Highlander

by Garry Douglas Kilworth

  WaIter Bedsoe looked at her with sad eyes. ‘Hello, Brenda.’

  She did not look at him but put on her iceberg face just the same. She did not want to encourage him.

  ‘Hello. ‘

  ‘You look pretty, Brenda.’

  She ignored this and walked towards Frank Moran who was talking to one of the arresting officers, Garfield. Garfield was smirking.

  ‘Whaddya thinks the cause of death, Lieutenant, uh?’ He laughed into Brenda’s face as she came up to them.

  Moran made a face. ‘Christ, you’re a barrel of laughs, Garfield.’

  Haggerty, his partner, was hustling someone out of the garage. As usual, there were too many people with no answers around. A man was standing by the remains of his car wailing, ‘Hey, cop! How am I going to explain this to my wife, man?’ Waiter Bedsoe had come up alongside her again, as if he were attached to her by a line. He called to one of the uniformed policemen.

  ‘Hey, Walker, get me a cherry cheese sandwich to go, please. ‘

  He turned to Brenda. ‘Have you eaten?’

  Her stomach did another circuit at the thought. ‘Not now, WaIt. I don’t want to think about it right at this moment. Do you mind?’

  ‘No, sure. I just thought. . .’

  His sentence drifted off the end and he looked uncomfortable. Poor Walter. She pulled herself up short. Not that way. If she started feeling sorry for him, she might end up doing something about it. Moran was speaking to Garfield again.

  ‘Eh? What time did they say? What time did he buy it?’

  ‘About ten, ten thirty.’

  Brenda said, ‘Whatever made the cut was razor sharp.’

  They were interrupted by some confusion in another part of the garage. A cop was saying, ‘Get out. I told you to get out.’

  The vultures. They all wanted to feast their eyes on the carcass, so they could say, ‘My God, look at that. Makes you want to throw up, don’t it?’

  Bedsoe leaned forward, touching Brenda’s arm and she moved out of reach. He then turned to Moran.

  ‘Frank - about two days ago the teletype told of a guy that was killed just like this over in Jersey.’

  Moran muttered, ‘Yeah, but I figured what the hell, that’s Jersey.’ He began rubbing his stomach again.

  Brenda walked away, just as Moran was saying sharply, ‘Garfield - cover that head.’

  She knelt down by the corpse again, to study the wound now that her stomach had settled and she was able to view it with a professional eye. When she looked up, a gleam attracted her attention. There was something under one of the cars, a few yards away. A piece of bumper?

  It looked too slim for that. She pulled on a plastic glove that she had taken from her bag and walked over to the spot. She reached underneath the car and pulled the object out.

  ‘Hey, babe,’ she said to herself, ‘look at you.’

  The weapon brought out in her the detached, interested observer of a work of art. She had inherited from her father, a technical interest in ancient weapons, especially bladed weapons, and she could appreciate the craftsmanship that had gone into the fashioning of the sword she held in her hand. It had a beauty that almost managed to obliterate its deadly purpose, in her eyes. The blade glistened, having still some of the watchmakers’ oil smeared on the steel. There didn’t appear to be any blood on it, which was puzzling. She ran her gloved fingers over the finely wrought hilt.

  ‘What the hell have you got?’ It was Moran.

  ‘A Toledo-Salamanca,’ she said, turning it over under the light.

  ‘A what?’

  ‘A sword, Frank. A very rare sword.’

  ‘That’s got to be . . .’ The light caught the hilt as he looked at it and he whistled. ‘Is it worth much?’

  ‘Only about a million bucks - any antique dealer on Hudson Street

  could tell you that.’

  She looked at his face and from his expression deduced that he had his motive for the murder at last. She wasn’t sure. WaIt had mentioned a similar beheading over in Jersey. Surely this guy did not make a habit of murdering sword sellers? It did not add up. However, she decided to refrain from comment. It might have spoiled Frank’s evening and he had stopped rubbing his stomach.

