Slugger Page 17

  ‘And Sigrid, what a temptress of a lass she was. Her figure was the envy of many an Östermalm lady, despite the corset-maker’s efforts.’

  ‘Hell!’

  I get up and scrabble together the greasy cards in his lap. My blood is racing.

  ‘You need to calm down, brother. What is the matter?’

  ‘Malaga! A memory artist. Could remember all the cards in a pack. I’ve never seen anyone rake in so much dough!’

  ‘What the hell are you plotting now?’

  ‘I’m no worse than him in my own way. You’re always saying there’s something wrong with my memory. I’d wager my hat that I could forget every last one of them.’

  ‘You don’t even have a blasted hat, brother.’

  ‘That’s hardly the point.’

  ‘You think people would shell out to see your crummy mind at work?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘You have no nose for business, just like I’ve always said.’

  ‘What the fuck is that supposed to mean?’

  ‘My brother’s brain isn’t equipped for handling complex situations.’

  Lundin stares at me, and I stare back. I don’t understand. He sighs.

  ‘God help those with no good sense, and not a coin in recompense. It is as if the minimal logic you did have has melted away in the heat.’

  ‘Isn’t remembering nothing whatsoever at least as respectable as remembering everything?’

  ‘One moment my brother is coming out with the most idiotic of notions, and the next you turn around and beat up poor weaklings as easily as ordinary folk pick flowers on the common. And every time I see you, you are even more beat up than before. When all the while you could be helping me out and working off your debts. He who lives without law, dies without honour.’

  ‘You’ve damn well pedalled schnapps to the entire neighbourhood for decades! And there’s nothing to do here, besides.’

  I sink down on the chair and lean back. Lundin tries to scratch himself with the fingers of his left hand. There is a clink as his iron hand falls back on the mattress. He sighs and shuts his eyes.

  ‘It was different during the influenza outbreak,’ he mumbles. ‘We had to dig the paupers’ graveyard from both directions at once to manage.’

  ‘Maybe things’ll turn around?’

  I lean farther back. The ceiling paint has yellowed over the years.

  ‘Yes, they will.’ Lundin looks out through the window. ‘With water shortages comes cholera, with cholera comes honest work.’

  I put the cards back and get up. I struggle to find my balance. I stick a cigar in the corner of my lips and pick up Dixie under my arm.

  ‘I have an errand in Kommendörsgatan, but then I’m coming home.’

  ‘Are you in a fit state?’

  ‘Like hell.’

  Lundin seems to hesitate before speaking.

  ‘Brother, can you ask the general store manager to come here with his Kodak to take our portrait?’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘For your memory.’

  A whistling shadow passes on the other side of the curtains. I bid farewell to the undertaker and leave him alone with his vinegar-smelling bed sheets.

  Dixie will have her morning porter at Bruntell’s general store before I take the number 6 to Slussen, and then I can ask about the photograph. I am staggering as I walk out. I hold the bitch more firmly and focus on the embroidered wall-hanging above the shop door: Order in all things. The little bell jingles and we step out into the relentless heat of the dog days.

  We near enough bash into Rickardsson. A familiar smell of Aquavera and snuff creeps into my broken nose. I stumble to find my balance and put Dixie down on the street. I straighten up and stroke my chin. I could have had a fucking bath. I adjust my tie to hide a lost collar button.

  ‘So Rickardsson’s out for a walk in this dazzling weather, I see?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  He is having difficulty moving his jaw when he speaks. He takes out his silver box of snuff, smacks it against his hand a few times and looks over at Ström’s junk shop.

  ‘Is Kvist on the go? Or does he have time for a coffee and a schnapps? Up at your place?’

  ‘I have a pressing job up in Östermalm.’

  ‘Then you should visit Nyström’s barbers first. And get your clothes stitched up.’

  ‘No time for that.’

  ‘And get a hat.’

  I glower down the sun-drenched street. It is empty save for a couple of leisurely mooching types walking along and dragging their feet.

  The air is trembling as if it wants to dissipate.

