In the Shadow of Sadd Read online

  IN THE SHADOW OF SADD

  Sara Blaedel, Gretelise Holm, Lars Kjaedegaard & Steen Langstrup

  IN THE SHADOW

  OF SADD

  2 Feet Entertainment

  FM 112,8 MHz

  Steen Langstrup

  There is always a unique atmosphere in the car when you drive through the City with a dead body in the back. It’s slightly oppressive, a kind of heavy silence. The low purring sound from the engine’s eight cylinders and the rhythm of the windshield wipers lie just beneath the silence, as though covered with a blanket. You are alone, and yet not completely alone.

  Bruno Hanson stops at a red light and checks the side-view mirror. The blue taxi behind him signals to make a right turn. He releases his grip on the wheel and runs a hand through a head of hair as short as beard stubble. He taps out a beat on the steering wheel.

  The body is hidden under a dark-blue blanket. There are windows in the back of the van, but if anyone looked, they wouldn’t see anything but a shapeless heap covered with a blue blanket. And besides, this is the City and people tend to mind their own business.

  If he lifts a corner of the blanket, he’ll see that the skin of the body is turning blue as the blood ebbs inward, now that the heart can no longer circulate it through the body. No pulse, no breathing. The eyes do not move beneath the lids. There is no life. That’s death. It’s not the first time Bruno has moved a dead body in his old Chevy van. He’s a pro, and if you work for Jimmy Sadd, this is how it is. He knows that the body is still warm to the touch. A body cools down fairly slowly, and he’s got the heater going full blast to slow down the rigor mortis, so the body won’t stiffen before he can get rid of it.

  He recalls the first time Jimmy Sadd asked him to move a dead body. He had been Jimmy’s driver for a couple of months at that time. He drove Jimmy and his little wife around for opening nights, galas and that kind of thing in Jimmy’s pink limo. The limo was blown up by the Latvian mafia in the harbor about four years ago. Jimmy didn’t get hit by the explosion, but he decided to keep a low profile for a while. So, no limos. Bruno was given other jobs and he now had more responsibility in the organization, although people still call him the Driver.

  That night in the pink limo, Jimmy said that he had to talk to a guy he’d just spotted on the sidewalk. At the time it seemed like a coincidence, but Bruno now knows that there aren’t too many coincidences in the life of Jimmy Sadd. The guy was a little prick of a dealer – hooded sweatshirt, frightened eyes, fast talk – none of which did him any good.

  He had cheated Jimmy, and the score was settled on the spot. Jimmy shot him right there, in the limo. He leaned over toward Bruno and said, “Down in midtown they’re building this big forty-six story place for Cheet Insurance. They work around the clock. They’re working on the foundation right now. They’re expecting you. Take our dead friend down there. Ask for Franz. He’ll take care of it. Now, take me to the theater. The mayor’s waiting.”

  Bruno did as he was told. That’s what you do, that’s the way it is. But there had been a traffic accident down by the stadium and Bruno was caught in traffic. It should have taken him about thirty minutes to get to the building site after he had dropped Jimmy off at the theater. It ended up taking two hours and fifteen minutes. Alone in Jimmy’s pink limo, with a dead body in the back seat. Bruno felt hot – he was sweating buckets. The paranoia started to hum in his body as the line of cars inched forward. Though he had turned the air conditioning all the way up, his clothes were still soaked when he got to the building site and finally found Franz, who was upset because the cool air from the air conditioning had sped up the rigor mortis. The body was stiff as a board. It isn’t easy to remove a dead body from a limo when it’s frozen in a sitting position.

  Now Bruno is sweating again, but it’s not just from the heater. Usually, everything is planned. He knows where to take the body, who to hand it over to, and so on. But this time there is no plan at all. He has to work it all out by himself. There wasn’t even supposed to have been a body. Sadd is in jail for the next couple of months. There’s nobody left to plan anything. Bruno is all alone.

