Rock, Paper, Scissors

by Naja Marie Aidt

  “Yes, thank you. If you were having one anyway.” Palvino opens the door of the cruiser and leans across the backseat. Now it’s the pistol in his belt that captures the sunlight.

  Maloney totters into the street, calling for Peter and sending him off to fetch coffee. Palvino affixes the police tape. Maloney stares at Thomas, and they shake their heads. Maloney’s eyes focus on the floor. Thomas is weirdly lost in thought, watching Annie slowly approaching as if through a kind of filter. With a quivering lower lip and vacant eyes, she whispers, “Was anything stolen?”

  “We don’t know yet.”

  A tear falls from her right eye. “Don’t cry, Annie,” Thomas says, putting his hand on her shoulder. And Peter arrives balancing cups of coffee and a bag of pastries under one arm. The coffee is scalding and bitter. Without a word, Palvino takes two cups and slips under the tape. Maloney’s pastry-grinding mouth is suddenly in Thomas’s face. His forehead is slick with fine pearls of sweat. “Who the fuck did this shit?” he hisses, and begins restlessly pacing the sidewalk. The sun shines directly on the store now, and the thousands of shards in the display window. Standing in the doorway, Kagoshima asks, “Do you have any idea who might have done this?”

  Thomas shakes his head. Kagoshima suppresses a cough. “We’ll talk to people in the neighborhood, of course, possible witnesses. There must have been a lot of noise when the window was smashed. But the man who called us heard nothing.” The coffee has apparently made Kagoshima cheerful; he’s friendlier, gentler. He smiles at Thomas. “Okay then. You might as well go home. Have you vacuumed the store in the past few days?” “Yes, there was a spring cleaning here recently, but that was Tuesday. And no, not in the past few days.”

  “Then we’ll have a look to see how many hairs and fibers we can find. If there are too many, we won’t touch it.”

  “Why not?” Thomas asks. The sun blinds him. Kagoshima is a dark shadow in front of him.

  “Too many people go in and out of stores like this. We’re not interested in customers’ hair. That’s too sweeping, and we can’t do a full sweep.”

  “Then what’ll you do now?”

  Kagoshima sips his coffee. “Our colleagues from Investigations are collecting possible DNA. Shoeprints, fingerprints. Traces of blood, if there is any. I tend to doubt there will be, though. Then we’ll run it all through our database and look for a match. It usually takes a day. Getting the paperwork done typically takes at least a week.” With the back of his hand he wipes his lips. “I just need to know where you two were last night and this morning.”

  “At home!” they cry, practically in unison. “We were asleep,” Maloney says. Kagoshima nods. “And when were you two last here?”

  “Yesterday,” Thomas says. “I left early, before lunch. But you . . .” He looks at Maloney.

  “I closed at 6:00 P.M. I was the last person to leave.”

  “And when was it, precisely, that you left?”

  “Quarter after. Maybe close to 6:30.” Maloney brushes some sugar from his sleeve.

  “We’ll be finished in about an hour,” Kagoshima says and makes as if to go back to the store. But suddenly Peter’s standing there. “Has this kind of thing happened elsewhere in this neighborhood recently?” he asks so softly that it’s almost a whisper. The others observe him, surprised.

  Kagoshima: “And you are?”

  “Peter Ohlsson, our apprentice,” Thomas replies.

  “Aha. No. Not as far as I know. But we’ll investigate, of course.” Kagoshima nods at length, and the others stare at his round face. Then Maloney straightens himself with a jerk: “But what’s this all about? Why did they carve into our countertop?”

  “It looks to me like what we call criminal mischief in the first degree. I can’t say more than that at this time.”

  “What does it look like, the thing they carved?” Peter asks.

  Kagoshima says, “It looks almost like . . . like a sun with four rays. Four lines radiating from a circle.”

  “A sun?” Annie mumbles.

  “Something like that,” Kagoshima says, stepping over the doorframe.

  “What if it’s a warning?” Peter says, horrified. “The symbol in the countertop?”

  “Let’s not go there,” Annie says softly.

  “The symbol in the countertop! It sounds like the title of some ridiculous B-film! Who the hell would warn us, and against what?” Maloney’s agitated again. “A sun? That’s ridiculous! I’m going home now to sleep. I can’t deal with this anymore.”

