Disclaimer: The characters and concepts of Hardcastle & McCormick do not belong to me. This is for entertainment purposes only. No money is being made from it.
Feedback is welcome at [email protected]
YESTERDAY MY LIFE WAS FILLED WITH RAIN
by Sheila Paulson
The bus was already in Los Angeles, nearly to the station when Sonny Daye started awake, staring around in temporary confusion while he knuckled his eyes to clear them. Damn it. He hadn't meant to sleep, not now, not when it was so dangerous. Bad enough to think they might be waiting at the bus terminal, but he shuddered to think that someone might have been on the bus, ready to murder him in his sleep. Who would think anything of a man sprawled asleep during a long bus trip? But, instead of staying alert, he'd dozed for more than an hour.
Sonny glanced around fearfully, his gaze falling on an elderly woman who sat across the aisle knitting efficiently, her deft fingers turning yarn into a sweater while her eyes roamed the bus, his unwitting bodyguard. Wonder what she'd do if I jumped up and gave her a kiss, Sonny mused. She might even recognize me. Women her age made up a large portion of his audiences these days.
Growing aware of his eyes on her, the woman turned her head and smiled. "You were sleeping so soundly I would have hated to disturb you," she murmured softly, either out of consideration for the other passengers or to create an air of intimacy. "You had a good rest, didn't you, dearie?"
"I needed it," he confessed, stretching to work out the kinks.
"I don't wonder. Nightclub singers can't possibly get enough sleep, up all night in those casinos. I saw your show three times, you and Tom Jones and Wayne Newton. What a treat it was, Mr. Daye. I love to listen when you sing Strangers in the Night. Reminds me of my dear Jasper, may he rest in peace." She started to fold her knitting. "We've arrived. Any chance of getting an autographed picture of you, love?"
"I'm afraid I don't have any with me, ma'am. I took the bus at the last minute." He supposed she'd think it odd his being in LA when he should be in Vegas. Damn it! Just when his career had finally taken a turn for the big time, he'd blown it. They'd never take him back after welshing on his contract like this. Hell. How to explain it? Most likely the casino owner was up to his neck in this business anyway.
Should've kept on walking when I heard those voices coming out of the empty dressing room next to mine. Damn curiosity'll be the death of me yet. They had been talking murder, planning the murder of Jimmy Cossetti. Big Jimmy, he was called...mixed up in organized crime to the point Sonny had even heard the man's name back in Atlantic City. Before he could move, the door had opened and the men had seen him standing there. Maybe they thought he worked for Cossetti, maybe they knew he'd been involved in Tommy Sales' capture. The one thing they did know was that he had heard what he wasn't supposed to, and if the chorus girls hadn't chosen that moment to come parading down the hall, he'd probably have met his end in a sleazy dressing room backstage in a Vegas casino. Instead he vanished with the girls and fled ten minutes before he was due back on stage. Probably ruined his career, but at least he was alive.
And carless. There'd been someone waiting in the parking garage. He'd sensed it; a feeling he'd learned to trust over the years. Picking up a spent Bic lighter, Sonny had tossed it as far as he could and run in the opposite direction he heard footsteps going toward the sound.
The bus was hardly an elegant solution, but it had proved handy. Amid the bankrupt tourists, the servicemen, and the inevitable college students he stood out in his tux, but after dumping the jacket and tie, he'd grabbed a seat in the midst of other people, half-dying every time a new passenger boarded. Once on the road to LA he'd begun to feel safe.
His choice of a destination had been based on two factors. One, it was the first bus leaving, and two, he could go to Mark for help. After all, they were getting along better these days, in spite of that disaster with the bar. Most people didn't even know he had a kid. And even if they found Mark, there was Hardcastle to deal with, and he had cop friends, could give him protection until this all blew over. Just what he needed, a place to hide and some decent backup. His kid would do that for him. He was a great kid, a real chip off the old block. It would be good to see Mark again. All he had to do was stay alive long enough to reach him.
"Well, maybe another time, dearie." The elderly woman's voice drew him back to the present. "But, I'm sure you wouldn't mind giving me an autograph, would you?"