  What the hell is he supposed to do with the body? He could dump it into the harbor, but the sun will be up soon, lighting the scene for the morning rush hour traffic. Some old broad might call the cops if she saw a big guy dumping a body in the water while she was walking Fido. And the cops don’t like Jimmy the way they once did. Besides, the harbor belongs to the Latvians.

  He’ll have to think of something. But it’s hard to think when you have a dead body in the car. It’s hard when you can sense the soul, or whatever it is, shifting around back there. You are not entirely alone.

  Bruno takes a quick look at the body behind him before turning on the radio.

  ***

  This is Alley-Cat Jack on your number-one radio station. Numero uno. You know which one that is: Radio Fake, 112.8 MHz on your FM dial.

  To all of you who are still awake, the party isn’t over. The sun’s on its way up, even though you can’t see it through the clouds. It’s real late, but stay up just a little while longer. To all you wage slaves like myself, let me wish you a good morning on yet another rainy day. The view, from where I’m sitting, is several shades of gray. Overcast and wet. There’s some congestion on the northbound lanes of the E triple 6. Something about an overturned truck.

  I remembered something, a while ago, as I was sitting here watching the rain. When I was a little boy, I thought it was God and the angels peeing when it rained. An image that pretty much sums up life here in the City, I think.

  You know that feeling?

  Then give me a call. The phones are open.

  ***

  Bruno Hanson was 25 when Jimmy Sadd visited him at his home.

  “I hear you’re pretty tough.”

  “Who said that?”

  “If you’re as tough as your brother George, I might have some work for you.”

  “I’m doing okay.”

  “I need a driver.”

  “I don’t have a license.”

  George is five years older than Bruno. They’re only half-brothers – same mother, never had any contact with the fathers. The mother lived off a disability pension and spent the better part of their childhood in a pill haze, in front of the TV. In a neighborhood where it wasn’t at all uncommon to hear gunshots at night, the boys were left to fend for themselves. They did so by joining a gang, the Spiders, that sold hash and speed in the nearby schools by day, and fled from the police in boosted cars by night. Bruno was sixteen years old when he was charged in the killing of a rival Turkish gang member. He was convicted of murder in the first degree. At the age of twenty-five, his training as a criminal all but complete, he was granted parole. He was ready to start his career, and Jimmy Sadd knew it.

  ***

  “You’re talking to Alley-Cat Jack, so spit it out!”

  “Hello, my name’s Noah.”

  “Hi, Noah. Is your mother religious?”

  “Not really. How do you mean – what are you getting at?”

  “Nothing, forget it. What’s on your mind, Noah?”

  “I found this fantastic restaurant out by the bridge where you can get EVERYTHING. Yesterday I had an ostrich omelet with babirusa bacon for my appetizer, and wait till you hear what I had for the main course! Tapir steak, lightly seasoned, with couscous and a little chili. It was unbelievable. I’ve never tasted anything like it.”

  “Uh, tapir is an endangered species, Noah. There’s only a few hundred left in the world.”

  “Exactly, that’s what made it so fantastic. You have to taste it while you still can!”

  “Foreign food isn’t really my thing. I tasted whale once, and I was sick for a week.”

  ***

  Bruno turns off the radio, as he deliberately refrains from staring into the rear-view mirror at the police car that has just swung in behind him. No need to draw attention. If they stop him with a dead body in the back, he’s fucked.

  Most cops can be bribed – it’s just a question of the amount. But regardless of the amount of grease, there’s no way around the fact that the greasing itself has to be take place before the deed is done, whatever that deed may be. Afterwards, it’s pretty much impossible. If you’re busted in the middle of everything, the cops will think that you tried to keep them out of it, and they don’t like that.

  Besides, these are new times, since the cops themselves have become more active in the gray zones. Jimmy Sadd is inside for a trivial matter because they wanted him out of the way, so they could expand their operations in the area around the old vegetable market, where Sadd had guaranteed the safety of the hawkers for years. It’s police turf now. A protection racket.

