today, Jorge would be forever indebted to him. Jorge knew enough to fix this thing. The COs’ routines. Where Sergio’d come from. Where the car would