  Chapter 8

  BACK AT THE precinct again, Garfield was told by Moran to fetch the man called Nash from the cells. Bedsoe went and sat on the windowsill of the interrogation room, while Moran paced the room in front of the desk. There was a sharp pain in his gut and he wondered whether to send out for a glass of milk, but decided against it. He was not in the mood for taking the jibes that went with such a request. His wife, Alice, had nagged him to eat something before he went out on the call, but as usual he had ignored her.

  ‘I’ll get something on the way,’ he had said.

  Right at that moment, he was prepared to dislike Nash intensely, for getting him out of a warm bed, beside a warm wife, just as he had been falling off to sleep. Then he mentally reprimanded himself. There was no proof, yet, that Nash was the cause of all this. Garfield entered, pushing Nash before him. The fair-haired, unshaven Nash met Moran’s stare with eyes that seemed just a shade too confident for someone dragged in as a murder suspect.

  Garfield shoved Nash down into a chair behind the desk and then took up a position close by, his arms folded, leaning against the glass screen behind which the normal chaos of the precinct could be seen to be in flow.

  Moran nodded at Bedsoe, who left the office, to return a moment later carrying a sword wrapped in a transparent plastic bag. He put it in front of Nash, on the desk. Still no one had spoken to the suspect. Moran went to his filing cabinet and took out a folder. He opened it, then tossed a photograph in front of Nash.

  ‘Ever seen this guy before?’

  Nash leaned towards the photo and then shook his head.

  Moran sighed. ‘His name’s Vasilek.’

  Nash looked up, but there was no sign that he recognized the name. It was more a look of enquiry.

  ‘Polish national,’ continued Moran. ‘Had his head chopped off in New Jersey two nights ago.’ He paused. ‘You ever get over to New Jersey, Nash?’

  Nash pulled his raincoat closer round his body as if to try to straighten out the creases. When he looked up again it was almost as if he were surprised that Moran was still waiting for an answer.

  ‘Not if I can help it.’

  The tone was belligerent. Moran suppressed a desire to lose his temper. That never did any good with people of Nash’s sort. You had to treat them with at least the minimum of respect, otherwise they clamped up completely and you could be there all night, talking into an empty space.

  Garfield snorted. ‘You talk funny, Nash. Where are you from?’ he said. Nash replied, ‘Lots of different places.’

  Moran moved round beside the chair. He said, ‘You’re an antique dealer, right?’

  ‘Uh huh.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Moran, pointing to the sword. ‘What’s that?’

  Nash leaned forward and looked closely at the package.

  He smiled. ‘A sword?’ Garfield unfolded his arms.

  ‘Wise up, smart-arse.’

  There was an exchange of glares between the two men and Moran picked up the weapon, turned it over in his hands, then gently replaced it on the desk again.

  He said, ‘It’s a Toledo-Salamanca broadsword, worth about a million bucks.’

  The return retort was sharp.

  ‘So?’

  ‘So, you want to hear a theory?’

  ‘Suit yourself.’ Moran leaned over, near to Nash’s shoulder.

  ‘You went down to the garage to buy this sword from that guy. . . what’s his name?’

  ‘I don’t know . You tell me.’

  Moran straightened again. That goddamn trick only ever worked in the movies. They never fell for it in real life situations.

  He said, wearily, ‘His name is Iman Fasil and you fought about the price and cut off his head.’ Nash laughed out loud.
>
  When he had finished, he said, ‘You want to hear another theory? This Fasil was so upset about the lousy wrestling tonight he went down to the garage in a fit of depression - and cut off his own head.’

  Moran was irritated to hear Bedsoe laugh behind him. ‘That’s not funny, Wait.’

  Garfield had obviously decided it was time for a jibe. ‘You a faggot, Nash?’ he sneered. Nash turned and smiled at the officer.

  ‘Why? You cruising for a piece of arse?’

  Garfield went crimson and Moran saw his fingers bunch into a fist. The officer stepped forward, then hesitated before saying, ‘I’ll tell you what happened. You went down to the garage for a blow job and just didn’t want to pay for it.’

  Nash looked at Moran and then back at Garfield. ‘You sick bastard,’ he said, his voice laced with contempt. Garfield lunged at him clumsily, from where he stood and Nash only had to move back his head a fraction for the officer’s blow to miss. Then a hand flashed out and gripped Garfield’s wrist, twisting it away from his body. The officer yelled in pain, pulling Nash to his feet.