  We stand still for a moment. My thoughts stray to the many men he must have murdered, and the odd few I have killed, and the evening we shared. I wonder which one of us would have to make way for the other if we met on a narrow staircase?

  Probably me.

  These days.

  Rickardsson sucks in some snuff juice and I feel a stirring in my groin. I gasp for air and my knees feel as though they are crumbling under the weight of my body. Rickardsson kicks a crumpled packet of Stamboul cigarettes, then turns to face me. Dixie whimpers and I give the leash a tug to quieten her.

  ‘As Kvist knows, I go for a walk here every evening. Around seven or eight. Yes, eight, shall we say.’

  There is a brief silence, as if the very sun, the very heat between us, were a cruel fire consuming every breath, melting down every letter of every word.

  He pushes back his hat in that way that men do when they are about to get on their knees for another man. Finally the saliva starts to flow in my dry mouth and I swallow. Out of habit I take out my pocket watch. To my surprise the hands are moving again. I bring it to my ear. Deep inside the mechanism is ticking like the heart of an unplanned foetus.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Good.’

  Rickardsson nods goodbye. As he turns away, the hairy back of his hand strokes mine, seemingly by accident. The sound of the clacking of his American rhino shoes slowly dies away in the heat. I watch him from behind: his back as powerful as a parliamentarian, his hairy arms and his hands hanging like battledores from his wrists. It feels as though the heat of the sun is burning straight through me.

  A handsome devil though.

  Above me a window creaks and bangs open.

  ‘Kvist?’

  I look up at the building. The occultist is leaning out of his window.

  ‘What the fuck do you want?’

  ‘You disappeared in such a rush that I didn’t get a chance to warn you. I had a premonition. Kvist must be careful about joining forces with people he doesn’t know. It will bring you misfortune.’

  I nod absent-mindedly and stare at Rickardsson’s broad back until he dissolves into the sunshine.

  WEDNESDAY 22 JULY

  The hatch closes with a bang that is a touch too reminiscent of the procedure at Långholmen. Someone pushes and pulls the handle inside and the letter box with a gob full of gold rattles out a mocking guffaw. Maybe it is directed at me, unshaven and hatless as I am.

  Eventually the door to the exclusive speakeasy on Kommendörsgatan opens and I am looking down the barrel of a pistol. Svenne Crowbar holds out his enormous left mitt. The cuff of his stark white shirt rides up, revealing a tattoo on his wrist. A date: 7/2.

  ‘The shooter.’

  I stick my cigar in the corner of my lips, look around and take the Husqvarna out of its holster. Svenne Crowbar stuffs it in his trouser pocket.

  ‘Anything else?’

  I shake my head and follow the big gangster down a narrow corridor with walls draped in thick red curtains. An oriental-patterned carpet dampens the sound of our footsteps. The last time I was here was Christmas of ’32. A client of mine, the former film star Doris Steiner, exchanged luxurious furs for some form of liquid opium. If I hadn’t had that madcap beauty on my arm, I doubt I would have been admitted. Times are different now.

  I must have the upper hand.

&nbs
p; The empty bar hasn’t changed. We pass the booths and tables on our right. Last time there was a jazz quintet playing on the little stage and the large dance floor was packed with upper-class ladies, transvestites and drunken Östermalm villains. Flashes of all imaginable colours chased each other wildly across the dance floor, the bodies and tables. Now our steps echo in the deserted room. I wonder if I can ask him to get the light machine going.

  ‘Grog?’

  Svenne Crowbar grins and gestures towards the American bar and the shelves of bottles.

  ‘Thanks.’

  I smack my dry lips and climb onto one of the round bar stools. The paraffin candles in the lanterns along the bar have burnt out. Svenne Crowbar mixes whisky with Pommac fruit pop in two tumblers and I cast my gaze across the portraits of boxers hung high on the wall. All of the fighters are as white as cold corpses. They should add Joe Louis to the ranks. I take my drink and don’t mention it.

  ‘Last time I got a little umbrella in my drink.’

  ‘Well, fuck, of course my good sir Kvisten must have an umbrella.’

