sell for one thousand? Calculate. The boyz alone could easily do four grams a night. He should be able to turn twenty thousand kronor. At least. He multiplied. Gains from one night: ten thousand. Holy shit.
On the other hand: mad dangerous, really fucking illegal, scary. One mistake and he could screw it all up, his whole life. Was it his kind of gig? It was one thing to use now and then. Dealing was a totally different ball game. Be a part of the drug industry, make money on other people’s fried sinuses, their wrecked lives. Didn’t feel right.
On the other hand: No one ruined their life on coke, as far as he knew. Mostly, it was better people who did it anyway. Like the boyz, for instance, who snorted to have a good time, not to escape some bottom-feeder existence. They studied, had money and good families. No problem for them. No risk of tweaky junkies. No risk JW had to suffer a bad conscience.
On the other hand: Abdulkarim and his crowd were probably not the nicest boys in town. Just take the backseat gorilla. Didn’t take much to see that Fahdi was lethal. What would happen if JW couldn’t pay, got in trouble? Messed up sales? Was robbed of merch? Maybe it was too dangerous.
On the other hand: the money. A sure way. An easy way. Learn from Gekko: “I don’t throw darts at a board. I bet on sure things.” The returns in this industry were guaranteed. JW had the need—and he wouldn’t stay a tragic Sven. There’d be an end to the secondhand clothes, the home-cut hair, and the boarding. An end to being cheap. The dream of being able to live normally could come true. The dream of a car, an apartment, a fortune, could come true. He’d be included in the business plans the boyz had.
HE’D BE INCLUDED.
Successful C entrepreneur versus loser.
Crime versus safety.
What to do?
6
Saturday night in Stockholm: clubs, chicks, credit cards. Trashed seventeen-year-olds. Trashed twenty-five-year-olds. Trashed forty-three-year-olds. Trashed all ages.
Bouncers with leather jackets and cocky attitudes: denied, denied, denied. Some didn’t get it—find your kind of place or be denied entrance. Don’t try to get in where you don’t belong.
Along Kungsgatan, the Svens caravanned. Along Birger Jarlsgatan, the brats were on parade. Business as usual.
Mrado, Patrik, and Ratko were going on a raid. They grabbed a beer at the blingy hub Sturehof before starting out. Tonight they were doing the south side, Södermalm.
Coat checks equaled gold mines. Calculation of a midtier place: Force everyone with some sort of jacket or other personal item to check it. Twenty kronor a head. Extra for bags. Four hundred people passing through on average. Sum: at least eight thousand kronor per night. Ninety percent off the books. All money in cash. Impossible for Big Brother Tax Collector to control the revenue. And the only cost was a pretty girl to stand there and run the show.
The scheme was advantageous: The Yugos collected a fixed rate of three thousand per weekend night. Nothing on weekdays. The place and the coat-check personnel had their own agreements about how the rest was distributed. Win-win: good business for everyone.
Strategy of the night: Mrado and Ratko stood in the background. Patrik fronted, did the talking.
It had to go off smoothly. If shit went down, Mrado would have to take the consequences. The fight for Radovan’s favor was getting heated. Mrado was competing with the other men directly under R.: Goran, Nenad, Stefanovic. It’d been different under Jokso: Then they played like a team. Serbs together. Three types of coat checks in Stockholm: the ones Radovan controlled, the ones someone else controlled, like the Hells Angels or the club king Göran Boman, and finally, the ones that were independent. The latter: no good. Proceeded at their own risk.
They started at Tivoli on Hornsgatan. The place: Radovan-controlled. Patrik went up to the girl working the coat check. Mrado nodded. Recognized her. They
On the other hand: mad dangerous, really fucking illegal, scary. One mistake and he could screw it all up, his whole life. Was it his kind of gig? It was one thing to use now and then. Dealing was a totally different ball game. Be a part of the drug industry, make money on other people’s fried sinuses, their wrecked lives. Didn’t feel right.
On the other hand: No one ruined their life on coke, as far as he knew. Mostly, it was better people who did it anyway. Like the boyz, for instance, who snorted to have a good time, not to escape some bottom-feeder existence. They studied, had money and good families. No problem for them. No risk of tweaky junkies. No risk JW had to suffer a bad conscience.
On the other hand: Abdulkarim and his crowd were probably not the nicest boys in town. Just take the backseat gorilla. Didn’t take much to see that Fahdi was lethal. What would happen if JW couldn’t pay, got in trouble? Messed up sales? Was robbed of merch? Maybe it was too dangerous.
On the other hand: the money. A sure way. An easy way. Learn from Gekko: “I don’t throw darts at a board. I bet on sure things.” The returns in this industry were guaranteed. JW had the need—and he wouldn’t stay a tragic Sven. There’d be an end to the secondhand clothes, the home-cut hair, and the boarding. An end to being cheap. The dream of being able to live normally could come true. The dream of a car, an apartment, a fortune, could come true. He’d be included in the business plans the boyz had.
HE’D BE INCLUDED.
Successful C entrepreneur versus loser.
Crime versus safety.
What to do?
6
Saturday night in Stockholm: clubs, chicks, credit cards. Trashed seventeen-year-olds. Trashed twenty-five-year-olds. Trashed forty-three-year-olds. Trashed all ages.
Bouncers with leather jackets and cocky attitudes: denied, denied, denied. Some didn’t get it—find your kind of place or be denied entrance. Don’t try to get in where you don’t belong.
Along Kungsgatan, the Svens caravanned. Along Birger Jarlsgatan, the brats were on parade. Business as usual.
Mrado, Patrik, and Ratko were going on a raid. They grabbed a beer at the blingy hub Sturehof before starting out. Tonight they were doing the south side, Södermalm.
Coat checks equaled gold mines. Calculation of a midtier place: Force everyone with some sort of jacket or other personal item to check it. Twenty kronor a head. Extra for bags. Four hundred people passing through on average. Sum: at least eight thousand kronor per night. Ninety percent off the books. All money in cash. Impossible for Big Brother Tax Collector to control the revenue. And the only cost was a pretty girl to stand there and run the show.
The scheme was advantageous: The Yugos collected a fixed rate of three thousand per weekend night. Nothing on weekdays. The place and the coat-check personnel had their own agreements about how the rest was distributed. Win-win: good business for everyone.
Strategy of the night: Mrado and Ratko stood in the background. Patrik fronted, did the talking.
It had to go off smoothly. If shit went down, Mrado would have to take the consequences. The fight for Radovan’s favor was getting heated. Mrado was competing with the other men directly under R.: Goran, Nenad, Stefanovic. It’d been different under Jokso: Then they played like a team. Serbs together. Three types of coat checks in Stockholm: the ones Radovan controlled, the ones someone else controlled, like the Hells Angels or the club king Göran Boman, and finally, the ones that were independent. The latter: no good. Proceeded at their own risk.
They started at Tivoli on Hornsgatan. The place: Radovan-controlled. Patrik went up to the girl working the coat check. Mrado nodded. Recognized her. They
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