  He’s stuck in a red wave. Every single traffic light turns red just before he reaches it. He can’t do anything about it. With the cops right behind him, he can’t drive any faster, or use the carpool lane. He can’t take any chances, so he stops for a red light again now. He tries not to steal a glance at the rear-view mirror, as he wonders where to dump the body. Eventually he relents and steals a glance at the side mirror. There’s a female cop behind the wheel, and a slightly older man next to her, with the classic policeman’s mustache.

  ***

  The rain is drumming down on the roof of the van. The City is waking up. A large, orange street sweeper rumbles through the intersection as
a paperboy tosses a stack of newspapers onto the sidewalk outside the corner kiosk. The street lamps go out. In the back a cell phone rings. The body’s cell phone. It must be in the trouser pocket. It rings four times before finally going quiet. A pearl of sweat trickles down Bruno’s cheek.

  Bruno fishes out his own cell from his jacket pocket and looks at it as he weighs the pros and cons. But he can’t call now – not with the cops on his ass.

  He’s ripped away from his thoughts when the cops suddenly begin to beep their horn angrily behind him. Green, for Christ’s sake. He tosses the cell onto the passenger seat, puts the Chevy in gear and starts through the intersection.

  He tries to tell himself that everything’s cool, but his heart is beating a little harder and faster than normal. He has his new Walther automatic pistol in the glove compartment. No serial number, untraceable. But it’s his own van. So easy does it. There’s no way to shoot your way out of this one. They’d be waiting for him in his apartment. Maybe they’d rummage through his belongings and drink his vodka. But he’d be busted before he knew what hit him. He has to stay cool. He’s a professional.

  Red again. He pulls into the left lane and signals. The police car rolls up along his right side. He can only catch a glance of the blue emergency lights through his side window. He taps on the steering wheel again, then fiddles with his cell.

  It startles him when the cops turn on the siren, and the lights on the roof of the police car start blinking blue. He drops the phone, which falls to the floor of the van and out of sight. With tires screeching, the police car makes a right at the intersection and disappears down a side street.

  Bruno curses. Clenching his teeth, he rocks around in his seat, looking for the cell phone on the floor of the van. The light turns green, and some moron in a black Nissan honks at him, waving his middle finger back and forth across the windshield. The Chevy coughs, seizes up and dies. It won’t start. And the dead body in the back is just lying there, silent but obtrusive, as he turns the ignition again and again and hears the starter whirl around without the engine turning over. It’s the moisture. The old Chevy doesn’t approve of all this rain. He tries again. The sweat is now running off his nose in big, round droplets. The van finally kicks over. He hits the gas and moves up a little, but by now the light has changed again, and the cross traffic is about to move. There is more honking, more shouting, more people giving the finger, but at last he makes his left and moves on.

  He just follows the traffic for the next few minutes, without having any idea where he’s going, and without thinking. Slowly his stress level begins to fall. He spots the cell on the floor next to his right foot. He leans forward and grabs it, then pushes a couple of buttons and lifts the phone to his ear.

  “This is Helena,” a husky voice mumbles.

  “Bruno. Is George there?”

  “God damn, Bruno. You know how late it is? What’s wrong with you?”

  “Just wake him up, for fuck’s sake! I’m in some deep shit here, you understand?”

  “Don’t you call here and start ordering me around, Bruno.”

  “Helena. Just listen to me. I’m on my way to your place. I’ll be there in ten minutes. Wake up George and tell him I’m coming, okay?”

  “He isn’t here.”

  “What?”

  “He. Is. Not. Here.”

  Bruno rubs his face with his hand. “Then where is he?”

  “Fuck if I know, Bruno. Does he ever tell me anything? Down at the garage maybe.”

  “This early?” He pulls the van up to the curb outside a leather shop. The mannequin in the window is a nun with nipple clamps and a whip in her hand.

  “The phone rang last night. I think he said something about water damage at the workshop. I don’t know, I was sleeping. Which is what I’d be doing right now if you hadn’t called and woke me up.”