  The gangster roots around under the bar, finds one and sticks it in the glass. This time it is yellow. I pick it up. You can open and close the umbrella by moving a little paper cylinder up and down. I do it a few times and hear a hollow guffaw that I suppose must be coming from me.

  ‘Do you think they’ve seen these things in America?’

  ‘Course they fucking have.’

  I look at him, purse my lips, place the folded umbrella in my shirt pocket and hop down from the stool.

  ‘Ma?’

  Svenne Crowbar lifts the telephone receiver, presses a button and doesn’t request a number before speaking.

  ‘Kvist is here. Says he’s got information about those fucking shipments. Yes. No. He changed his mind, apparently. No, I didn’t swear. I did not. Okay.’

  Svenne Crowbar gestures towards the door to the right of the bar. There was a gorilla stationed there last time. Maybe it was him.

  ‘Follow the corridor to the iron door at the end.’

  I drain the grog and ask for another. The primary focus of the remainder of the day will be finding the right balance between inebriation and hangover. Then early to bed and I’ll be myself again in the morning.

  I walk through the dimly lit, red-painted corridor, with dark panels and four doors on each side. They are numbered with gold digits like in a hotel. From Room 3 light spills out across the floor of the corridor in the shape of a peacock’s arse; from Room 4 opposite I hear a radio playing a jazz song I actually recognise even though I don’t know what it is called.

  I hear the babbling of a child somewhere. The combination of smells is one I recognise all too well: ingrained tobacco smoke, sickly sweet intoxicating drinks, heavy perfume and the scent of desecrated female bodies.

  I go over to Room 3 and peek inside: a proper wardrobe, white enamel washbasin, vanity table with mirror, hair-curling rod and various small jars, and a nightstand with a glaring lamp and an overflowing ashtray. No windows. Under the bed there is an assortment of high-heeled shoes and a couple of empty bottles.

  The woman in the bed is a full-figured lady dressed in a negligee made of some sort of flimsy material. It has ridden halfway up her thigh. She is smoking and staring at a weekly magazine. On the floor sits a little toddler ripping pages out of another magazine with its chubby hands. The paper swirls round its head, half-covered with thin hair. The little one laughs. The woman looks up and I slap my forehead.

  ‘Shall I close the door?’

  ‘No need.’

  Her voice is hoarse.

  ‘Are you awaiting a visitor?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’ve got you under my skin,’ sings another woman from behind door number 4. I think I understand the words but am still not sure what it means. My English isn’t what it used to be, but it will come back to me quickly. Just as soon as I’m on the other side of the pond.

  ‘Half my life at sea.’

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  The woman snorts smoke out through her nose and returns to her magazine. Within a few steps I am standing in front of the hefty iron door hanging heavy on its hinges at the farthest end of the corridor.

  ‘Right in the lion’s den.’

  I take a deep breath that threatens to burst my lungs.

  Interactions with the upper class can either heat you up or burn you down. Something I have experienced before.

  I need a straw hat, a pair of sunglasses and to claim that suit from Herzog. Then I want a passport, visa and tickets to America. Maybe I have enough information to go first class. Hopefully I’ll get the Reaper killed to boot.

  I slug back the grog and knock.

  ‘Gold, you say? Gold and machine guns?’

  The tapping of the ivory cane’s ferrule reverberates between the walls of the spacious office. I am sitting in front of the heavy desk. The chair is armless with a fringe that caresses the floor underneath. In the other chair sits Nix, his eyes narrowed under his monobrow. Ma gives me an ashtray and parks her substantial backside on the tabletop. She is dressed in a shiny, emerald-coloured satin dress with double rows of buttons. Her hat is the size of a millstone and covered with feathers and frills.

  ‘So they are planning some sort of bomb attack.’

  Ma’s eyes are glittering.

  Pure, clean-cut hatred.

  I like what I see.

  ‘And when is this supposed to happen?’

  For a second my eyes dart up to the golden chandelier with its shining prisms. I think about it.

  ‘Soon. Straight after the Olympic inauguration, I believe. Something political.’

