opened the car door, and got into the passenger seat. The gorilla folded himself into the back.
JW jumped in behind the wheel. “Nice to see you out and about. Anything in particular you want to check?”
“No, no. No worry, man. Just drive us to Spy.”
Spy Bar. Stureplan. What was he going to say?
JW started the car. Held off answering. Made a decision—he couldn’t stir shit up with the Arab.
“Spy Bar it is.”
“There a problem?”
“Absolutely not. It’s all good. It’s a pleasure to drive you, Abdul.”
“Don’t call me Abdul. It means ‘slave’ in Arabic.”
“Okay, boss.”
“Me, I know you donwanna drive to Stureplan, JW. Know you donwanna be seen there. Got fancy buddies there. You’re ashamed, man. Never be ashamed.”
The Arab fucker knew. How? Maybe not so strange, if you thought about it. Abdulkarim was out a lot. He’d seen JW with his friends around Stureplan. Connected the dots. Understood why he didn’t tend to make pickups there. The rest was just simple math.
He had to do damage control.
“It’s not that bad, Abdulkarim. Come on, it’s no big deal. I just have to make some money. Want to be able to party and stuff. This isn’t the kind of thing you tell everybody.”
The Arab nodded. The Arab laughed. The Arab controlled the convo. Small talk.
Then it happened. The offer.
“Me? I know you need the big cheese. I got a suggestion. Pay attention. Could be up your alley.”
JW nodded. Wondered what was coming. Damn, did Abdulkarim like the sound of his own voice.
“I have some other business, other than the cabs. Sell C. I know, you’ve bought candy from me. Through Gurhan, you know, the Turk you and your buddies get it from. But Gurhan won’t work. Big Jew. Tryin’ to rip me off. Skims the top. Sells too high. Doesn’t keep good books. And, worst thing, he buys from some other guy, too. Tryin’ to be clever. Play us against each other. Pressure me. He says, ‘If I can’t get it for four hundred a gram I don’t wanany this week.’ Messy. No good. That’s where you come in, JW.”
JW was listening but didn’t catch on. “Pardon me, but I don’t think I’m following.”
“I’m wondering, you wanna sell instead of Gurhan? You run this taxi thing real good. You hang at the right bars. Believe me, I know. Bars where people’s drills are as full of sugar as sugar drills. You’d do good.”
“What’s a sugar drill?”
“Forget it. You in or what?”
“Shit, Abdul. I have to think about it. I was actually thinking about that the other day. Wondering how well the Turk makes out.”
“Don’t call me Abdul. And sure, go ahead. Think about it, big man. But remember, you could be like Uncle Scrooge. Swimming in it. You want in. I can feel it. Call before next Friday.”
JW focused on the road. They drove down Birger Jarlsgatan. He was nervous. Kept a lookout for the boyz while trying to hunch as low in the seat as possible.
Abdulkarim rattled on in Arabic with the meathead in the back. Laughed. JW grinned without knowing why. Abdul grinned back, continued to jabber in Arabic to Fahdi. They were approaching their final destination.
Stureplan. Huge lines outside the nightclubs and bars: Kharma, Laroy, Sturecompagniet, Clara’s, Köket, East, The Lab, and the rest. More people out than ever in the daytime. A gold mine for gypsy cabs.
JW stopped the car. Abdulkarim opened the door. “You know the deal. Before Friday.”
JW nodded.
He stepped on it.
JW’s last pickup of the night was a hammered middle-aged man who mumbled something about Kärrtorp. JW said he’d take him there for three hundred kronor.
He drove in silence. Needed to think. The man fell asleep.
The road was dark. Hardly any cars out except a few taxis. JW felt the anxiety of decision making wash over him.
On one hand: fantastic luck, a chance, a real opportunity. Probably nothing else offered the kinds of margins that coke did. How would it work? Buy a gram for five hundred,
JW jumped in behind the wheel. “Nice to see you out and about. Anything in particular you want to check?”
“No, no. No worry, man. Just drive us to Spy.”
Spy Bar. Stureplan. What was he going to say?
JW started the car. Held off answering. Made a decision—he couldn’t stir shit up with the Arab.
“Spy Bar it is.”
“There a problem?”
“Absolutely not. It’s all good. It’s a pleasure to drive you, Abdul.”
“Don’t call me Abdul. It means ‘slave’ in Arabic.”
“Okay, boss.”
“Me, I know you donwanna drive to Stureplan, JW. Know you donwanna be seen there. Got fancy buddies there. You’re ashamed, man. Never be ashamed.”
The Arab fucker knew. How? Maybe not so strange, if you thought about it. Abdulkarim was out a lot. He’d seen JW with his friends around Stureplan. Connected the dots. Understood why he didn’t tend to make pickups there. The rest was just simple math.
He had to do damage control.
“It’s not that bad, Abdulkarim. Come on, it’s no big deal. I just have to make some money. Want to be able to party and stuff. This isn’t the kind of thing you tell everybody.”
The Arab nodded. The Arab laughed. The Arab controlled the convo. Small talk.
Then it happened. The offer.
“Me? I know you need the big cheese. I got a suggestion. Pay attention. Could be up your alley.”
JW nodded. Wondered what was coming. Damn, did Abdulkarim like the sound of his own voice.
“I have some other business, other than the cabs. Sell C. I know, you’ve bought candy from me. Through Gurhan, you know, the Turk you and your buddies get it from. But Gurhan won’t work. Big Jew. Tryin’ to rip me off. Skims the top. Sells too high. Doesn’t keep good books. And, worst thing, he buys from some other guy, too. Tryin’ to be clever. Play us against each other. Pressure me. He says, ‘If I can’t get it for four hundred a gram I don’t wanany this week.’ Messy. No good. That’s where you come in, JW.”
JW was listening but didn’t catch on. “Pardon me, but I don’t think I’m following.”
“I’m wondering, you wanna sell instead of Gurhan? You run this taxi thing real good. You hang at the right bars. Believe me, I know. Bars where people’s drills are as full of sugar as sugar drills. You’d do good.”
“What’s a sugar drill?”
“Forget it. You in or what?”
“Shit, Abdul. I have to think about it. I was actually thinking about that the other day. Wondering how well the Turk makes out.”
“Don’t call me Abdul. And sure, go ahead. Think about it, big man. But remember, you could be like Uncle Scrooge. Swimming in it. You want in. I can feel it. Call before next Friday.”
JW focused on the road. They drove down Birger Jarlsgatan. He was nervous. Kept a lookout for the boyz while trying to hunch as low in the seat as possible.
Abdulkarim rattled on in Arabic with the meathead in the back. Laughed. JW grinned without knowing why. Abdul grinned back, continued to jabber in Arabic to Fahdi. They were approaching their final destination.
Stureplan. Huge lines outside the nightclubs and bars: Kharma, Laroy, Sturecompagniet, Clara’s, Köket, East, The Lab, and the rest. More people out than ever in the daytime. A gold mine for gypsy cabs.
JW stopped the car. Abdulkarim opened the door. “You know the deal. Before Friday.”
JW nodded.
He stepped on it.
JW’s last pickup of the night was a hammered middle-aged man who mumbled something about Kärrtorp. JW said he’d take him there for three hundred kronor.
He drove in silence. Needed to think. The man fell asleep.
The road was dark. Hardly any cars out except a few taxis. JW felt the anxiety of decision making wash over him.
On one hand: fantastic luck, a chance, a real opportunity. Probably nothing else offered the kinds of margins that coke did. How would it work? Buy a gram for five hundred,
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