"It would be my pleasure," he assured her suavely, sliding into the old routine and she glowed. Still have the old touch with the ladies.
She pulled a little address book from her purse and opened it to a blank page. "What's your name, darling?" he asked.
"Gladys."
He scrawled the autograph hastily and passed the book back as the bus pulled into the terminal. Even before the bus stopped moving he was on his feet and by the time it rolled to a halt, he was waiting at the door. The driver must have been in a good mood; he levered open the door and Sonny ducked out. A quick glance revealed no obvious danger, but that only meant he didn't see it. He'd go to ground tonight. I could take a cab, but that could be traced. Better get a few blocks away and flag down a cab. I mean, this isn't the greatest neighborhood, but I'd better be out of sight before dear old Gladys gets off the bus. She'll call out my name and it'll be all over.
He headed away trot the terminal, down a street, pausing at the corner to see if he had a tall. No sign of pursuit. Speeding up, he crossed the street and headed down a side street, feeling a little safer. After three blocks he ducked down an alley, turning to rake the street with his eyes. Nothing. He'd made it. Now to swing over to a main street and grab a cab for Gull's Way, or maybe check into a hotel and call Mark in the morning.
Though there had been no sound to alert him, the hairs rose on the back of Sonny's neck, telling him he wasn't alone, but his built-in radar was too late because something hard was shoved into his back, something that felt like a gun. "I wouldn't move if I was you." The voice was rough, uneducated, probably just muscle. Maybe he could get the jump on the guy.
"Hey, what're you trying to pull?" he demanded, tensing for action. "Come on, buddy, I've got important friends. You could get into big trouble for this."
The gun never wavered.
"Didn't you hear me? I said I've got contacts. Friends in the mob."
The gun withdrew slightly and Sonny heaved a sigh of relief, but too soon. "Not any more," the gruff voice announced and something hard slammed into the back of his skull.
Sonny felt himself falling and put out a hand to stop the pavement from striking him. Rough hands shoved him, pinning him down and that was the last thing he remembered.
*****
Mark McCormick stood at the edge of Hardcastle's prize rose garden, glaring at the odorous wheelbarrow that stood much too close to him, then he turned back to Judge Milton C. Hardcastle with an outraged frown. "You have got to be kidding."
"Don't push it, kiddo. These are show-class roses and the inspectors from the competition committee will be here next week. I haven't won first place in five years, but, this year, nothing's gonna stop me. Take the whole morning and get this fertilizer spread. Work it in real good. And no lying down on the job, McCormick. And no sneaking off to the pool."
"You don't pay me enough for this, Judge," Mark argued. "It's a lot of crap." Realizing what he had said, he grinned despite the odorous task before him.
Though he struggled against a smile as well, Hardcastle couldn't keep the corners of his mouth from turning up.
"I don't suppose that means you're going to help me," McCormick observed with rueful certainty.
"No, I'm going to read the newspaper and have my breakfast, and the sooner you finish, the sooner you can eat. I'll even cook it for you."
"That a threat or a promise? I've eaten your cooking, Hardcase."
"I've forced yours down, too." He patted Mark on the shoulder in mock sympathy. "If you used the time you spend flapping your jaw to get your work done, you'd have a whole lot more free time."
"Never happen, Judge. You'd just find new ways to torture me. I've got one consolation here. Job security. You can't fire me."
"How do you work that out, McCormick? Just because you're in my judicial stay--"
McCormick grinned gleefully. "Nope. You can't fire me because slaves have to be sold." He picked up a spade. "Seems somebody once signed something called the Emancipation Proclamation. Or doesn't that apply to bigshot judges who think they're above the law?"
"If you had a real job, McCormick, you'd be working a lot harder than I ever work you."
"I'll bet, but at least I'd get a decent salary." He winced at the ripe aroma rising from the wheelbarrow and grimly went to work, muttering under his breath. Hardcastle grinned. Mark did the best 'put upon' act in the business.