  “We need to board up the windows when they’re done. C’mon. Let’s go have a beer.” Thomas grabs Maloney’s arm. Maloney snarls like a dog and tries to yank his arm free. Thomas gets Peter’s attention. He says, “You can go home. You too, Annie. We’ll call you later. Annie nods and retrieves her purse from the sidewalk. Peter lifts his hand in a sad farewell. Stooping, walking slowly, they head up the street. “Now let’s go get a beer,” Thomas repeats. “Once they’re done we’ll board it up. Okay?”

  Maloney doesn’t respond. But he goes willingly with Thomas, across the street and into the café, where they sit in their usual corner. Thomas orders two large draft beers. The café’s owner wants to know everything about what happened. He gesticulates in disbelief, he shakes his head with regret, he points out the window, he talks up a storm about how unacceptable this is, such a nice-looking store, everything’s getting worse and worse, he says, like in the old days, worse and worse, soon you won’t even be able to trust your best friend. Still shaking his head, he finally returns to the bar, after having assured Thomas and Maloney more than once that everything’s on the house today. Shortly after that they see Palvino calling on the neighboring businesses. And then it appears that the reinforcements arrive: two plain-clothes officers climb out of a green Mazda and shake Kagoshima’s hand. Maloney and Thomas say almost nothing, apart from arguing about whether or not they should have a contractor board it up, or whether they should do it themselves and use some of the old boards they have in the back. Maloney absolutely doesn’t want them to do it themselves. They agree to do it themselves. The café owner brings them whiskey and more beer. Maloney stares at the store and says, almost grief-stricken: “Now they’re searching for blood in there. They’re searching for blood in our store, Thomas.” But Thomas is distracted and only half-listening. He texts Patricia several times. She doesn’t respond. Peter, on the other hand, sends him a text: “I looked up the sun drawing. It’s apparently the generic sign for currency, that is, for money.” “The what?” Maloney says. “Tell him to knock it off!”

  Late in the afternoon, Thomas bikes through the city with two striped towels flapping in a bag on the handlebar. To the west, the sky shines like mother-of-pearl: light-blue with rose-pink and thin bands of yellow. He crosses the bridge with its view of the turbid water far below, rides through the apartment subdivisions on the other side of the river—where the highway cuts through everything like another kind of river, noisy and bright. And after another twenty minutes he arrives at the small beach, six hundred feet of sand and tufted grass. The water is dead calm, and clusters of jellyfish lap helplessly against the shore. The temperature is dropping now. The salty air clings to his nostrils. A flock of black-headed gulls skim the surface of the water with powerful wing strokes. Sitting on the damp sand, Thomas sighs. Then he lies down and closes his eyes. He thinks about the vandalized store. About Maloney angrily hammering boards to the door. About the conversation with the insurance company. He thinks: She’s not coming. Patricia’s not coming. And all at once he sees a vivid image of his father and himself, naked and entwined, his father old and bony, he a smooth-bodied young man looping around his father’s lean figure like a fat, greedy snake. Their genitals hang limply down their thighs: his father’s small and curved, his own firm and vigorous. His father slides his hand through Thomas’s hair, sniffing at his ear with pleasure, he puts his lips to Thomas’s cheek, he presses his mouth to Thomas’s skin in one long, parched kiss.
They lie paired in the sand. There’s sand everywhere. And the sand begins to rise. It rises, and it covers them, buries them, buries this two-headed body and tugs it earthward, the ancient man and the youngling, the sand crashes down upon them like a heavy darkness, and Thomas feels the light disappearing, his father’s body growing cold and stiff as he clings to it, melting completely into it, as his mouth fills with crunchy sand that chokes him. He gasps and opens his eyes: There stands Patricia looking at him. She’s blocking the sun. She’s pulled a green beret down her forehead. Nothing friendly in her expression. They undress and wade, shivering, into the cool water. There’s seaweed and the pungent stench of rot, an even layer of stones along the shore, but farther out the bottom grows sandy, the water clear. Patricia is the first to dive under, and she returns to the surface with her dark hair clinging to her back. The subdued underwater sounds do wonders for Thomas. The images of his father vanish, his panic subsides. He skims along the bottom, where shoals of small fish dart past him, and his weightlessness is so invigorating that his cock stiffens. This, a moment’s freedom. He collects a large conch and puts it to Patricia’s ear. For a few moments, she listens in silence. Then she takes it from him and throws it as far away as she can. He grips her waist and draws her close. She lets him, but she’s limp, her arms slack. He clutches her hips. He feels her belly against his groin. He feels her breathing, feels her breasts squeezed flat against the upper ridge of his belly. Then she squirms free. Scowls at him. She plunges into the water and begins to swim out. He stays rooted in place. Farther up the coast, someone is beaching a rowboat. Orange buoys bob on the water, maybe they’re traps. And just like that, in one swift and surprising moment, he’s floating above this scene and indifferently observing himself. He’s swaying in the air, staring at the crown of his head, registering his receding hairline, watching Patricia slice through the water. Then just as suddenly he’s in his body again, and sound returns: the lapping of the water, the squawking seagulls. Patricia’s far away now. He thinks about clouds, about fire, about tropical heat, about a swarm of tiny insects crawling in the grass at twilight. Now she turns and swims back to shore. When she redirects to continue along the coast, he swims along. They glide silently beside one another. But Patricia’s a much better swimmer than he is, and she shoots through the water with perfect ease, always keeping several lengths ahead. They wrap themselves in their towels and sit for some time, while the sun sinks on the horizon. The sky glows blood-red, the water darkens, a wide, seductive gold road heading straight toward the setting sun. “Look,” Thomas says, pointing east, “here comes the moon.” He takes her hand. It’s wan and wrinkly from the water. The small, pale half-moons of her fingernails stand out clearly. “I love you,” he whispers. “Where were you last night?” She pulls her hand away. He wants to say more, but nothing comes to him. A light breeze brushes the grass. Behind them, a few older kids ride by on bicycles, with fishing poles and red plastic pails on their rear racks. The bikes clatter along the uneven path. Their voices are shrill and cheerful. Thomas gets to his feet and begins to dress. He shakes sand out of his socks and hikes his pants over his hips. Patricia buttons her jacket and pulls her beret onto her wet head. She climbs on her bike and rides off without a word.

