Never Fuck Up: A Novel by Jens Lapidus Page A

so many others made sure to be. With forty-five of Radovan’s millions.”
    Suddenly it was obvious why they’d chosen him. Wisam Jibril: one of Mahmud’s gods growing up. Three years older. Went to the same school. From the same hood. Same gang. And Mahmud’s dad’d known Wisam’s mom, too. It was as if they were asking him to rat out family. Fuck.
    Still, he heard himself say, “What makes you think I can find him?”
    “We think he’s back in Sweden. People’ve seen him around town. But he knows we’re not happy. No one seems to know where he lives. He’s careful. Never goes out alone. Hasn’t even been in touch with his family, at least not as far as we know.”
    Stefanovic let the words hang in the air for a second. Then he hissed, “Find him.”
    Up in the ring, the giants were going at it. Ståhl was alternating between feeding uppercuts and jabs. The Belarusian guard was gradually being lowered. His head hung, he seemed unfocused. After two more minutes: bam. The Swede landed a brutal power punch. The Belarusian bounced against the ropes. Ståhl went in close. Grabbed Akhramenko’s neck. Pressed the giant down. Kneed him with full force. The sound of something cracking in Akhramenko’s jaw. The mouth guard went flying. A brief second: silence in the arena. Then he sank down to the mat.
    Mahmud’s thoughts were in mad tumult. First and foremost: the offer from the Yugos was in many ways an easy gig. To find a dude like Wisam couldn’t be impossible, if he was in Stockholm. At the same time: the guy was a family friend. The guy was from his hood, an Arab. What did that say about Mahmud’s honor? At the same time: he needed this more than ever. With the debt to Gürhan. And his own honor to win back.
    Stefanovic got up. The man’d just lost a hundred G’s. Maybe there were still some clean sports left—the Yugos didn’t seem to control everything in this city, after all. Mahmud eyed his face. Completely expressionless.
    Stefanovic turned to him.
    “Call me when you’re done thinking. By Monday.”
    Then he left.

8

    Niklas’d been in the shower for forty minutes. Mom was at work so it didn’t matter: he could occupy the bathroom for as long as he liked.
    How long was she going to be staying with him? Okay, of course a dead person in the basement was unpleasant. But it was good, too. Maybe it had made her think, change.
    Unfortunately, Niklas’d also been dragged into it. Later today he was going in for questioning by the police. Questions were spinning around in the steam under the showerhead. He wondered what they thought they were going to get out of him. How should he deal with questions that got too personal? It was strange—how did they even know that he’d been living with his mom? Maybe some neighbor’d ratted him out, or else it was Mom who’d let it slip.
    Damn—this meant trouble. He’d actually thought he’d be spared. It had to be one of Mom’s neighbors. Scared, shocked, nervous. Spit out stuff that really should have nothing to do with it. Probably told the cops that a young man’d been living with her, maybe her son. He just couldn’t think of who’d even seen him in the building.
    The shower was crappy. Rust-brown dirt between the tiles. White residue on the showerhead that looked like old toothpaste. The water barely drained. Didn’t seem like the off-the-books broker asshole had the drain cleaned out too often. A thought in Niklas’s head: Civilized man couldn’t survive long without holes. Holes were the basis of cleanliness. A busted shower drain, and life got difficult. Too much toilet paper in the toilet or hair in the sink—a quick way for a bathroom to quit working. And the kitchen—things ran out through small holes in the drain, disappeared forever from the world of the cushy and comfy. Without them having to think about where it all went. No one cared what really happened with everything that didn’t belong in an ordered household: hair, toothpaste