Leaving Mark to his work, Hardcastle went up to the house and poured himself a cup of coffee before sitting down to read the morning paper. When possible, he always gave it a thorough read-through because he never knew when he'd stumble across something important; one of the men he'd sentenced being back on the street, word of some new racket, current court rulings. He also liked to see how the public viewed his line of work and read all the local tidbits in search of familiar names.
This time the familiar name was in the wrong place, and he almost passed over the article before he realized what he was looking at. 'FIVE DIE IN SKID ROW HOTEL BLAZE', was the kind of headline he hated to see while eating breakfast. Something ought to be done about those old fire-traps, he thought. Nothing but flophouses for winos who can scrounge up the price of a fleabag room for the night. All it takes is one drunk smoking in bed and the whole place goes up in flames. Probably what happened to this one. He read that the Banner Hotel had burned somewhere around 3 AM and five people had been trapped by the flames and died there. One of them was listed as Sonny Daye.
Hardcastle knew there might be more than one Sonny Daye in the world, and the paper wasn't very helpful, listing no further information that would tie the victim to Mark's father. This had to be a different man, though, knowing what he did of Sonny, Milt wouldn't be surprised to find him in a skid row hotel. After all, Sonny associated with known felons, and had been in trouble with the law more than once. and might have been again, choosing the Banner as his hideout.
But he had to be sure. If the man listed here turned out to be Mark's father, the kid would take it hard, not that he'd been devoted to Sonny, who had a knack of letting his son down when it counted. Though Sonny's last visit hadn't been as bad as the judge had feared, Mark was still wary of the man, more than a little afraid to let down his guard and admit he had feelings for his father. He'd expected so much from Sonny, so much he'd never received.
During that last visit, Hardcastle had tried to patch things up between father and son, knowing Mark would regret it later if things didn't work out. If Sonny were really dead, McCormick would feel a tremendous amount of guilt because he hadn't let himself love his father wholeheartedly. The kid had it in him to care a lot, but he'd been dumped on so many times he'd tried to forget how. Since he'd come to Gull's Way he'd opened up a lot, but not with just anyone, and certainly not with his father. If it was too late for another chance, Mark would take it hard.
After folding the paper and tucking it where McCormick wouldn't find it if he took an unauthorized break, Hardcastle went to the phone and dialed Lt. Frank Harper.
"I've checked the reports, Milt," Harper reported. "When I got the name, I thought I'd better see it it had anything to do with Mark."
"Does it?" asked the judge.
"Looks that way. We can't make a positive ID that easily; he was burned beyond recognition. But we got his wallet, burned but partly intact. The photo on the driver's license was Sonny all right. The build's similar, and what we can tell about the hair color matches. We'll check dental records, but I don't think there's any reason to question the identification. Did you know he was in town?"
"No, I haven't heard from him and McCormick didn't say anything. I think I could tell if he knew Sonny was around."
Harper heaved a sympathetic sigh. "How do you want to handle it, Milt? I hate like hell to think of Mark having to ID him--not that I think anyone could be sure."
"I'll do it," Hardcastle decided. This wasn't his favorite job, and McCormick might negate the effort by insisting on making his own identification, but he'd try to spare him. "I'll come down now."
"I'll meet you, but don't you think you should tell Mark?"
"Not till I'm sure. No point getting him all shook up for nothing."
When the judge started his car, Mark was still working industriously in the rose garden, probably hoping to get the job over with as quickly as possible. Hardcastle almost stopped him. If Sonny was dead, flower shows would be the last thing on anyone's mind. But--until he was certain, he couldn't bring himself to break the news. Having lost a wife and son, he knew there was no gentle way to say it. He'd have to be damned sure before he said anything.
Harper was waiting to take him down to the morgue. "I don't think you'll know him, Milt," he cautioned. "I don't think his own mother would recognize him." Bracing himself, the lieutenant nodded to the attendant to lift the sheet.
Hardcastle had seen his share of dead people, some dead from violence, but this was the worst. This charred lump hardly seemed human. Resisting the urge to vomit, he forced himself to check thoroughly, then he shook his head and turned quickly. "You were right, Frank," he growled around the bad taste in his mouth. "I can't recognize him. Did he have any effects?"
