Naja Aidt - Rock, Paper, Scissors

“Never,” Thomas says.

“Burglary-proof panes?”

“No thanks. If sunlight doesn’t spill onto the floor, it’s pointless.”

The glazier smiles. “People usually don’t care about things like that. But I’m not gonna complain. It’s good business for me.” They work quickly and efficiently. They remove old slivers, nails, putty, and wood strips. They clean the rabbet notches, sanding and puttying. Carefully, the glazier measures the door pane and cuts the glass on the floor of the van. He arranges the new window in the frame, and the assistant hands him the nails and a small hammer with a square head. Maloney tries to seem interested. “What’s that called?” “A glazier’s hammer,” the glazier mumbles with a couple of nails in his mouth. Suppressing laughter, Maloney looks at Thomas. “Makes sense. A glazier’s hammer . .” With a sure hand, the glazier putties a perfect slanting edge around the pane. The assistant keeps an eye on even the tiniest movements, scrutinizing the technique. Then they turn to the store’s windows. The assistant’s already waiting at the van with suction cups, which they use to carefully transfer the large piece of glass over to the window frame and position it in the rabbet. Then they begin tapping the molding firmly in place along the edge. “There!” The glazier backs onto the street and admires his work. “You can paint the molding right away, but don’t go touching the puttied surfaces until they’ve dried properly. Give it a few weeks. And you said something about a cabinet?” The glazier, a small, stooped man wearing a brown smock, is in the habit of rubbing his chin often, and has a cluster of stiff gray hairs poking from his pointy ears. He shuffles into the store, measures the cabinet panes and, mumbling to himself, jots the numbers into his notebook. The assistant stands off to the side, his hands thrust deep into his pockets. His ratty overalls are a washed-out blue. They converse about the break-in. Both the glazier and the assistant think it’s odd that the perpetrators didn’t take anything with them. “It doesn’t pay off then, does it? I mean. . going through all that trouble for nothing,” the assistant says, blushing in the same moment the words exit his mouth. He’s just a big boy. “Crime never pays, Samir,” the glazier says sharply. “No. But it wasn’t even theft. . you know. That’s exactly what. . it isn’t . .” The glazier just looks at Samir. And Samir lowers his head. The four of them return outside to the sunlight. Maloney says, “It must’ve taken a helluva a long time to smash everything so consistently. Who would do that, and why?” Thomas feels his stomach squeezing into a hard knot. A sudden, bottomless fear. The glazier and Samir shake their heads, and the glazier fastens his gaze on a point far in the distance. “Meaningless,” he mutters. “And that it happened here, in such a nice neighborhood. .” He falls silent. Samir packs the tools. Soon they drive off in the dented van. Thomas saves the receipt for the insurance company. They admire the new glass partitions and decide that the cleaning job is much too great for Eva to do, even if she brings her attractive niece with her. Thomas calls a company and orders what they call a “post break-in clean up.” They can come as early as Monday morning. Which means Annie and Peter can arrive a little later and help put all the products in the storeroom back on the shelves. Maloney surveys the depressingly empty store. “I can’t wait to see customers in here,” he says. “But I’m not placing any orders now. Not until first thing Monday.”

“You want to go over and get a drink?”

“Can’t. Have to go somewhere. But Monday. Maybe we should invite Annie and Peter to a company dinner? Call it a kind of perk? Because they’re our ‘faithful employees’?”

Thomas smiles. “We could do that.”

“See you soon,” Maloney says, clucking his tongue. He does a few dance steps, laughing, his back to Thomas, before switching over to his standard heavy gait.

Thomas saunters through the city with his duffel slung over his shoulder. He’s got plenty of time; the car rental agency is close to the store. He buys an iced coffee and an almond croissant and suddenly feels in really great spirits. She’ll definitely come. She answered his text. She responded to me, and that’s an opening. The weather is bewitchingly wonderful. The humidity is dropping, there’s a light breeze, bright colors everywhere; even the gray stone projects look better today. People have begun putting plants out on balconies. He walks along wondering whether they can swim in the lake up at Kristin and Helena’s. If the weather holds, they can. Maybe he should buy something for the twins. He texts Alice; she’s on her way there. Maybe they’ll have a good time. If Jenny doesn’t make any scenes, and if Patricia comes along. If they can make the effort to show that everything’s fine with their relationship. Is it fine? Fundamentally fine. He has no clue. But the thought of her leaving him makes him so weak, like his entire being is seeping out of him. When he stops to smoke on a bench beneath a tall acacia tree, the real estate agent calls and says “accepted.” “Fantastic!” Thomas catches himself shouting. The agent’s in his car and can meet him at a nearby square in fifteen minutes. Thomas waits beside a copper statue, coated with verdigris, and white with dove shit, depicting a young man with a raised sword.

Then the agent arrives and Thomas says, “And she knows that I’m paying in cash?”

“Yes. But you’ll have to take it as is,” the agent says. “She doesn’t want any trouble.”

“What does she mean by that?”

“Good question. I told her that we’ll test for dry-rot and mold. The electrical wires will also need to be examined. She agreed, but very reluctantly. You won’t end up with a moldy building or a fire hazard. I know a guy who can look at it over the weekend.”

“Thank you. That’s very thoughtful. And you’re sure that I’ll get a valid deed?” The real estate agent nods, tugging at his tie. Thomas thanks him again. They agree to meet the following Wednesday, when the money will change hands. “And the deed will be under-signed,” the agent says. The seller will be present. “2:00 P.M. at the location.” He shakes Thomas’s hand. Thomas sits at the statue’s feet and smiles. It’s perfect. Right now, just after the business was defiled, Lindström & Maloney gets back on its feet again with a new branch. That’ll teach them, the bastards. How’s that for rehabilitation. That’s how you do it. Thomas trembles inwardly with joy. He can’t stop smiling. Alice will have a job and an apprenticeship, a future , and it’ll also help secure him in his own retirement (he imagines); the money will be removed from the microwave, will be passed on, and his father will be eliminated forever. The old dream of owning a chain (albeit a very small one) will become a reality. All in one fell swoop. And he can get the papers right away, despite the sale being under the table. The seller has, presumably, a few skeletons of her own in a closet. It’s perfect.

When he turns the corner of the street where the car rental agency is located, he literally bumps into Frank. Simply smacks his chest into his shoulder. Frank with his slicked-back hair and smarmy smile. The smell of aftershave mixed with cigarette smoke, his sweet, nauseating breath.

Thomas feels a dull thump on his back. “What are you doing in this part of town? We haven’t seen much of you lately.”

“No.” A short pause. And then it just comes barreling out of him. “But maybe you’ve seen my store?”

Frank looks at him, baffled.

“There was a break-in. I couldn’t help but think of you and Fatso. Did you stop by with baseball bats?”