Life Deluxe by Jens Lapidus

life. Had even chosen the health care track in high school because it was the focus that was best suited for becoming a cop afterward. His mother, Lottie, and Father were already upset by that, even if Mother never really showed that kind of thing. His results in the army evaluation and the military, however—they were nothing but positive about that. Especially Mother, who thought, “Maybe you can become an officer in the reserves like Gucke. Wouldn’t that be great? And anyway, wearing a uniform when everyone else is in white tie looks so good.” Gucke’s name was actually Gustaf, and he was Hägerström’s cousin on his mother’s side—the men in her family had gone through officer training for generations. It’s what the landowning gentry did. But Hägerström had enrolled in the Police Academy instead. Mother’s dismay was so great that she never mentioned the officer thing again.
    “Martin, aren’t you wasting your talent this way?” Father asked.
    “Martin, aren’t there more interesting jobs out there for you?” Carl said.
    “Martin, isn’t it dangerous?” his sister, Tin-Tin, said.
    Dangerous.
    He had worked on patrol, on the streets, for the first few years. It was physically demanding—it was not uncommon that you were forced to get a little rough sometimes, maybe had to take a hit or two. You ran into boozehounds who spat in your face, indignant citizens who thought the police didn’t do their job, and young punks who wanted to be superman and tried MMA grips, even though they always had to taste the tarmac in the end. But dangerous? He had never really felt at risk. Always had good support from his colleagues.
    But Operation Tide was dangerous.
    And he could just imagine what Mother would say when she found out that he had been fired from the police.
    Maybe he should decline after all. Keep doing what he was goodat: investigating crime, arresting suspects, building investigations. Now was his last chance to blow this off.
    *
    I needed a new handgun. I wrapped the one I’d used on the cleaning lady in a plastic bag and threw it into the Baltic. The new hotel I was staying at was near the water
.
    Fortunately, I got the contacts I needed from my employer, who I suspect is from Sweden. A bar in an area in central Stockholm: the Black & White Inn
.
    I went there. The pub was closed, it said, but the front door was open. I stepped inside and looked around. The woman was standing behind the bar drying glasses. I handed her a slip of paper with a name on it. She looked down, then looked up. Maybe she recognized me, but she didn’t give anything away
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    She gestured for me to follow her. We walked back behind the kitchen. It smelled faintly of cleaning detergent. The wall paint in the hallways was peeling, and a fluorescent light hung crookedly from the ceiling. It could have been anywhere in Europe. The feeling was familiar, the dankness the same. The woman was silent, but she straightened up as soon as she’d understood what I was here to get. She was pretty, and her mouse-colored hair was pulled back in a ponytail. She reminded me of my first—and only—wife
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    She opened a door and told me to stand still—in my own language. I extended my arms, and she patted me down along my back, arms, and sides. She felt around my shoes and in my pockets. Finally she brought her hands up along my legs and groin. I felt a tickling sensation down there. Just for a microsecond. Then I turned myself off. She nodded. I was clean. She must have known that before
.
    The woman opened a sheet-metal cabinet and brought out two metal bags. She set them on the table, turned the coded locks, and opened them. I saw dark-colored foam rubber and cutouts where objects rested, wrapped in fabric. Four in one bag and five in the other. She unwrapped the fabric. Laid the weapons down on the table
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    I weighed them, inspected them, made sure they had the right feel to them. Finally, I bought a Glock 17, second generation. It