  Things were getting out of hand and Moran intervened. ‘Hey, hey, hey. Cut it out.’

  People were staring through the glass from the other room, wondering what the confusion was about. The desk sergeant looked about to come across, then changed his mind at a nod from Moran.

  Bedsoe cried, ‘Wait. Wait.’

  Garfield flung another punch which skidded off Nash’s shoulder and then found himself rammed, face first, against the glass partition. His nose and mouth were flattened against the screen and a black kid mimicked his distorted features. Some hookers cheered and began stamping their feet. Nash then spun him round.

  Moran shouted, ‘That’s enough.’

  He jumped forward, forcing his body between them, his ulcer giving him hell. The winos in the charge cells were shaking the netting and hooting.

  ‘That’s enough. Cut it out. God dammit, this isn’t a circus. ‘

  ‘Then why the gorilla?’ said Nash. Moran breathed heavily through his nose.

  ‘I said that’s enough.’

  Nash queried, ‘Am I under arrest?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Then we’re through.’

  ‘We’re just getting started.’

  ‘Well, for Christ’s sake get on with it and stop screwing around. Ask me the questions. . .’

  God, thought Moran, it’s going to be a long night.

  Chapter 9

  WHEN THEY RELEASED him the following morning, unable to hold him through lack of evidence, MacLeod felt distinctly ragged. Throughout the night he had stuck to the same story: he was an antique dealer called Nash, who had gone to the Garden to see the wrestling, had become bored with the fight, had used the elevator on the far side of the garage. He hadn’t heard anything, nor seen anything out of the ordinary. Since the route from the elevator did not take him through the area where the body had been found they couldn’t hold him. Not without more evidence.

  MacLeod wondered whether they would put a tail on him, but after three blocks, he was sure that no one was following. They probably thought they had the murder weapon, though he knew they would be puzzled about the lack of blood. A killer might stop to wipe the blade, but would he also smear oil on it afterwards?

  The next thing he had to do was retrieve the Samurai sword from the overhead ducting before they decided to go back for another look around. He took a cab to the Garden and went down the ramp. There was someone in a car, but they drove away after a few moments. He went to the ducting and reached up. The sword was still there, with the sheath. He strapped it to his back, then put on his raincoat.

  He was just preparing to leave, when someone in high heels came clipping along the empty aisle. Instinctively, MacLeod ducked behind a pillar, in the near darkness, and waited. It was a woman in her late twenties, early thirties, and there was something about her movements which made him stay hidden. She seemed to be looking for something, her eyes scanning the floor and walls. She went to the place where the body had been found and stared at the spot for a few moments. Then she glanced at the pillar next to it. She stepped up to it and ran her fingers along the corner. The hand stopped and the nails scratched at something. She dipped into her bag and came out with a pair of tweezers and dug into a crack. He saw something which glinted slipped into a plastic bag.

  MacLeod knew that she had found the place where the Samurai had been embedded after the fight the previous evening. Who the hell was she? A cop? She held up the plastic bag and clicked on a cigarette lighter, studying the contents. He knew then what she had found: pieces of metal from the blade of his sword: No doubt there had been other fragments on or around the body of Fasil. Perhaps someone had been studying them in a lab while he was undergoing questioning? Surely they could not tell them anything? Or could they?

  As she prepared to leave, MacLeod crept around the base of the pillar and something crunched beneath his foot. He cursed, silently. A coke can. Probably the same one he had trodden on the evening before. What the hell was it doing? Following him around?

  ‘Who’s there?’

  Her voice had a tremor to it and MacLeod could see her pale face in the dim light. She looked scared.

  ‘Is there anyone there?’ she called, her voice echoing in the empty garage.

  He kept perfectly still, the coke can still wedged between his foot and the concrete floor. After a while, he heard her footsteps hurrying down the garage. When she reached the base of the ramp she turned again and stared back. Then she was gone, out into the street.

