Life Deluxe (43 page)

Samitivej Hospital Phuket. Jorge’d expected something totally different: simpler, dirtier, crappier. Instead: ill foyer, mad classy, soaring ceilings, phat flowers in fat vases on the floor. Chandeliers dangling from above and display cases with, like, Thai relics or some shit like that. Farther off: a piano. A dude in a black suit was playing
pling-plong, pling-plong
—mad ching-chong music. At a hospital—kind of
loco
, man.

The welcome desk was like at a deluxe hotel: a glass counter, dark wood paneling in the background, people standing in line, waiting politely. A receptionist in a white nurse’s hat clapped her hands and said
“Kapun khap”
—like everyone else here did. But when Jorge started talking, she spoke perfect English.

Shit, this place was mad fly. But it cost too.

They knew right away: Mahmud al-Askori. Yes, sir. Unit four. We’ll take you to the room.

Jorge was holding the flowers awkwardly in his hand.

The walls were painted a bright white, the place was deserted.

The nurse pressed a button.

The elevator doors were made of metal.

They boarded.

Jorge was staying in a budget hotel nearby. Phuket was more expensive than Pattaya. Mahmud’s hospital bed was pricey.

The cash wouldn’t last forever. The take’d been slim. And J-boy’d refrained from a large part to calm the guys down after the fiasco. Plus: life in Pattaya hadn’t exactly been free.

He was thinking about going back to Swedeland to dig up the bills he and Mahmud’d buried in the woods. The ones that’d been in the security bags he’d stowed away. Six hundred Gs. Babak’d gotten two hundred and been happy with that. That’s what he’d said anyway. But now?

Jorge hadn’t seen Mahmud since he’d been run over by the Russians.

When they found out what’d happened, the mood among the boys’d hit a new record low.

Tom wanted to go back to Bangkok to gamble. Thought the whole gang needed a break from each other. Jimmy wanted to go home to Sweden. Didn’t give a shit about anything, that was what he said. Especially after Jorge’d fucked it up even more royally. Jorge forbade him to leave—fuck, he was the one who’d fucked up the fucking wheel loader.

Javier whined, as usual.

And Babak totally went off his rocker. Completely flipped his shit. “You candy-ass motherfucker. You tricked Mahmud. Said we were gonna pay those assholes. Then you tried to make him bounce in the morning. How the fuck you think the Russian-Thai mafia were gonna react? Huh? Smile and help you find a fucking taxi?”

Babak could go
chinga su madre
. Jorge wasn’t taking more shit from the Iranian—forget it. He turned on his heel and left. Expected Babak to yell something after him about the stolen bags.

Instead, Babak sprinted after him. Screamed so his spit sprayed like a sprinkler. Jorge ignored him. There was no energy left to fight now. And nothing came out about Jorge’s rip-off.

He kept on walking away. The boys would have to choose. Him or Babak.

The day after: they split up. Tom and Jimmy left for Bangkok with the Iranian. Jorge and Javier left for Phuket.

That’s really how it should’ve been from the get-go—robbers never stayed friends. Classic. A rule of thumb. Almost a
mandamiento
.

The ambulance’d driven Mahmud to the local hospital in Pattaya. But when they’d realized he was a Swedish citizen, they’d brought him here, to Phuket. Jorge and Javier followed. Waited to visit the Arab. First the hospital cunts said no, Mahmud was unconscious. Then they said the flu was spreading like wildfire in Thailand—risk of infection, blah blah blah. Then they said only family members were permitted to visit. If Jorge’d been a blond Sven, there’d’ve been none of this bullshit. As it was, he’d had to wait for over a week.

Mahmud’s room: parquet floors, a hospital bed, a fridge, a leather armchair next to a window that looked out over the hospital park, dried flowers in a basket on a little table. Even paintings on the walls.

Could’ve been a hospital room anywhere in Sweden. But the difference: the parquet floor, the paintings, the fridge—they didn’t have pimped shit like that in the socialist paradise. Thailand–Sweden: an unexpected victory—Thailand, three-zero.

The nurse was standing behind Jorge.

Mahmud was lying in the bed. Eyes shut. Still scabs and bandages on his face, a white neck thing around his throat, one arm bandaged, and a tube inserted into his hand. A green blanket covered the rest of his body.

Didn’t look good.

Honest: brother was fucked.

Mahmud wasn’t moving.

“
Habibi
, how you doing?”

Nothing happened.

Jorge walked over to the bed. Leaned down. “Yo, bro?”

Mahmud moved his hand. Opened one eye. Looked groggy.

“How you doing? Can you talk?”

Mahmud opened his other eye. Tried out a smile. It mostly looked like one side of his mouth was twitching.

Jorge held out the flowers. “I brought these. But you’ve gotta tell me if there’s anything else you need.”

Mahmud moved his arm slightly. Jorge understood: his bro was too tired to hold the flowers. Jorge gave them to the nurse instead.

Mahmud was speaking slowly. “Honest bro, I’m not feeling too hot.”

“Fuck,
compadre
. But are you done with surgery and stuff?”

“I don’t know. Ask her.”

Jorge turned to the nurse. She spoke okay English.

“You should probably speak to the doctor. But I can at least tell you that Mr. al-Askori was unconscious until yesterday. He has broken both of his collarbones, a couple of ribs, and one arm. He has had stitches in his face, on his arm, and on his back. His right shoulder was dislocated, and he had a serious concussion.”

“Concussion?”

“Yes, concussion. A serious one. He has had problems staying conscious, and he has headaches, is nauseous, has problems with his vision and balance.”

