Life Deluxe by Jens Lapidus Read Free Book Online

signals:
Take it easy. You don’t want to test this
. But Jorge knew: in Mahmud al-Askori’s chest pumped a heart bigger than, like, Melinda Gates and his own mama’s combined.
    Mahmud met Jorge’s gaze, lowered his eyes—almost like he was shy. It was really true—his buddy was soft somehow.
    They shook hands, not like regular Svens do: a weak handshake and a quick meeting of the eyes. No, they swung their arms before they slapped their palms together, letting their thumbs meet in a massive grip. Like the concrete. Like the Million Program. Like real friends.
    They ate and shot the shit. Ran through the city’s latest gossip. About who was really behind the massive heist—fifty millions for bootleg booze and smuggled cigarettes. And how things were going for Babak and the rest of Mahmud’s buddies—boys who still played the game. Jumped pussies who played tough, pushed product, boosted electronicsfrom the chain stores’ huge warehouses, and flipped the same shit fourteen times retail online.
    All afternoon: Jorge’d tried to calculate how to present it. How to begin. Explain what it was he wanted to say. How he would make the Arab understand.
    Okay, they were having trouble with profitability. They were having trouble with the Yugos. But still: Mahmud could go apeshit. It might even make him weepy.
    Jorge put his hand in his pocket and fished out a Red Line Baggie. Held the bag in the palm of his hand.
    “Look what I got.”
    Mahmud shook his head. “Not for me. Not tonight. It’s my turn to go to Södertälje tomorrow morning at five.”
    Jorge slapped the bag against his other palm. “Stop sulking. Check it, we ate good, you pumped some iron, we feel good. Weed’s not gonna give you a hangover.”
    Jorge poured the weed out and mixed tobacco into it. OCB in a roll—nice to roll and extra thin. The roach would smolder slower.
    They took deep hits.
    Mahmud leaned back. “This is some good shit.”
    “Mahmud, I’ve gotta talk to you about something serious,” Jorge said.
    Mahmud didn’t even look up, just kept that crooked grin plastered on his face, the one he always had when he was high. “Sure, is it business?”
    “I’ve done this thing with you for six months,” Jorge said. “The café’s a good gig, pretty honest, we fork over alotta taxes, we got insurance and shit, we’re even saving for retirement, like real Svens, man. I dig you, Mahmud, we’ve got a sweet deal together.”
    He put the joint down. “But it’s just that it’s, like, not working for me,
hombre
.”
    Mahmud eyed him. Looked like the guy didn’t even blink.
    “I mean, it’s not that it’s not working with you. You’re my brother. But this life, you know?”
    Mahmud’s eyes narrowed. Jorge waited. Maybe the Arab would freak out now? Start cursing. Steam up, boil over.
    Jorge rose. Started pacing back and forth. Tried to make the same words he had in his head come out of his mouth.
    “That last turn, you know, that I had to take at Kumla. I was inwith a real old-timer, maybe you know him. His name is Denny. Denny Vadúr, from Södertälje.”
    Mahmud didn’t say anything. Just waited to see where Jorge was going with this.
    “My first long stint, I learned a lot about blow. Swallowed information like Jenna Jameson swallows cock. But there’s other stuff that’s better. That demands a real lotta brain.”
    Jorge paused. Gave Mahmud the chance to guess.
    The Arab stared at him. “What?”
    “You’ve read about it in the papers a thousand times. We’ve talked about it tons of times. The latest helicopter heist on the roof of the G4S. I’m talking CIT, man. And you don’t even know how much cash we’re talking about. When the papers write five million’s missing, the real take’s four times that. But the banks and the armored car companies don’t wanna admit how much they actually lose—then they’d get picked over more. And the people would be even more pissed off. You know the Spånga