on you, thinking you were comfortable back in your conventional little life. And that was about the time I started dealing
.
It happened by accident. I had milked a woman I was staying with, then I went to Oslo Central and asked Tutu if he had any ice. Tutu had a slight stammer and was slave to Odin, the boss of Los Lobos in Alnabru. He’d gotten his nickname from the time Odin, needing to launder a suitcase of drug money, sent Tutu to a bookie in Italy to put a bet on a match that Odin knew was fixed. The home team was supposed to win 2–0. Tutu had orders to say “two nothing,” but then came the turning point. Tutu was so nervous and stammered so much as he placed the bet that the bookie only heard “Tu-Tu.” Ten minutes before the end, the home team was of course leading 2–0, and everything was peace and light. Except for Tutu, who had just seen on the betting slip that he’d put the money on “tu-tu”: 2–2. He knew that Odin would kneecap him. He has a thing about kneecapping people. But then came turning-point number two. On the away bench was a new forward from Poland whose Italian was as bad as Tutu’s English, so he hadn’t picked up that the game was a fix. When the manager sent him onto the field, he played as well as he thought they had paid him to do: He scored. Twice. Tutu was saved. But when Tutu landed in Oslo that night and went straight to Odin to tell him about his stroke of good fortune, his luck evened out.He started by giving the news that he had put the cash on the wrong result. And he was so worked up and stammered so much that Odin lost patience, grabbed a revolver from a drawer and—turning-point number three—shot Tutu in the knee long before he came to the part about the Pole
.
Anyway, that day at Oslo Central Tutu told me there was no more ice to be h-h-had, I would have to make do with p-p-powder. It was cheaper and both parts are methamphetamine, but I can’t stand it. Ice is lovely white bits of crystal that blow your head off whereas the stinking yellow shit you get in Oslo is mixed with baking powder, refined sugar, aspirin, vitamin B 12 and the devil and his mother. Or, for connoisseurs, chopped-up painkillers that taste like speed. But I bought what he had with a tiny bulk discount and had enough money left for some A. And since amphetamines are health food compared to meth, just a bit slower to work, I snorted some speed, diluted the meth with more baking powder and sold it at Plata at a fantastic markup
.
The next day I went back to Tutu and repeated the biz, plus a bit more. Snorted some, diluted it and sold the rest. Ditto the day after. I said I could take more if he put it on the tab, but he laughed. When I returned on the fourth day Tutu said his boss thought we should do this on a more es-s-stablished basis. They had seen me selling, and liked what they saw. If I sold two batches a day that meant five thousand straight, no questions asked. And so I became a street pusher for Odin and Los Lobos. I got the goods from Tutu in the morning and delivered the day’s take with any leftovers to him by five. Day shift. There were never any leftovers
.
It went well for about three weeks. One Wednesday on Vippetangen quay, I’d sold two batches, my pockets were full of cash, my nose was full of speed, when I suddenly saw no reason to meet Tutu at the station. Instead I texted him to say I was going out of town and jumped on the ferry to Denmark. That’s the type of blackout you have to deal with when you take bumblebees for too long
.
When I got back I heard a rumor that Odin was on the lookout for me. And it freaked me out, especially because I knew how Tutu got his nickname. So I kept my head down, hung out around Grünerløkka. And waited for Judgment Day. But Odin had bigger things on his mind than a pusher who owed him a few thousand. Competition had come to town. “The man from Dubai.” Not in the bumblebee market, but in heroin, which was more important than
.
It happened by accident. I had milked a woman I was staying with, then I went to Oslo Central and asked Tutu if he had any ice. Tutu had a slight stammer and was slave to Odin, the boss of Los Lobos in Alnabru. He’d gotten his nickname from the time Odin, needing to launder a suitcase of drug money, sent Tutu to a bookie in Italy to put a bet on a match that Odin knew was fixed. The home team was supposed to win 2–0. Tutu had orders to say “two nothing,” but then came the turning point. Tutu was so nervous and stammered so much as he placed the bet that the bookie only heard “Tu-Tu.” Ten minutes before the end, the home team was of course leading 2–0, and everything was peace and light. Except for Tutu, who had just seen on the betting slip that he’d put the money on “tu-tu”: 2–2. He knew that Odin would kneecap him. He has a thing about kneecapping people. But then came turning-point number two. On the away bench was a new forward from Poland whose Italian was as bad as Tutu’s English, so he hadn’t picked up that the game was a fix. When the manager sent him onto the field, he played as well as he thought they had paid him to do: He scored. Twice. Tutu was saved. But when Tutu landed in Oslo that night and went straight to Odin to tell him about his stroke of good fortune, his luck evened out.He started by giving the news that he had put the cash on the wrong result. And he was so worked up and stammered so much that Odin lost patience, grabbed a revolver from a drawer and—turning-point number three—shot Tutu in the knee long before he came to the part about the Pole
.
Anyway, that day at Oslo Central Tutu told me there was no more ice to be h-h-had, I would have to make do with p-p-powder. It was cheaper and both parts are methamphetamine, but I can’t stand it. Ice is lovely white bits of crystal that blow your head off whereas the stinking yellow shit you get in Oslo is mixed with baking powder, refined sugar, aspirin, vitamin B 12 and the devil and his mother. Or, for connoisseurs, chopped-up painkillers that taste like speed. But I bought what he had with a tiny bulk discount and had enough money left for some A. And since amphetamines are health food compared to meth, just a bit slower to work, I snorted some speed, diluted the meth with more baking powder and sold it at Plata at a fantastic markup
.
The next day I went back to Tutu and repeated the biz, plus a bit more. Snorted some, diluted it and sold the rest. Ditto the day after. I said I could take more if he put it on the tab, but he laughed. When I returned on the fourth day Tutu said his boss thought we should do this on a more es-s-stablished basis. They had seen me selling, and liked what they saw. If I sold two batches a day that meant five thousand straight, no questions asked. And so I became a street pusher for Odin and Los Lobos. I got the goods from Tutu in the morning and delivered the day’s take with any leftovers to him by five. Day shift. There were never any leftovers
.
It went well for about three weeks. One Wednesday on Vippetangen quay, I’d sold two batches, my pockets were full of cash, my nose was full of speed, when I suddenly saw no reason to meet Tutu at the station. Instead I texted him to say I was going out of town and jumped on the ferry to Denmark. That’s the type of blackout you have to deal with when you take bumblebees for too long
.
When I got back I heard a rumor that Odin was on the lookout for me. And it freaked me out, especially because I knew how Tutu got his nickname. So I kept my head down, hung out around Grünerløkka. And waited for Judgment Day. But Odin had bigger things on his mind than a pusher who owed him a few thousand. Competition had come to town. “The man from Dubai.” Not in the bumblebee market, but in heroin, which was more important than
Similar Books
