Unspoken

he had done when he arrived home from the track the previous evening. Where the hell?
    Oh, that’s right. The broom closet. With trembling fingers he pulled out the package of vacuum cleaner bags. When he touched the bundle of banknotes, he breathed a sigh of relief. He sank down onto the floor, cradling the package in his hands as if it were a valuable porcelain vase. At the same time, thoughts about what he was going to do with the money flickered past. Fly to the Canary Islands and order drinks with little umbrellas. Maybe invite Monica or Bengan to come, too—or why not both of them?
    An image of his daughter appeared. He really ought to send some of the money to her. She was grown up now and lived in Malmö. Contact between the two of them had been broken off long ago.
    Henry stuffed the package back in the closet and stood up. Thousands of stars danced before his eyes.
    The need for a drink became more urgent. The beer cans were empty, as were the liquor bottles. He lit one of the longer cigarette butts from the ashtray, swearing as he burned his finger.
    Then he discovered a bottle of vodka under the table, and it turned out to have a decent slug left in the bottom. He greedily gulped it down, and the merry-go-round in his head eased up a bit. He went out to the patio and breathed in the cold, raw November air.
    On the lawn lay an unopened can of strongbeer, of all things. He picked it up and definitely started feeling better. In the fridge he found a piece of sausage and a saucepan of dried mashed potatoes.
    It was Monday evening. It was past six o’clock, and the state liquor store was closed. He had to go out and find some booze.
    Henry took the bus downtown. The driver was nice enough to let him ride free, even though he could now afford to pay the fare. By the time he got out at Östercentrum, he was the only passenger. Rain was in the air, and it was dark and desolate on the streets. Most of the stores were closed at this time of night.
    On one of the benches near the Allis hot dog stand sat Bengan with that new guy Örjan from the mainland. An unpleasant type, pale with dark, slicked-back hair and a sharp look in his eye. The muscles of his arms testified to how he had spent his time in the slammer, from which he had recently been released. He had apparently been sent up for aggravated assault and battery. Tattoos covered his arms and chest; part of one was visible inside the dirty collar of his shirt. Henry felt anything but comfortable with him, and things were made only worse by the fact that he always had that growling attack dog in tow. The animal was white with red eyes and a square snout. Ugly as sin. The guy bragged that his dog had bitten a toy poodle to death in Östermalm in the middle of downtown Stockholm. The fucking upper-class dame who owned the poodle went nuts and starting hitting Örjan with her umbrella until the police showed up and took charge. He had gotten off with a warning to buy a stronger leash. The incident was even reported on TV.
    As Henry approached, a muted rumble issued from the dog’s throat; the animal was lying at Örjan’s feet. Bengan greeted him with a wobbly wave of his hand. It was apparent from far away that Henry’s friend was quite inebriated.
    “Hi, how are things? Congratulations again. It’s so fucking great.” Bengan gave his friend a befuddled look.
    “Thanks.”
    Örjan pulled out a plastic bottle containing a colorless, unidentified liquid.
    “Want some?”
    “Sure.”
    The liquor had a pungent smell. After several sizable gulps, Henry’s hands stopped shaking.
    “That went down nice, didn’t it?” Örjan asked the question without smiling.
    “Absolutely,” said Henry, and he sat down on the bench next to the other two men.
    “How’s it going for you?”
    “Well, I’ve got my head up and my feet down.”
    Bengan leaned closer to Henry and breathed loudly in his ear.
    “Shit, what about all that dough?” he muttered. “It’s amazing. What are you thinking of doing with it?”
    Henry cast a quick glance over at Örjan, who had lit a cigarette. He was staring out toward Östergravar and seemed to have stopped listening.
    “We’ll talk about it later,” whispered Henry. “I want you to keep your mouth shut about the money. Don’t tell anyone else about it. Okay?”
    “Sure, no problem,” promised Bengan. “Of course, buddy.” He patted Henry on the shoulder and turned back to Örjan. “Give me a swig.” He grabbed the