"A watch and a ring," Harper replied. "the ring was pretty badly melted, but we've sent the watch on to the lab to test for prints. I'll get back to you on it." He produced a badly burned wallet from an envelope and displayed it. "Sonny's ID is here, and your phone number and Mark's were on a slip of paper inside."
"Damn it, Frank, what was he doing at a dump like that?"
"You tell me. Maybe he was on the run."
"I thought of that."
"What do you want to do about Mark?"
"I'll tell him." Hardcastle grimaced, accepting the task.
*****
When the judge pulled up the drive, he found McCormick still working in the garden, but the kid tossed the spade aside as he approached. "You come to spring me, Judge?" he asked hopefully.
"Yeah, kid, you can quit now."
Something in his voice must have warned McCormick that something was up because he gave the judge a wary look. "What happened? You decide you were working me too hard?" he asked, brushing his hands on his grubby jeans and removing himself from the immediate vicinity of the fertilizer. "Taking pity on your slave?"
When the judge didn't instantly reply, Mark took a closer look at his friend, eyes narrowing, and asked in a concerned voice, "What is it, Judge? You look bad."
"Come on up to the house, Mark."
The wary expression in the younger man's eyes grew stronger. "What's wrong?" he demanded, letting himself be led along, but braced as if ready to break and run. "Am I in some kind of trouble?"
"No, kid, you're not in trouble." Hardcastle opened the door and led Mark into the den. "Sit down."
"Must be bad," McCormick muttered uneasily. "What happened, you decide to send me back to prison?" His voice was deliberately light, but his attempt at banter failed miserably. He looked scared. "They didn't find out your lab tests weren't mixed up after all?" he demanded suddenly, harking back to the time Hardcastle had mistakenly been told he only had six months to live.
"No, nothing like that." The judge steered Mark to the sofa and pushed him down, taking a seat beside him. "But you're right, it's not good news. It's about your father."
"Sonny's in trouble again?" Mark almost sounded relieved.
"It's more than that, Mark." Hardcastle hated this, remembering how he'd felt when he got the telegram from the army announcing Tommy's death. Though he'd been a lot closer to his son than Mark was to his father, he knew that deep down Mark cared about Sonny, even if he didn't like to admit it. "Sonny was in a fire last night."
McCormick's body tensed, but his expression remained carefully blank. A muscle twitched in his jaw as he struggled to keep his emotions from showing. In a dead level voice he asked, "Where?"
"Here in LA."
"Didn't bother to get in touch, did he?" McCormick's hands tightened into fists. "I don't know why I should expect him to." He risked a quick glance at the judge and turned away at the sight of Hardcastle's awkward sympathy. "So what now? I'm supposed to mind? What did he ever do for me that I should care?"
"So he wasn't Ward Cleaver," Hardcastle said softly. "Maybe he was never in the running for the Father of the Year award, but he loved you."
"Sure he did." Mark's voice was heavily laced with skepticism. "That's why he kept running out on me."
"Last time he came back," the judge reminded him. "Not everyone's cut out to be a father, kid."
"I'll bet you were." McCormick's voice was barely audible. His body quivered, whether with tension or an attempt to repress tears, Hardcastle wasn't sure. Tentatively he dropped a comforting hand on Mark's shoulder.
"I'm sorry, Mark. Even if he wasn't everything you wanted him to be, it's all right to be sad about it."
"Oh, sure." Mark's voice caught and he cleared his throat angrily. "My old man. A man without much honor who didn't even want to make anything of himself. I'm supposed to be sad? Hell, Judge, I couldn't even be proud of him, not like I-I am of you. What right does that give me to be sad?"
"He was your father and you loved him in spite of himself. You didn't owe him, McCormick. You've got nothing to be guilty about."
McCormick's head jerked up in surprise. "How did you know?" he asked with difficulty.
