The Hunt for Excalibur

8 Fencing

Court Callany could not concentrate on his work — again. His boss and friend, Tony Hamish noticed that the old mechanic was absent minded. He stared at Court through the plate glass window to the workshop. In the office from where he spied, his sister Bekka sat shaking her head. She was Hamish Auto’s administration clerk.

“What are you finding so bloody interesting about Court, hey?” she asked.

Tony did not move, but he answered her. “There is something not right at his home, Bekka. I can see it in his ways, you know? Known him long. Known his manner long and I tell ya, there is something very heavy on that old lad that he don’t tell me.”

“People go through shite, Tone. Deal with it. He does. Past few years, you saw what all happened in his household. That fucking deadbeat son of his and all the pressure with all the mouths to feed. I know you cannae pay him more, but jaysus, I think they cut the line thin every month,” she rambled.

Tony kept staring, as if looking long enough would reveal Court’s hefty yoke to him. “Whatever it is,” he mentioned under his breath, “it is weighing heavier today than last week when he had to stay late. Something that was already bothering him has gotten worse.” He turned to his sister. “Can you find out what it is? He would rather trust telling a woman.”

“Tone, I broke his hand the first night I saw him, remember? When I thought he was an intruder? How will he trust me over you?” she protested. “Just go and ask him. You are his employer, you know. He has to tell you.”

A knock at the other exit rocked the wooden door, finally prompting Tony to pry his eyes from the workshop.

“Come in, Len!” Bekka hollered. It was the owner of the scrap yard next door, looking for Tony. The mild mannered Len came in, nodding his greeting.

“And to what do we owe the pleasure, son?” Tony jested.

“Hello hello. Just dropping by quick. Looking for new help, Tone. If you know anyone reliable, will you shoot me a note?” Len asked.

“Sure, of course,” Tony replied. “Did Paul resign or have you still not heard from him?”

“Paul?” Bekka asked, looking surprised.

“Aye, Paul has not been coming in for work,” Len told her, shrugging. “No calls. Nobody at his shack. I guess employing cons don’t profit much, hey? Next time, I will rather take a rookie fresh from high school and teach him, than to trust a bloody thief or fraudster again. Fuck that.”

“Makes sense. We will keep an eye out for you, Len,” Tony promised.

“Ta, mate,” Len smiled. “I have to go. Nobody at the yard, apart from Jack. See you’s around, okay?”

“Alright, Len. See ya,” Bekka said as the junkyard boss left. She gawked at her brother. “Who the hell is Jack?”

“His Pitbull,” Tony chuckled. “A bitch.” Now he laughed. “He wanted a male, but she was the last of the litter and he could not afford another one, so he just called her Jack anyway.”

“Oh God, what a spastic,” she grunted, trying not to smile. “So where do you think that deadbeat Paul took off to this time?”

“I have no idea, but if you ask me, Len is better off without that git anyway,” her brother said, once again looking into the workshop. “I am going to ask Court what is hounding him like this.”

Before his sister could protest, Tony was bolting out the office door like a bloodhound. She chewed her purple grape chewing gum as she watched the two men in conversation, trying to ascertain what the verdict was by body language and failed lip reading. Court shook his head in a nugatory fashion a lot, obviously denying any guesses Tony threw at him. Ultimately, Tony seemed to accept the short answers from his employee and returned to the office. Bekka saw Court stare at Tony’s back as he walked away, displaying a sorrowful disappointment in his face.

“What did he say?” she pried when Tony came back.

He shrugged and sat down behind his desk. “Apparently Sue is sick again, but he refuses to tell me what exactly is wrong with her. Typical of Court. Martyr. Makes me sick when people walk around sulking, but will they accept help? No, they have to keep up the pity party.”

“Shut it,” she reprimanded her brother. “You know Court has a lot of troubles and you know that his wife has been sick before. Cancer sick.”

“I know,” he replied hopelessly. “Just wish he would cut the pouting and just come out and tell us what is wrong. By the way, sis, have you seen Alan lately?”

“Alan from the pawn shop?” she asked, surprised. “Are you selling stuff again?”

“Not me. Court. He asked me for Alan’s number. I am thinking the bloke needs to get some extra money for the coming holidays or whatever sickness his wife has this time round,” Tony speculated. “I mean, is the bonus he is due not enough?”

“That bonus you pay him buys him a carton of fags and a shot of morphine on the street market, love,” she told her brother outright. “Hardly anything more than what he takes home after his deductions every month. Think about it. Would you be able to live off what you pay Court? People who are not adequately remunerated tend to do shoddy work.” She gestured with her head toward the mechanics slouching around the workshop, looking positively lackluster. “See? If you got paid what they do, you would also have to pawn your stuff to stay alive.”

“Oh bollocks!” he scowled irately at her. “They should drink less and spend less time betting on the horses.”

“Oh really?” she chuckled. “Peter goes to the track once in three months and most of them need to blow of some steam to remind them that they get to spend something of their pathetic salaries on themselves, you know.”

