The Hunt for Excalibur

2 A Reluctant Accomplice

“I am looking for Court Callany,” a voice said from outside the workshop, but Court’s face was frozen in shock at the weapon pointed at him. His eyes stayed stuck to the gleaming barrel of the cheap, over-used gun, his voice eluding him. A sharp whisper came from Paul. “Hey, open the bloody door!”

There was no reaction from Court and it only riled up his accomplice. “Court! Open the fucking door!” Ajar, Court’s lips could bring forth no sound, as static as his body. Only when Paul waved the gun at him, did he snap out of his trance. Court hastened to the roller door, glancing back at Paul to make sure that he had put away the weapon.

“Open it,” Paul repeated, this time without anything in hand.

Court rolled up the door with a nervous smile. “Sorry, ‘bout that,” he apologized, “I was in the lavvy.”

“No worries,” the owner of the Peugeot answered. “I am sorry I came out so late. Bloody meetings that drag on, you know.”

“Aye, I understand,” Court tried to be nice.

“So true,” Paul remarked from over in his spot. “Don’t you just hate it when assholes make you late for things you plan for weeks before? Jaysus, I hate pricks like that.”

He made it clear that he aimed it at Court’s client, but the man ignored him, seeing how embarrassed the mechanic was. “So, Mr. Dover, we organized that diff for you and you will not have to worry about the rear wheels giving you any trouble now,” he smiled, pulling the man aside to get him away from the snide Paul.

The small workshop office smelled like lube and oil, where Court gave Mr. Dover the clipboard. “Just sign off for us there, there,” he pointed out the place on the paper, rapidly glancing up to see where Paul was, “and over here to confirm that you took delivery.”

“Thanks,” Mr. Dover said patiently, feeling the tension in the quiet establishment. He felt an urgent need to leave, even though he was not sure quite why. “Here you go.”

“Thank you,” Court smiled. “Now that is guaranteed for a year, but if anything feels wrong, you give us a call immediately, alright?”

It felt wrong, but Mr. Dover was not about to remark on it, as long as his car was fixed. His eyes briskly found Paul standing at the wheel-balancing bay, but he just nodded and got into his car. “How do I get out?” he asked Court.

“Oh, just reverse out and I will open the side gate from here,” Court assured him politely. Both Mr. Dover and Court cast quick looks at the shifty man with the mean demeanor before the Peugeot pulled away and exited the property.

“Fucking entitled bastards,” Paul sneered as Court entered the workshop to close up the roller door and set the alarm to leave. Between his fingers, Paul was playing with a monkey wrench. Court cleared his throat, “Come on. We have to be out the front door before thirty seconds, otherwise the alarm goes off.”

“We take your car,” Paul ordered.

“Why not yours?” Court asked. As far as he recalled, the plan was to take Paul’s car to the place.

“Mine is in the shop. Not this shop, of course. Hellenic Spares up the road,” he motioned with his head. He could see that Court did not believe him, but he also knew that the struggling mechanic was desperate. He had no choice but to comply. They got into his Chevrolet Corsica by the time the streetlights had come alive in a crooked row down the lane.

“Nice little car. Nice and inconspicuous like,” Paul remarked.

‘Aye, you love that, don’t you, ye dobber,’ Court thought to himself as he reversed his car into the small, deserted road. “It is a ’95 model. Easy on petrol,” Court explained indifferently.

“That is good, though, hey?” Paul smiled, rubbing his hand along the dashboard of the car. “Especially for a man not making enough as it is, you cannae have a guzzler, hey? Hey? That tank will eat up the medicine money for the missus.”

It was insensitive of him to mention, but then again, Paul was not the considerate type. Court had told him over a few pints one night that his wife was terminal, and Paul thought it the perfect crisis to hammer on. After all, Court Callany was the type of man who needed constant reminding of his toils, otherwise he would probably back out of the plan.

Court tried to disregard the low blow. “So, since we are not taking your car, you are going to have to direct me, Paul. Where are we going?”

“Oh, aye,” Paul exclaimed eagerly, “you take the turn right onto the M77 and head on to Whitecraigs, son. Tonight we are going to be stinking fucking rich, mate.”

“Whitecraigs? Where the rugby club is?” Court asked, remembering the streets of the area boasting lavish old properties and wealthy home business owners congregating at the local sports clubs. He had to deliver cars there once or twice before, so he had a good idea where it was.

“That is the place. Do you know how to get there?” Paul asked.

“Aye,” Court affirmed, while his stomach knotted up. “The security on those places are near impossible to get through, Paul.”

Paul looked at Court with a narrow-eyed disdain. “Do you think I would do this if I did not have all the bases covered? Do you think I am some sort of idiot?”

“No,” Court shrugged, “but since we are taking my car, I reckoned you did not bring the necessary tools to do the break-in with. That is all. I mean, how are you going to get inside without a crowbar or a combination?”

“Can you just drive there? I have everything sorted out. We will not need all that shite, my friend. We have a free pass to just walk in,” Paul growled lecherous tone. “This family who owns the building… the house? I am boning their housekeeper!” His lewd laughter made Court sick. In fact, he almost stopped the car to throw Paul out, but he remembered his wife’s dire need for proper medical care. He had to go through with this or face losing her in the slowest, worst way. “Anita is going to let us in while the old geezer and his family is out to some stuck-up supper.”

It sounded like the most ludicrous heist ever, but Court was no criminal. He only wanted the night to be over, and he wanted to be alive when the clock struck twelve.