Know what? That Mark had sometimes resented, almost hated his father? That he wished he'd said more to him? "I've been through it, too," Hardcastle reminded him. "it's always too late to say what you should've said. I think Sonny was smart enough to know how you felt."
"I didn't know myself." Mark turned away as if he didn't want the judge to see him cry. Expressing his feelings didn't come easily to him. Hardcastle recognized the problem, remembering how the kid had reacted to killing Weed Randall, to the news that his friend was going to die. In a lot of ways the kid was just like him. He didn't wave his feelings around like a flag either, though it might have made things easier when Nancy died if he could. Now he prayed for the wisdom to say the right things to Mark to help him get through this.
He tightened his grip on McCormick's shoulder, but Mark resisted. "I don't know how I felt about him," he confessed shakily. "My own father and I don't know how I felt."
"You cared. You've got a lot of caring in you."
McCormick pulled away and jumped to his feet, going to stand by the window where he pounded his fist against the wall. "Damn it," he muttered under his breath.
Before Hardcastle could find something comforting to say, McCormick turned and his eyes were dry. "I guess I didn't care enough," he retorted harshly. "He was my father and I can't even cry for him."
"Nobody says you have to, Mark. Maybe you'll be able to later. Sometimes it's too much of a shock in the beginning."
Turning back to stare unseeingly out the window, Mark said in a low voice, "It's not supposed to be like this."
"No, it never is. I wish I could help."
McCormick raked his hands through his hair. His back to Hardcastle, he muttered, "Sorry," in a gruff voice.
"It's okay, kid."
"I want to see him."
"I don't think that's a smart idea."
At that Mark swung around. "What do you mean? Have you seen him, Hardcase?"
"Yes."
"You just waltzed down and identified him for me? Didn't you think I had the right? He was my father."
"I didn't know it was Sonny when I read it in the paper, McCormick. If it was just someone with the same name, there was no point telling you about it. I wanted to be sure."
"Trying to protect me? I'm a grown man, Judge. I'm thirty-two years old. Don't you think I can take that such responsibility?"
"I know you can."
"Then why didn't you let me?"
"I did what I thought was right. I didn't want to have to tell you until I was sure. If it was someone important to me, you'd make sure before you told me, wouldn't you?"
"Yeah, but that's different," Mark insisted illogically.
"Go ahead, McCormick. Be mad at me. It might help to have someone to yell at."
McCormick looked startled, then his anger drained away. "I want to know what happened," he declared. "What was he doing there, how long he'd been in town, why there was a fire, everything. He called a couple of weeks ago and said he had a gig in Vegas, was real excited about it. Sonny wouldn't have walked out on that unless there was something wrong. Where was he?"
"A place called the Banner Hotel."
"Never heard of it." McCormick's voice sounded faintly accusative, as if his lack of familiarity negated the story. "Where is it?"
"It was a skid row hotel."
"That's crazy," McCormick burst out, staring at the judge as if he'd claimed it was a bordello. "Why'd he stay at a place like that? He'd made the big time--at least for him. Vegas was his dream. Why should he take off to end up in a fleatrap like that? Why wouldn't he call me?" He shook his head. "Why should he call me? He never bothered before."
"Come on, McCormick. You know he was trying to make things right between you. He wouldn't have given you the bar if he didn't want to work it out, to give you something to make you proud of him. Maybe something went wrong with the job. If he got fired he probably wanted to hide it from you. Sonny wouldn't want to look bad in your eyes."
"I guess not," replied Mark listlessly. "What happens now, Judge? What am I supposed to do? Should I arrange a funeral?" Dazed, unable to think clearly, Mark looked at Hardcastle trustingly. The judge recognized the feeling. Mark still didn't believe his father was dead. Not deep inside. Yet, he knew he should do something, but had no idea where to start.
"Let me handle it," he offered. "I'll make the arrangements. Do you know what religion he was?"
Mark shook his head. "I--I never thought about that. I don't really know much about him, do I?"
"Don't worry about it, kiddo. I'll check it out. What are you doing?" he asked as Mark walked over to the desk and picked up the phone.
