continuing-education classes at Komvux to get better high school grades in literary arts, math, and English. She’d had a boyfriend. JW didn’t even know his name. He knew only one point of interest: The guy’d driven a yellow Ferrari. There were photos of Camilla in the car at home in Robertsfors. In them, she was glowing, smiling and waving through a rolled-down window. You couldn’t make out the guy’s face in the pictures. Who was he?
JW drove past the Foreign Ministry at Gustav Adolf’s Square. There were a lot of people out and about. Everyone was back from vacation and wanted to make up for what they’d missed by vegging out at country houses and on sailboats. He drove through the tunnel at Slussen toward Medborgarplatsen.
He parked the car outside the Scandic Hotel and got out. Positioned himself outside Snaps. There was always someone there who needed a ride home or downtown.
Three chicks stumbled out. Possible good pickup. He cocked his head to the side, pulled an irresistible JW. “Hey, ladies. Need a ride?”
One of the girls, a blonde, looked at her friends. They knew what was up, nodded. She said, “Sure. How much to Stureplan?”
Damn it. Gotta play this. Coax, smile. He said, “There’s so much traffic there. I know it sounds like a drag, but would it be okay if I drop you off by Norrmalmstorg?” Charm attack. Added, in a fake
blatte
accent,
“Special price for you only.”
Giggles. The blond girl said, “Only ’cause you’re cute. But then you have to give us a good deal.”
It was settled: 150 kronor.
JW drove toward Norrmalmstorg. The chicks chirped in the back. They were going to Kharma. It had been
so
nice at Caroline’s. Amazing food, crazy atmosphere, sweet drinks. They were
soooooo
drunk. JW shut them out. Couldn’t get interested in anything but driving tonight. He smiled, looked mysterious.
The girls babbled. Did he wanna come? JW felt the vibe, it would be so easy to score. But there was a major hurdle: These weren’t the kind of girls he wanted to meet. Svens.
Before he dropped them off, he said, “Ladies, I have to ask you something.”
They thought he was going to make a move.
“Have you ever met a girl out named Camilla Westlund? Tall, pretty, from the north. Like, four years ago?”
The babblebrauds looked like they were thinking, hard.
“I’m not too great with names, but none of us recognize Camilla Westlund,” one said.
JW thought, Maybe they are too young. Maybe they weren’t partying at the right places back then.
They got out by the bus stops at Norrmalmstorg. He gave the chicks his cell phone number. “Call whenever you need a ride.”
Time for more driving.
He parked by Kungsträdgården Park. Couldn’t stop thinking. It was the first time he’d asked anyone about Camilla. Why not, anyway? Maybe someone would remember.
Seven minutes passed before the next passenger was seated in the Ford.
It was a calm night. Everything went off smoothly. The clubbers were into it, wanted to get home. JW delivered.
Later. The night was a success; he’d made two thousand kronor so far. Mental arithmetic. That meant twelve hundred in his pocket.
He was waiting outside Kvarnen on Tjärhovsgatan. Mostly jailbait and soccer fans. The line was long, more orderly than the one outside Kharma. Lamer people than at Kharma. Cheaper than Kharma. No one was being let in just then—something’d happened inside. Two police vans were parked outside. Their flashing lights illuminated the walls. JW wanted to get out of there fast; it was needless to take risks with the car.
As he was walking back to the Ford, a familiar figure came toward him. One who walked with rhythm, dressed in a well-tailored suit with billowing pants. High hairline and short, curly hair. Without really being able to make out the figure’s face, JW knew who it was: Abdulkarim. He had his big friend in tow, his very own gorilla: Fahdi.
JW looked at him, hoped nothing was up.
Abdulkarim said hi,
JW drove past the Foreign Ministry at Gustav Adolf’s Square. There were a lot of people out and about. Everyone was back from vacation and wanted to make up for what they’d missed by vegging out at country houses and on sailboats. He drove through the tunnel at Slussen toward Medborgarplatsen.
He parked the car outside the Scandic Hotel and got out. Positioned himself outside Snaps. There was always someone there who needed a ride home or downtown.
Three chicks stumbled out. Possible good pickup. He cocked his head to the side, pulled an irresistible JW. “Hey, ladies. Need a ride?”
One of the girls, a blonde, looked at her friends. They knew what was up, nodded. She said, “Sure. How much to Stureplan?”
Damn it. Gotta play this. Coax, smile. He said, “There’s so much traffic there. I know it sounds like a drag, but would it be okay if I drop you off by Norrmalmstorg?” Charm attack. Added, in a fake
blatte
accent,
“Special price for you only.”
Giggles. The blond girl said, “Only ’cause you’re cute. But then you have to give us a good deal.”
It was settled: 150 kronor.
JW drove toward Norrmalmstorg. The chicks chirped in the back. They were going to Kharma. It had been
so
nice at Caroline’s. Amazing food, crazy atmosphere, sweet drinks. They were
soooooo
drunk. JW shut them out. Couldn’t get interested in anything but driving tonight. He smiled, looked mysterious.
The girls babbled. Did he wanna come? JW felt the vibe, it would be so easy to score. But there was a major hurdle: These weren’t the kind of girls he wanted to meet. Svens.
Before he dropped them off, he said, “Ladies, I have to ask you something.”
They thought he was going to make a move.
“Have you ever met a girl out named Camilla Westlund? Tall, pretty, from the north. Like, four years ago?”
The babblebrauds looked like they were thinking, hard.
“I’m not too great with names, but none of us recognize Camilla Westlund,” one said.
JW thought, Maybe they are too young. Maybe they weren’t partying at the right places back then.
They got out by the bus stops at Norrmalmstorg. He gave the chicks his cell phone number. “Call whenever you need a ride.”
Time for more driving.
He parked by Kungsträdgården Park. Couldn’t stop thinking. It was the first time he’d asked anyone about Camilla. Why not, anyway? Maybe someone would remember.
Seven minutes passed before the next passenger was seated in the Ford.
It was a calm night. Everything went off smoothly. The clubbers were into it, wanted to get home. JW delivered.
Later. The night was a success; he’d made two thousand kronor so far. Mental arithmetic. That meant twelve hundred in his pocket.
He was waiting outside Kvarnen on Tjärhovsgatan. Mostly jailbait and soccer fans. The line was long, more orderly than the one outside Kharma. Lamer people than at Kharma. Cheaper than Kharma. No one was being let in just then—something’d happened inside. Two police vans were parked outside. Their flashing lights illuminated the walls. JW wanted to get out of there fast; it was needless to take risks with the car.
As he was walking back to the Ford, a familiar figure came toward him. One who walked with rhythm, dressed in a well-tailored suit with billowing pants. High hairline and short, curly hair. Without really being able to make out the figure’s face, JW knew who it was: Abdulkarim. He had his big friend in tow, his very own gorilla: Fahdi.
JW looked at him, hoped nothing was up.
Abdulkarim said hi,
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