Mahmud moved his hand again. “Tell her to leave now.”

Jorge sent away the nurse. He pulled a chair up close to the bed. Sat down.

Mahmud was slurring his words. “I thank the Thai king and God for the morphine in this joint.”

Jorge looked down at him. A weak smile at least.

“Do you want me to get you other stuff?”

“No. My memory’ll apparently come back faster …”

Mahmud paused. Gathered strength.

“… if I don’t take a bunch of shit. But, bro, I can’t even remember the heist.”

They didn’t say anything, a few seconds passed.

Mahmud tried to say something. Word by word. Slowly.

“Jorge, thanks for comin’ up.”

“ ’Course, man, I’ll do anything for you. I was the one who guaranteed there was dough when they moved you. This hospital is private, you know. If we hadn’t made a little withdrawal from Tomteboda, we’d never be able to afford this luxury.”

Jorge’s turn to grin. Their eyes met. Mahmud looked insecure. Maybe sad. Maybe scared. The Arab was talking at half speed compared to normal. Maybe he was thinking the same thoughts that were rushing around in Jorge’s head. The big question: How the fuck was this gonna end?

Mahmud said, “Too bad we’re not nine-to-fivers.”

“Why?”

“Home and travel insurance.”

“Yeah, that’s true, they’ve got shit like that. But I’ve never met a real G from the hood who had home insurance.”

Jorge smoothed his hair back with one hand. Saw that look again in Mahmud’s eyes. Felt like someone was taking a knife to his heart. His buddy, his café brother, his best friend: obviously broken.

“Hey, by the way,” Jorge said. “Remember my buddy Eddie? He actually had home insurance. Then his place got broken into, someone wiped him clean. His new TV, over four hundred DVDs, the computer, his wife’s diamond earrings, his Cartier watch in eighteen carats with diamonds on every hour. Know what the insurance company said?”

“No.”

“Said that with his financial situation, no way he could’ve owned that shit. Said the whole thing was fraud. But I know that he owned that stuff ’cause I’ve seen it hundreds of times, and I know the shit wasn’t boosted. The gear was honest, straight through.”

Silence again. Jorge could hear Mahmud’s breathing: his bro was wheezing.

He said, “We’ve split up.”

Mahmud didn’t respond.

“It didn’t work anymore. Lots of fighting. Tom wanted to go to Bangkok again. Rollout. And your friend acted out one too many times.”

“Too bad.”

“That’s how it is now. Me and Javier, we’re here in Phuket. You check out in two days, that’s what I think.”

“Hope so.”

Jorge thought:
Ten thousand baht per day, that’s alotta dosh
.

Mahmud’d closed his eyes again. Leaned his head back.

Jorge was sitting still.

Thinking: Blackouts. Blurred vision. Nausea.
Joder
—his main man’d been transformed into a total goner. How was this gonna end?

Jorge tried to lighten the mood. “It’ll all work out. We’ll get a place here. Run it like the café at home. Settle down for a year or so.”

Mahmud still had his eyes shut. “That’d be nice,
habibi
.”

Jorge thought about the substitute teachers he’d had in middle school. They came, they smiled, they thought they could change things. They pretended they were there to teach critical shit.

“You’re important—you can be whatever you want to be.”

After a few days: the subs started to get the game: the kids at this school didn’t give a shit about their ideas, ’cause they’d already had forty other subs who’d talked the same smack. They looked more tired, they had outbursts, they yelled. When the week was over: you saw the panic in their eyes. Their body language revealed how broken they were. They started crying, ran out of the classroom, never came back.

The entire heist: like one of those substitute teacher weeks. Their plans’d been so tight, their ideas so rad, such ill planning. He’d thought he could change criminal history, become
legendario
, J-boy Royale, the king, the ghetto myth with the best cred in northern Europe. Then the hit happened, it didn’t go too well. They got away but left a Range Rover with more DNA leads than a used razor blade. The loot: not small like a mosquito’s cock, but smaller than expected. And then, then came the end of the story. Six guys in Thailand who could hardly keep it together. Started fighting with the Russian mafia. Wigged out. Split up.

Not just the familiar criminal anxiety.

Jorge felt the panic well up.

He wanted to cry, run away from here, never come back.

He took the elevator down. Had exchanged a few words with a nurse—Mahmud’d gotten some sort of infection, she said. He’d have to stay on for another two weeks, at least. But only if someone could pay.

Came as a shock—how long would this last? Still: Jorge promised he’d cover it. He had to write a guarantee, pay thirty thousand baht in advance.

He remembered that he’d promised Mahmud he’d call his sister, Jamila. Then he thought about his own sister, Paola. He’d called her from a pay phone, after Mahmud’s accident. Needed to hear her voice. Make sure little Jorge was doing good, that Mom was alive. Ten minutes of talking, seven minutes of crying.

The elevator doors opened.

Jorge walked through the entrance hall.

The heat struck him in the face as he walked outside. From AC chill to heat from hell.

He needed to get more cash—100 percent.

He needed something to live on: a bar or a café. Keep what he’d promised Mahmud. But maybe his bro was totally out of commission.

He needed to stay here for a few years, until things’d calmed down at home.

He needed to talk more with JW.

He needed someone’s help.

Someone who knew Thailand.

He had no idea who.

Hägerstrom leaned his head back. He felt a slight aching all through his back. There was nothing wrong with the airplane seat, but there was no legroom—cramped. He had been sitting like this for nine hours now. Read the airline magazine and a mystery by Roslund & Hellström, watched movies and a nature show on the little screen twelve inches from his face.