"Calling the casino in Vegas. I want to find out why he left."
"Does it matter?"
"Yeah, it matters a lot. Maybe Sonny was in trouble."
The judge winced, wishing that Mark could have called Sonny 'dad', especially now. "You sure that's a good idea, McCormick?"
"What's the matter, worried about long distance costs?" Mark snapped, then caught himself. "Sorry. I know it's not that. You're probably worried I'll find out something I shouldn't. I don't care. He was my dad, and I've got the right to know." He dialed a number without hesitation.
Watching, Hardcastle shook his head. Mark didn't fool him. He'd heard from Sonny and evidently memorized a phone number, so he wasn't anywhere near as indifferent as he'd tried to pretend. That made everything much harder.
"Mr. Kingston, please." Mark waited, then, "Mr. Kingston? My name is Mark McCormick. I'm calling about Sonny Daye." There was another pause, then he snapped angrily, "Maybe he's a loser, but he's my father and he's dead!" Kingston evidently had a lot to say about that before Mark continued. "I want to know why he left Vegas. Was he fired?" Mark shook his head. "That doesn't make sense," he protested, bracing the phone with his shoulder and half-turning to stare at Hardcastle. Finally, he explained what little he knew about Sonny's death and promised to get back to the man. Replacing the receiver, he turned to Hardcastle.
"He doesn't know why Sonny left. He said everything was fine. Sonny was pulling in a decent crowd and he's done his earlier show with no snags, but he disappeared before the second show and nobody knows where he went. Kingston was pissed off because he thought Sonny ran out on his contract."
Mark threw himself into the sofa, shaking his head. "I don't get it. Why would he walk out if he was doing okay? He had to be in trouble."
"It's possible," conceded Hardcastle. Knowing Sonny, it was likely.
"Maybe somebody killed him."
"Where'd you get that idea, kid?" Hardcastle was startled because the thought hadn't occurred to him. The fire was possibly arson, but there was no official word on that yet. If Sonny had been on the run, would his enemies torch an entire hotel on the off chance he wouldn't get out? Anything was possible. Or had he been knocked out first? No, now was not the time to speculate on that possibility. He'd set the kid off digging up dirt at a time when he'd be too vulnerable to take sensible precautions.
"What do you think, Judge?" McCormick's voice hardened. "Sonny's doing well and suddenly, for no reason, he turned up here in a skid row hotel. Something's wrong with that picture. If he was on the run, he might not come straight here even if he wanted to. He'd hide out until he was sure nobody was after him. I think he was killed and I want to find out who did it and why."
"We don't know that, McCormick. Let Frank do his job and find out. There's no sense in running off to Vegas if it was just an accident."
"If he was your relative you'd want to know what happened." McCormick looked accusingly at Hardcastle. "Just because Sonny did time and had a few crooked friends doesn't mean he shouldn't have a fair chance."
"Now, kid, I didn't mean anything like that and you know it."
Mark's eyes dropped. "Yeah," he conceded, catching his breath. "Maybe he wasn't a saint, but he was my dad. I want to find out what happened to him." He looked up again. "Will you help me, Judge?"
Damn it, he never could resist that wistful look. "You bet I will."
*****
Hardcastle wasn't sure when he realized someone was watching the house, but it wasn't until the day before the funeral that his conscious mind put together what his subconscious had been telling him. He'd been paying more attention to McCormick than anything else, but he had registered a car lurking around outside the gates. He probably would have noticed it sooner, but it didn't follow them.. .just stayed in position, sometimes a blue Ford, sometimes a green Buick, but someone was there every time they went in or out. He said nothing to Mark because he had no proof it had anything to do with Sonny's death. Besides, he wanted the kid to stay as calm as possible until after the funeral.
The dental records hadn't come through yet, but there was no trace of a live Sonny and no report of a missing person who could be the victim, and Sonny's prints had been found on the watch. The one thing that bugged Hardcastle about the report was that the victim had been drunk when the fire started. From the amount of liver damage, he had a long history of drinking. The few times he'd met Sonny, the man hadn't seemed to be an alcoholic, but he might have been on the wagon and then slipped, a good reason for him to have run out on his job.
