anything else for Los Lobos. Some said they were White Russians, some said they were Lithuanians, and others Norwegian Pakistanis. But everyone agreed it was a professional
organization—they feared no one and it was better to know too much than too little
.
It was a crappy autumn
.
I’d been broke for a while; I no longer had a job and was forced to keep a low profile. I’d found a buyer for the band’s equipment on Bispegata. He’d come to see it, and I’d convinced him it was mine—after all, I did live there! It was just a question of agreeing on a time to collect it. Then—like a rescuing angel—Irene appeared. Nice, freckled Irene. It was an October morning, and I was busy with some guys in Sofienberg Park when there she was, almost in tears with happiness. I asked if she had any money, and she waved a Visa card. Her father’s, Rolf’s. We went to the nearest ATM and emptied his account. At first, Irene didn’t want to, but when I explained that my life depended on it, she knew it had to be done. We went to Olympen and ate and drank, bought a few grams of speed and returned home to Bispegata. She said she’d had a fight with her mom. She stayed the night. The next day I took her with me to the station. Tutu was sitting on his motorbike wearing a leather jacket with a wolf’s head on the back. Tutu with a goatee, pirate’s scarf around his head and tattoos sticking out from his collar, but still looking like a fricking lackey. He was about to jump off and run after me when he realized I was heading toward him. I gave him the twenty thousand I owed, plus five in interest. Thank you for lending me the travel money. Hope we can turn over a new leaf. Tutu called Odin while looking at Irene. I could see what he wanted. And looked at Irene again. Poor, beautiful, pale Irene
.
“Odin says he wants f-f-five more,” Tutu said. “If not I’ve got orders to give you a b-b-b-bea-bea-bea …” He took a deep breath
.
“Beating,” I said
.
“Right now,” Tutu said
.
“Fine—I’ll sell two batches for you today.”
“You’ll have to p-p-pay for them.”
“Come on—I can sell them in two hours.”
Tutu eyed me. Nodded to Irene, who was standing at the bottom of the Jernbanetorget steps, waiting. “What about h-h-her?”
“She’ll help me.”
“Girls are good at s-s-selling. Is she on drugs?”
“Not yet,” I said
.
“Th-thief,” Tutu said, grinning his toothless grin
.
I counted my money. My last. It was always my last. My blood’s flowing out of me
.
A week later, by Elm Street Rock Café, a boy stopped in front of Irene and me
.
“Irene, this is Oleg,” I said and jumped down from the wall. “Say hello to my sister, Oleg.”
Then I hugged him. I could feel he hadn’t lowered his head; he was looking over my shoulder. At Irene. And through his denim jacket I could feel his heart accelerating
.
O FFICER B ERNTSEN SAT with his feet on the desk and the telephone receiver to his ear. He had called the police station in Lillestrøm, Romerike Police District, and introduced himself as Thomas Lunder, a laboratory assistant for Kripos. The officer he was speaking to had just confirmed they had received the bag of what they assumed was heroin from Gardermoen. The standard procedure was that all confiscated drugs in the country were sent for testing to the Kripos laboratory in Bryn, Oslo. Once a week a Kripos vehicle went around collecting from all the police districts in Østland. Other districts sent the material via their own couriers.
“Good,” Berntsen said, fidgeting with the false ID card, which displayed a photo and the signature of “Thomas Lunder, Kripos,” underneath. “I’ll be in Lillestrøm anyway, so I’ll pick up the bag for Bryn. We’d like such a large seizure to be tested at once. OK—see you early tomorrow.”
He hung up and looked out the window at the new area around Bjørvika rising toward the sky. Thought of all the small details: the sizes of
organization—they feared no one and it was better to know too much than too little
.
It was a crappy autumn
.
I’d been broke for a while; I no longer had a job and was forced to keep a low profile. I’d found a buyer for the band’s equipment on Bispegata. He’d come to see it, and I’d convinced him it was mine—after all, I did live there! It was just a question of agreeing on a time to collect it. Then—like a rescuing angel—Irene appeared. Nice, freckled Irene. It was an October morning, and I was busy with some guys in Sofienberg Park when there she was, almost in tears with happiness. I asked if she had any money, and she waved a Visa card. Her father’s, Rolf’s. We went to the nearest ATM and emptied his account. At first, Irene didn’t want to, but when I explained that my life depended on it, she knew it had to be done. We went to Olympen and ate and drank, bought a few grams of speed and returned home to Bispegata. She said she’d had a fight with her mom. She stayed the night. The next day I took her with me to the station. Tutu was sitting on his motorbike wearing a leather jacket with a wolf’s head on the back. Tutu with a goatee, pirate’s scarf around his head and tattoos sticking out from his collar, but still looking like a fricking lackey. He was about to jump off and run after me when he realized I was heading toward him. I gave him the twenty thousand I owed, plus five in interest. Thank you for lending me the travel money. Hope we can turn over a new leaf. Tutu called Odin while looking at Irene. I could see what he wanted. And looked at Irene again. Poor, beautiful, pale Irene
.
“Odin says he wants f-f-five more,” Tutu said. “If not I’ve got orders to give you a b-b-b-bea-bea-bea …” He took a deep breath
.
“Beating,” I said
.
“Right now,” Tutu said
.
“Fine—I’ll sell two batches for you today.”
“You’ll have to p-p-pay for them.”
“Come on—I can sell them in two hours.”
Tutu eyed me. Nodded to Irene, who was standing at the bottom of the Jernbanetorget steps, waiting. “What about h-h-her?”
“She’ll help me.”
“Girls are good at s-s-selling. Is she on drugs?”
“Not yet,” I said
.
“Th-thief,” Tutu said, grinning his toothless grin
.
I counted my money. My last. It was always my last. My blood’s flowing out of me
.
A week later, by Elm Street Rock Café, a boy stopped in front of Irene and me
.
“Irene, this is Oleg,” I said and jumped down from the wall. “Say hello to my sister, Oleg.”
Then I hugged him. I could feel he hadn’t lowered his head; he was looking over my shoulder. At Irene. And through his denim jacket I could feel his heart accelerating
.
O FFICER B ERNTSEN SAT with his feet on the desk and the telephone receiver to his ear. He had called the police station in Lillestrøm, Romerike Police District, and introduced himself as Thomas Lunder, a laboratory assistant for Kripos. The officer he was speaking to had just confirmed they had received the bag of what they assumed was heroin from Gardermoen. The standard procedure was that all confiscated drugs in the country were sent for testing to the Kripos laboratory in Bryn, Oslo. Once a week a Kripos vehicle went around collecting from all the police districts in Østland. Other districts sent the material via their own couriers.
“Good,” Berntsen said, fidgeting with the false ID card, which displayed a photo and the signature of “Thomas Lunder, Kripos,” underneath. “I’ll be in Lillestrøm anyway, so I’ll pick up the bag for Bryn. We’d like such a large seizure to be tested at once. OK—see you early tomorrow.”
He hung up and looked out the window at the new area around Bjørvika rising toward the sky. Thought of all the small details: the sizes of
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