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.
9
A White Lie for the Greater Good
At Gracewill the next day, Nina listened to some very interesting stories from the children. Admittedly, she had begun to enjoy their company, contrary to what she initially expected. Children have always been an annoyance to her and she avoided them most of the time, but having gotten to know Miss April’s class changed her mind an inch. The old artifacts they brought in were all evidence of solid family histories, and Nina especially enjoyed those from the Second World War.
However, deep in her mind, one item still itched at her brain, one she would have liked to hear more about. She desperately wanted to have another look at it, even though she did not know much about antiques. Her forte was history, the tales of old, not so much the objects from it. Young Brian had said very little about the actual role played by the scabbard in his family, which led Nina to believe that two options came to play. Either the boy did not know where the item belonged in his family history, leaving him oblivious to its origins, or the object did not come from his heritage at all.
Perhaps, she reckoned, he had come upon it in the garage of his home when his family moved in or he picked it up on a junk heap and made up the ‘grandpa will kill me’ excuse to give it credence. According to Nina, his imagination and love for all things knightly created a perfect bubble to escape to. In every way, the scabbard looked the part, by all means, to perpetuate a fabricated myth of belonging, of heritage and heroism. Otherwise, the child’s home life was probably extremely unfulfilling and bland, she supposed.
“May I see that scabbard again, Brian?” Nina asked the young boy just before class adjourned for recess the following day.
“My granddad will kill me if it gets lost, Miss,” he reiterated, sounding a bit concerned about her request.
“I promise I will not take it anywhere. All I want to do is have another look at it. It looks just like those worn by princes and kings in history books,” she cajoled the impressionable boy by appealing to his fantasies. His face lit up at her comparisons and Nina knew she had him.