Easy Money Read Free Page A

Chileans connected. People from Sollentuna connected. Most blow connections connected.
    He hung out with an old Latino from Märsta, Rolando. The guy came to Sweden from Santiago in 1984. Knew more about snow than a gaucho knows about horse shit—but wasn’t totally chalked up himself. He had two years left for smuggling cocaine paste in shampoo bottles. Good guy to know. Jorge’d heard his name already when he was living in Sollentuna. Best of all: Rolando was connected with the OG guys. That opened doors. Gave privileges. Guaranteed golden gains. Access to cell phones, weed, blow if you were lucky, porno rags, pruno. More smokes.
    Jorge was drawn to the gangs. But he also knew the danger. You tie yourself down. You make yourself vulnerable. You give them trust—
They
screw you.
    He hadn’t forgotten how he’d been burned. The Yugos’d sold him out. Wrapped him at the trial. He was doing time because of Radovan—cocksuckers’ cocksucker.
    They often sat in the chow hall and shot the shit. Him, Rolando, and the other Latinos. No Spanish. There was a risk that those who belonged to gangs be mistrusted by their own. Go ahead, talk to your countrymen and have a good time—but not so that
They
can’t understand.
    Today: a little over two weeks before he hit play on the plan. Had to be cool. It was impossible to escape
totalmente solo,
but he hadn’t even told Rolando anything yet. First, Jorge had to know the guy could be trusted. Had to test him somehow. Check up on how strong their friendship really was.
    Rolando: a homeboy who’d chosen the hard way. Good snow flow wasn’t enough to become a member of the OG. You had to be able to kick the shit out of anyone your leader thought had an ugly mug. Rolando’d done his part: The tattoos around the scars on his knuckles told their own loud, aggressive story.
    Rolando took a bite of rice. Talked broken Swedish with a mouth full of food: “Yo, paste even betta than powder. Like, it middle product, not finished. Get you in higher up. Don’t have to deal with them boys on the street. Yeah? Do business with real gangstas, fo’ real. Homeboys without heat on their ass all damn day. And, move easier. No fucking dust. Easier to hide.”
    Even if Jorge’d heard all of Rolando’s half-baked ideas by now, the slammer offered a first-class education. Jorge, receptive. Had learned. Listened. Knew a lot already, before he went in. After fifteen months in Österåker, he knew the business inside and out.
    J-boy: proud of himself. He knew all about the cocaine routes from Colombia via London. Where to score, what the price was, how to distribute, which middlemen to use, where to unload the shit. How to bulk it without the junkies knowing and how to cut it without the rich Stureplan set catching on. How to package it. Who to bribe, who to avoid, who to stay tight with. One of the latter: Radovan.
    Fuck.
    The chow hall was a good place for private talk. Enough noise so that no one could really hear what you were saying. What’s more, it wasn’t seen as hush-hush. No sneaking. Just chatting, openly.
    Jorge had to steer the conversation in the right direction. Had to know Rolando’s stance.
    “We’ve talked about this a thousand times. I know you’re into it. But I’m gonna stay away from the shit for a while. When I get outta here, I’m gettin’ the hell outta this cold-ass Nazi country. And I got no plans of becoming some fuckin’ flake myself.”
    “Winnin’ points. Never use. Only sell. Wisdom of the day.”
    Carefully, he tested Rolando.
    “You got good channels. Heavy hitters got your back, right? No one’s gonna touch you here. Fuck, you could break today and make it easy.”
    “Break? Not my game plan right now,
hombre.
Speakin’ of, yo you heard? Know that dude, OG guy, Jonas Nordbåge. Got done.”
    Jorge caught on. “I know who he is. Used to bang that centerfold chick, Hannah Graaf. The guy flew custody in Gothenburg, right?”
    “S’right. Same day the