  “I’m as naked as a jellyfish,” he mumbles, once he’s finally caught up to her and they’re riding across the bridge. “I’m a mollusk. It’s disgusting.” “What?” Patricia barks angrily. The sharp wind soughs around them. “Nothing,” Thomas roars. I want to cry, he thinks. I want to sink down in a well of tears, until the well is dry. I am an idiot. I am beautiful. I am nothing. If I aim high enough, I can do anything. I am as empty as a meaningless, automatic sobbing fit.

  At home the cat is infuriatingly needy, rubbing nonstop against Patricia’s legs. She snaps on the TV and throws herself onto the sofa. He makes sandwiches; she eats hers then slams the empty plate down unnecessarily hard on the glass table. He cleans up. She stands abruptly, goes into the bedroom, and changes her clothes. Then she leaves. When he hears the front door open, he rushes down the hallway, the dishrag in his hand. He catches a glimpse of her silvery shoes and the back of her coat as she disappears on the landing below. He calls after her, “Where are you going? Why are you leaving again? Say something, Patricia!” But she doesn’t respond. He falls into the armchair. He can’t breathe. He calls her, but she doesn’t answer. Then Maloney calls and tells him that the police didn’t find a single trace of DNA in the store. Nothing except a whole lot of hair (which they quickly dismissed), and of course Thomas’s, Maloney’s, Annie’s, and Peter’s fingerprints. They could tell that someone had sifted through the stacks of paper on the floor, but the perpetrator had worn medical booties or plastic bags on their feet. Thomas goes to the kitchen. Maloney’s voice is so familiar that he’s almost thankful. He grabs a beer from the fridge. He looks out the window. The city’s sea of light radiates in the blue violet evening. “There’s nothing left for them to do. There’s no trace. The neighbors didn’t hear a thing. The windows must have been smashed when everyone was asleep. Why the fuck wasn’t anyone awake? There’s always some idiot awake.” Maloney continues, “Well, at least we can size up the damage and order new windowpanes. I’ve called the insurance company. And the glazier. He’s coming tomorrow. Fuck,” he says, “it was probably just some fucking kids with nothing better to do than smash other people’s property.”

