Never Fuck Up: A Novel Read Free Page A

smell: a mix of hamburger meat and something rank. Ronald McDonald House donation jars by the registers; ads for Happy Meals on the tray covers; young, downy-lipped dudes and swarthy chicks behind the registers.
    The difference since he’d been here last: health fascism. Mini carrots instead of french fries, whole-wheat buns on the burgers instead of the traditional white bread, Caesar salad instead of extra cheeseburgers. What was people’s problem? If they didn’t exercise enough to burn normal food they should think twice before they even went into this place. Niklas ordered a mineral water.
    A man walked up to his table. Dressed in a long coat that almost dragged on the ground, under which he was wearing a gray suit and a white shirt. No tie. Slicked-back hair and empty eyes. A smile so wide it looked like his head was going to split in half.
    It must be the broker.
    The man extended his hand. “Hi, I’m the fixer.”
    Niklas ignored his hand. Nodded at him. Point: You may be the fixer I need—but that doesn’t mean I’m going to kiss your ass.
    The broker looked surprised. Hesitated for a moment. Then sat down.
    Niklas didn’t skip a beat. “What do you have for me and how does it work?”
    The broker leaned forward. “You seem to be a straight shooter. Aren’t you going to eat anything?”
    “No, not now. Just tell me what you have and how it works.”
    “All right. I’ve got listings anywhere you want. I can get you something south of the city, north of the city, Östermalm, Kungsholmen. I can get you something in the royal Drottningholm Park if you’re interested. But you don’t look like the type.” The broker laughed at his own joke.
    Niklas remained silent.
    “But remember, if you ever come claiming we’ve met here to discuss what we’re discussing, it didn’t happen. I’m in a meeting with some colleagues right now, just so you know.”
    Niklas neither heard nor understood what the broker was talking about.
    “Yeah, so, I’ve got myself covered in case of rotten eggs. Just so you know. If anything unpleasant happens, I have witnesses who’ll say I was busy with other stuff somewhere else right now.”
    “Okay. Good for you. But you didn’t answer my question.”
    The broker smiled again. Got going. Spoke rapidly. He was difficult to understand. Niklas had to ask him to repeat himself several times. The guy’s confident style didn’t match his jumbled manner of speaking.
    He described the listings in detail: in all the inner-city neighborhoods. Collaborations with landlords of luxury apartments, single-family homes, state-owned rental co-ops. Magnificent apartments in the inner city, one-bedrooms with eat-in kitchens on Södermalm or studios in the boroughs. According to him: safe, good-value deals.
    Niklas already knew what he wanted. A one-bedroom in an area just outside the inner city. Preferably near Mom.
    The broker explained the routine. The preparations. The timing. The process. The guy looked like he thought this was all a game.
    “First we’ll register you at a rental out in the boondocks for a few months—a place with a short tenant wait list attached to it. Everything’ll look good on paper. That’s where you’ll be registeredand since there was a short wait list, no one will wonder how you got your hands on it. I’ll deal with the landlord. After a few months, we’ll exchange the apartment for the one you’re actually going to buy. That way, the trade will look completely clean. After that, the seller will have to be registered at the same apartment you traded from—that is, your fake apartment—for at least two months. Credibility is everything in my field, as I’m sure you understand.”
    Problem. This wouldn’t cut it—Niklas had to get a place this week already. He had to get out of Mom’s apartment. Fast.
    The broker grinned. “Okay, I think I know your problem. Did your chick kick you out, or what? Shredded clothes? Trashed stereo? Things tend to go a