  “Water damage?”

  “Yeah.”

  He hangs up and rests his head on the steering wheel. George isn’t going to be happy about this.

  “Fuck! FUCK, FUCK, FUCK!” he shouts and flings the phone down to the floor. George will not be pleased when he turns up outside the workshop with a dead body, while George is running back and forth with pots and pans, as the rain drips through the roof, destroying a fortune’s worth of tools and machinery.

  There’s a knock on the window. Bruno lifts his head and sees a man outside in a rain jacket and sou’wester, like a fisherman. “Are you ill?” he shouts with a worried look.

  Bruno just stares at him. A paperboy, his papers hidden in great saddlebags mounted to his bicycle, with green flaps to protect them from the rain. The expression in his eyes – he’s one of those hero types who takes a first-aid course and then storms around looking for someone to save.

  “I’m okay.”

  “You sure? You looked like you needed help.”

  “Piss off, huh?” Bruno snatches the cell up off the floor. “Get lost.”

  “It’s just ...”

  Bruno turns away from him and dials the number to George’s garage.

  The man once again knocks on the window.

  “WHAT?!”

  “Your phone is broken.”

  Bruno turns the phone in his hand. How could he not have noticed? The entire back of the phone had been knocked off, and was still resting on the floor of the van, along with the battery and the SIM card.

  “Yeah, I know.” He gestures as if to say, ‘I know what I’m doing,’ maybe even with the hint of a smile. Then he gathers the phone cover, battery and SIM card and tries to reassemble the phone. But the cover is cracked, and no matter how he rearranges the chip, it won’t stay put. The battery doesn’t seem to fit at all.

  “Allow me,” the paperboy says as he opens the door. Before Bruno can refuse, the man has snatched the pieces, inserted the SIM card and pushed the battery into place. “The cover is cracked, but if you’re careful, you can still use it.”

  Bruno just stares back at the paperboy. “So he gets to save the day after all,” he thinks to himself. “Fuck, some people are so determined to be good that it makes me want to puke.”

  “Thanks,” he mumbles, taking the cell out of the paperboy’s hand while putting the car into gear. “I’m kind of busy.”

  “That’s okay. I’m just glad I could help.”

  Bruno slams the door shut and hits the gas. He has to wait a few seconds while a large garbage truck rumbles by, then he swings all the way around and heads off in the opposite direction. George’s garage is located in the other end of the City.

  He pushes a few buttons on the cell, but it won’t turn on. “Just glad I could help. Fuck me ... and the damn thing doesn’t even work.” He tosses it on the passenger seat and steals a glance at the dead body in the back, covered by the dark-blue rug.

  ***

  “You’re talking to Alley-Cat Jack, what’s on your mind, Angelica?

  “Angelina. My name is AngeliNA.”

  “Okay, sorry. AngeliNA, what’s on your mind?”

  “Advertising, Jack. I am so sick and tired of being bombarded with naked women all the time. Wherever you look. Boobs, boobs, boobs. Butts, butts, butts.”

  “I’ve been bombarded by worse things.”

  “Maybe, but we have to think of the children. They get this twisted impression of women – they see them as these lustful sex bombs with enormous breasts. It’s bad for the kids, Jack. The advertising industry ought to be held accountable. We have to fight against ...”

  “Angelina. This is an ad-financed radio station. Let me just underline that the opinions expressed here on the program do not necessarily reflect the positions of myself or Radio Fake.”

  “You sold out to them, Jack!”

  “Maybe, but there could be a valid reason for using scantily clad women in advertisements.”

  “How about the new commercial for Kissies Cat Food?”

  “Oh, right. ‘Please your puss.’ Good motto.”

  “It’s disgusting. And what do naked breasts have to do with a commercial for cat food?”

  “Cats drink milk.”

  “I think it’s time for us feminists to up the ante. Those advertising fascists aren’t going to listen until they feel a little pain themselves. I suggest that we form an underground feminist army that ...”