  “You think kids use gloves and wrap their feet in plastic bags when they’re seized with a sudden urge to demolish a store?”

  “I don’t know jack shit about that,” Maloney mumbles tiredly. “Shut up and go to bed. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  On the way back to the living room, as he swills a beer, the phone rings again. It’s Jenny. Thomas regrets answering it. She talks non-stop about the coming weekend. What if she can’t handle being up at Kristin and Helena’s so long; what if there’s not enough food—if they’ve become vegans; what if she has an allergic reaction to sleeping in the barn.

  “Then just move your mattress inside the house,” Thomas says.

  “My mattress? How can I sleep on a mattress? With my back? I bet they have mice, too.”

  “Come on, they have cats.”

  “Maybe they’re dead. We haven’t been out there for years.”

  Thomas sighs. “Surely they’ve got new cats, Jenny.”

  “And what should I bring them as a hostess gift? Should they each get something, or how does that work?”

  Jenny talks and talks, heated, hysterical; she chirrups until, at last, she’s calm. She exhales, satisfied, and says good night in a voice practically oozing honey.

  Thomas calls Patricia again, but this time it goes directly to voicemail. He sits at the computer and searches for generic currency sign. Sure enough, what he finds resembles a sun with four rays. “Popularly called a symbol for money,” it reads. “The designator generic means, in this case, that it doesn’t relate to a specific currency, but rather to money as a phenomenon.” For Christ’s sake. Despairingly, he stumbles into his cluttered bedroom and curls up under the sheets. A pronounced stench following the day’s heat hangs in the air. But he can’t bring himself to open the window. One of the blinds dangles crookedly. The cat claws at the door. But he doesn’t get up to let it in. In the distance, a church bell tolls 11:00 P.M. He tries to think about Patricia, but doesn’t have the energy, he can’t deal with it. He dozes off thinking about the vandalized store. He thinks about the symbol carved into the countertop. It’s obviously the money they want. His father’s money. But who? He imagines a bunch of thugs, hired by Frank and Fatso. But could those two old fools really organize such a thing? He doubts it. He hasn’t quite understood it until now, in all its horror, as if he’d hoped it was something else, something that didn’t have anything to do with him at all. And maybe it is just a coincidence. Maybe there’s no connection at all. But he’s almost free of the money now. If the sale proceeds as planned. He wants to figure out how it’s all con
nected, but he’s too exhausted. His right leg twitches once, then he’s asleep.

  The next morning the heat’s intense again. Thomas can’t even eat a piece of toast. Patricia. The symbol, the plastic bags on the perpetrators’ feet. He shakes his head. He leans across the kitchen table, opens the window, and lights a cigarette. He calls Patricia, and she answers.

  “Where are you?” he asks breathlessly.

  “None of your business, really,” she says. She sniffles a bit. Is she drunk? There’s no background noise. He can’t tell where she is.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Did you just plan on leaving the cat the entire weekend?” she asks, scornfully distant. “You probably did.” Her sniff ling is gone. She’s cold and lucid.

  “It’s only a couple of days,” he says. “I’ll make sure there’s enough food. Patricia, tell me where you are.”

  “It’ll be lonely.”

  “It’s a cat. We can’t take it with us, it’ll just run away.”

  “I’m not sure I’m coming.”

  “I’ll wait for you at the car rental agency at 4:00,” he says. “Please come? Darling. I’m so sorry. Truly. What can I do to make things right again?” She doesn’t respond. “Say something, Patricia.”

  “Kiss my ass.”

  Then she hangs up. He holds the telephone to his ear. The cat stares at him. He wants to lash out at it. But he strokes the bridge of its nose instead. It purrs so hard it trembles. He sits down at the table and glares at the wall. He rises, empties the litter box—which stinks horribly of piss—and dumps in fresh kitty litter. There’s discomfort in his legs, and it approaches his stomach. His skin crawls, his guts churn, the back of his head aches dully. He gazes out the window as he calls Maloney. A few streets away, a recently renovated copper roof shines and gleams in the sunlight. Close to the window, a bird flies past.

  “What are we going to do?”

  “Call Peter and Annie. They might as well stay home today.”