  MacLeod hurried after her. Once on the street he looked first left and then not seeing her, right. She was just turning a corner and he raced through the crowds of shoppers. At the corner he almost skidded to a halt. She was immediately beyond it, buying a paper from a newsstand. Then she walked off briskly, crossing the road to the subway.

  He tailed her back to her apartment.

  That evening, MacLeod returned to where she lived, intending to knock on her door with the excuse of mistaking her apartment for someone else’s, but as he approached the entrance hall, she was just coming out.

  She looked very attractive, but he tried not to let that bother him. He stayed close to the wall while she hailed a cab and heard her say to the driver, ‘Take me to P.J. Clarke’s. ‘

  He took the next cab that came along to the same place. When he entered the restaurant, she was sitting at the bar, evidently having just arrived, since there was no drink in front of her. He took a stool about four down from her.

  She called to the bartender.

  ‘Hey, Phil.’

  ‘Hey, Brenda.’ The young guy behind the bar walked down to her, wiping a glass on a cloth. ‘Usual?’ he said.

  The woman called Brenda nodded. ‘Lots of it.’

  Phil took down a bottle and began pouring into a long glass. ‘Say when.’

  ‘When.’

  She began drinking. Phil then went to attend MacLeod. He called over his shoulder, “Scuse me a minute, Brenda.’ Then to MacLeod, ‘Glenmoran . . .’

  ‘Right,’ replied MacLeod.

  As Phil turned away, MacLeod said softly, ‘Go to the Garden often?’

  Phil turned. ‘What did you say?’

  Almost simultaneously Brenda said, ‘What did you say?’

  MacLeod was amused at the apparent confusion. He didn’t know why. Perhaps, after the previous evening the slightest hint of humour in a situation was grabbed by him for light relief. He didn’t want to analyse it too closely. It just seemed funny.

  ‘Hum?’ said Brenda. MacLeod took a sip of his drink.

  Brenda picked up her bag and walked along the bar to him. ‘What did you say?’

  He turned and looked into her eyes. They really were quite remarkable.

  ‘Madison Square Garden - do you go there often?’ She looked a little perplexed and then slightly alarmed. ‘Why?’

  ‘Basketball - the circus - wrestling.’

>   She turned as if to go and then halted, facing him again. Someone else had entered the bar and he supposed she felt safer with another person on their side of the bar.

  ‘Why are you asking me about the Garden? Have you been following me?’

  MacLeod smiled. ‘I’d like to walk you home, Brenda.’

  She reached into her bag and threw a note on the bar. ‘I can take care of myself,’ she snapped.

  Then she strode towards the exit. MacLeod finished his drink in one large swallow and followed her out. He saw her look quickly behind her and then hurry on. MacLeod went in the same direction, weaving through the people in the street.

  Someone brushed against his shoulder and said, ‘Hey, man?’ MacLeod ignored the remark and at the end of the block he stopped and went back to the restaurant. He went up to Phil and ordered another drink. As Phil was pouring it, he said casually, ‘Nice-looking woman.’

  ‘Who?’

  MacLeod took a sip of his whisky, and nodded towards the door. ‘Brenda.’

  Phil said’-‘Oh sure, Brenda.’

  ‘She, ah, unattached?’

  Phil shrugged. ‘Who knows? One of the cops down town maybe got his eyes on her.’

  ‘She work there?’

  ‘Yeah. Some kind of a lab assistant, or somethin’ . You know, little glass tubes and bits of body hair. Gives me the creeps when I think of it - know what I mean? Where have those hands been, man? She’s okay, though. I like her. . .’

  MacLeod nodded, finished his drink, and left.

  Chapter 10

  IT WAS NIGHT. The Kurgan was cruising in his car through the sleazy New York areas. He liked the scene out there. The pimps, whores, petty criminals: a lost people. Their weaknesses reminded him of his strength. He had killed more people in his long lifetime than were on the streets at that time. It was a profound thought. Still, for all their lack of strength, both physical and spiritual, he preferred the night hawks. He even dressed like them, in worn leather and loose black vest. Dramatic. It suited his Image.

  He drifted to the curb to observe them. A girl in hot pants sidled over to the car. She looked about fifteen.