  ‘Bullshit!’ Nix crosses arms on his chest. ‘There’s no way in hell Ploman would be involved in that sort of thing!’

  He is really acting the tough guy. I inspect him. A few drops of red stand out from the whiteness of his right cuff, and I notice a certain redness to his knuckles. He may well have just beaten someone up, but what I find impressive is his appearance. He is dressed in a pinstripe suit and a striped waistcoat with a watch chain.

  Bold.

  Ma gives her son a look that makes him sit up straight. In the silence that follows I hear nothing but the scratching of the horn gramophone and the clinking of the pianist.

  She has control over her sons. With an elegant movement she takes a cigarette and sticks it in her long holder. I find my matches, get up and offer her a light, like during our car ride on Sunday. She nods thanks, leans back and lifts the receiver of her desk telephone.

  ‘Forget the grog. Kvist is here with news.’

  Nix scoffs. No idea why he is so peevish, I can’t figure him out. He throws a piece of sugar candy into his mouth and chews it with a crunch.

  The heavy iron door complains like a broken violin and Ma grimaces, deepening the wrinkles around her eyes and mouth. Svenne Crowbar comes into the office.

  ‘How many times have I told you to oil those hinges?’

  ‘Nix said he would do it.’

  ‘Like fuck did I say that!’

  ‘Language!’

  Ma drums her cane on the table, making the telephone receiver rattle on its stand.

  ‘It makes no difference who does it as long as it gets done.’ A flush of vexation spreads across her cheeks, she takes a deep breath and lowers her voice again. ‘Listen carefully now while Kvist describes the route.’ She gestures towards a map of the city hanging on the wall behind the desk, picks up her pince-nez and pinches it onto the tip of her nose.

  Both Nix and I get up. We walk around the desk from opposite directions and converge in front of the map. Nix points out Ploman’s den on Ynglingagatan. On his wrist is the same tattoo as his brother’s: 7/2.

  ‘The shipment comes from headquarters,’ says Nix.

  ‘Right. But the police first join here.’

  I point at the crossing between St Eriksgatan and Fleminggatan and continue to describe
the journey to Stadsgård quay in as much detail as I can. The small group listens attentively and enquires about the gold and guns.

  ‘Does Kvist have any proof of his story?’

  Nix glowers at me. I bite my tongue and struggle to keep calm.

  Ma taps ashes off her cigarette.

  ‘He has no reason to bear false witness.’

  ‘Revenge.’

  ‘What the hell are you talking about?’

  I shift my weight to the other foot to protect my broken rib from Nix, and clench my right hand into a fist.

  ‘Maybe you want to avenge the black-coat. A friend of yours? Gabrielsson, right? Maybe you invented all these stories about machine guns and fuck knows what because you don’t have the guts to take care of the problem yourself.’

  ‘Now listen here!’

  With a sharpness in her voice, Ma pokes Nix in the chest across the table with her cane.

  Nix glowers at me for another second before smacking the cane away with the back of his hand and backing up a few steps. He mutters something inaudible. The needle on the gramophone scratches. The pianist seems to have suddenly become bored, because the tempo increases and the piece doesn’t seem to hang together any more. Maybe he’s under the influence.

  ‘Maybe Kvist does have his own battle to fight,’ Ma continues, ‘but we should still be grateful that he came to us. It gives us a chance to act in time. Are we to assume that Kvisten has heard of the Munck Corps?’

  ‘The street in Old Town?’

  Ma looks at me over her pince-nez and furrows her brows before she resumes speaking.

  ‘I am, of course, referring to the paramilitary group that was formed with the blessing of the police force to assist said authority in defending society in the event of riots or left-wing uprisings. The members were recruited en masse from the National Socialists and worked incognito – naturally – in obscurity.’

  ‘That sounds vaguely familiar.’

  ‘Does Kvist know why this so-called protection corps was finally dissolved?’

  ‘Let me guess, that’s also a secret?’

  ‘It was revealed that Munck and his minions had got their hands on hundreds of firearms. From Germany.’

  ‘And how in the hell does the lady know all this?’