“Whose side are you on?” he barked, beginning to feel as if his sister was trying to tell him something sincere in the shiny wrapping of casual conversation. “I cannot pay them too much, or else they will take liberties.”

Bekka was done arguing. She whipped out her cell phone and wrote down a contact on the office message pad. “There,” she said plainly, folding the paper and handing it to him. “Alan’s number.”

“Thanks,” Tony said. “Wonder what he thinks he can sell. Have you seen his house? Sorry to say, there is nothing of value in the entire Callany household.” Without reserving a moment for a response, he left the office and went to give Court the number. “Oi, Court! Here,” he said, waiting for the old mechanic to slid out on the dolly.

“Aw, thanks mate,” Court said gratefully, treasuring the piece of paper like a €500 note between his fingers. He was hoping to soon have the real deal in his hand, along with a few siblings at that.

“Are you sure I cannot just float you an advance, mate?” Tony asked one more time.

His friend shook his head. “Ah, no, thanks Tone. I cannae be deeper in debt, when I can just get rid of some stuff and score extra bux, you understand?”

“Aye, I suppose you are right. But please, if you get stuck, swallow your pride, alright?” Tony offered.

“I will, thanks Tone,” Court replied, looking a bit more relieved with Alan’s phone number in his grasp.

After work, he drove past other pawnshops. They were all was closed, but they looked small time anyway. No more than peddlers of second-hand furniture from the Seventies and Eighties, at most. Here and there, they held someone’s grandmother’s broach or a mantle clock from Italy, but nothing as stupendous as antique rapiers and cutlasses. No, he would have to deal with Alan Silver, the local merchant of less than legally acquired items, using his run of the mill pawnshop as an honest front. Court even found the man’s name encouraging.

The problem was getting the blades out of the cupboard in the basement where he had hidden them without his family noticing. A tight knit family, the Callany’s always kept tabs on who was home at any given time. They spent almost every waking hour after work together, therefore the old mechanic knew that, once he had reported home, it would be hard to give the slip for a meeting with Alan Silver. Once he was home, it would be almost impossible to retrieve the hoard without any inquisition or curiosity on the part of his wife, daughter or grandson.

He elected to set up a meeting in the middle of the day, when Sue would be sleeping and the others off to school and work. It would afford him the chance to bring out the artifacts stolen from the Hall estate that night, and get it in the car unnoticed. Before he came home, he gave Alan a call.

“Hello, Mr. Silver?” he stammered.

“That’s me. Who is this and what do you want?” Alan asked. His tone was less assertive and more boastful, clearly a very confident man.

“My name is Court. I work for Tony Hamish,” he told Alan.

“Who?” Alan asked abruptly. Soon after, he realized why the name was familiar. “Oh!” he sang. “Bekka’s brother, hey? What about it, then?”

“Um, I got your number from Bekka. You see, I am in possession of certain items that I would like to sell and I was wondering if I could bring them to your shop tomorrow. See if we can make a deal and all,” Court suggested.

“What is it? I don’t buy just anything, you know,” he assured Court, trying to deter the stranger. It made Alan nervous when people got his private number, especially after the two-year stint in Barlinnie for fencing. “What have you got that I should bother with this time of night?”

“I have two swords…” Court started slowly, but the arrogant hawker interrupted him.

“Swords? What swords? There are hundreds of types, mate. Come on, don’t waste my time.”

“No, no listen, these are very valuable,” Court said, “and I would be able to show you tomorrow, say, at 11am?”

“Valuable swords, hey? Who told you? Did you have them appraised?” Alan fired questions at the unsuspecting novice.

“No, I cannae have them appraised, Mr. Silver,” he explained.

“Why not?” came the dreaded question. Court had no idea how to say this, let alone if he could trust the man he was telling, but if he was going to do this, he would have to grow some balls and get on with the deal.

Under his breath, he hesitantly drew the line in the sand. “These items are from the Hall collection.”

A long pause followed, so long that Court thought Alan Silver had hung up on him. Softly, he heard Alan mutter, “Jesus Christ.”

“Mr. Silver?” Court pressed. This time the merchant’s tone was far more tolerant and cooperative.

“Listen,” he said, clearing his throat, “bring the items around the back of my shop tomorrow. You know where it is, right?”

“I do, yes,” Court said, his heart skipping a beat at Silver’s sudden change of mind. For once, his day ended better than it had started.

“Just make sure the merchandise is wrapped properly when you bring it out of your car,” he advised. “I will have to make a few calls tonight, but I am sure we can come to an agreement. And Court?”

“Aye?”

“You say nothing to no-one, right?” Alan reiterated in a slightly menacing way.

“To my grave,” Court assured him, but Alan had already ended the call.

When Court got home, his demeanor was so uplifting that his family rolled their eyes at one another.

“Scored some weed again, Paps?” asked Pam, mother of his grandson.

Court laughed heartily. “Can a man not be happy to be with his family? I am just glad to be home after a shitty day. That is all.” He winked at his grandson, hoping that they would never find out what he had done.