Two pieces of toast slathered in a thick layer of Nutella. This hotel: danker than the one in Pattaya. Jorge’s paper was burning up for real—Mahmud’s hospital bills were eating away at his assets worse than Javier’s hooker banging. Still, he was happy that Javier’d chosen to come with him. The time: ten-thirty. They were waiting for the new dude—his name was Martin. Last name: Hägerström. A real Sven name. The guy was a pure Sven—not like Jimmy and Tom, who were Svens but acted like they were children of the concrete. Martin Hägerström—how could you even have a name that was that Sven-like? Right now Hägerström was still snoozing. He slept a lot, that dude. Javier was talking about how tired he was, even though he’d had three cans of Krating Daeng, Thai Red Bull. “So when you think Mahmud’s gonna get out?” “Last I was there, they said they didn’t know. The screws in his arm’ve gotten twisted up somehow. And now he’s got a hospital infection too. Know what that is?”