Mark had received the news on uncharacteristic silence, although his shoulders had sagged. When Hardcastle tried to get him to talk, the younger man refused, seemingly determined to get through the funeral with a determined strength that covered up any clues to his feelings.
By the day of the funeral Frank still had nothing new to report concerning the fire. The evidence seemed to point the finger at one of the guests of the hotel. He'd fallen asleep with a cigarette in his hand and started the blaze. The building had gone up in flames too fast to save everyone and Sonny must have been asleep or unconscious, unable to escape on his own.
The funeral was very small. Mark, Hardcastle and Frank Harper were the only mourners to go to the cemetery, although the judge did notice both the Ford and the Buick there, maintaining a discreet distance throughout the ceremony. After making sure that Mark wouldn't notice, Hardcastle pointed them out to Harper, giving him the plate numbers. "If Sonny was on the run, maybe those clowns are checking to make sure he's really dead," he suggested. "It couldn't hurt to run the plates and see if anything interesting turns up."
"I'll get on it this afternoon," replied Frank in a low voice.
The judge went to stand beside McCormick as he looked down at the coffin. Hardcastle had no fondness for Sonny Daye, though he'd tried to reconcile father and son. Now the man had managed to hurt Mark one more time, abandoning him for good. Not that Mark would consciously think that Sonny had meant to leave this time, but how many people could accept that in their hearts? Death sometimes seemed the ultimate betrayal.
He put his arm around Mark's shoulders and waited with him until his friend was ready to go home.
*****
They returned to Gull's Way, Mark trailing listlessly off to the gatehouse while Hardcastle put the truck in the garage. He had just emerged when Mark reappeared at a run. "Judge! Someone's been in the gatehouse!"
"Someone's what?" The two watchers had been at the funeral, which meant there was one more he hadn't seen. Whatever Sonny had been mixed up in must have been important. He followed McCormick back to the gatehouse then stared in dismay. The place had been thoroughly ransacked, pictures torn off walls, furniture upended, drawers dumped out. "Is anything missing?" he asked.
"I don't know."
"Check it out, then come up to the house. I want to see if anyone's been there."
"Be careful, Judge. Maybe they're still around."
Nobody was in the house, but someone had been. The damage was less extensive there, though. A few things had been shifted about, but obvious valuables were intact. It wasn't a robbery, and the fact that the damage was worse out at the gatehouse indicated that Mark had been the primary target. Now, on the day of Sonny's funeral, it made sense to believe this invasion had something to do with him. Maybe he'd been murdered after all--it was starting to look that way--and the murderer was afraid Sonny had passed some information onto his son.
McCormick came charging in and looked around, relieved to see that the burglars hadn't attacked the judge before he arrived. "They didn't do as much here," he said, relieved. "I don't think anything's gone from the gatehouse. But why would anyone do that?"
"I hate to say it, kiddo, but this looks like it could have something to do with Sonny."
Mark's eyes flew to his face. "What d'you mean?" he asked suspiciously as if the judge was about to dump on him, and Hardcastle was afraid he'd think just that.
"I saw a couple of strange cars at the cemetery," he admitted. "I asked Frank to run the plates. I wasn't sure if they had anything to do with Sonny, but if they've been hanging around because of him, maybe whoever ripped up the place was looking for something they thought he had."
"You mean he stole something?" McCormick frowned. "And they think I've got it?" Straightening his shoulders, he looked Hardcastle straight in the eye. "That settles it, Judge. Sonny was murdered and I'm gonna find out who did it."
"I think you're right, kiddo," said Hardcastle, relieved that Mark hadn't taken his remarks as an attack on Sonny's character. "As soon as we hear from Frank we'll know where to start."
*****
Mark McCormick was miserable. He'd spent the remainder of the afternoon putting the gate-house back in order, partly because the judge had suggested it and partly to give himself something to do to avoid thinking. So far he hadn't been very successful. Reluctantly he had come to the conclusion that, despite everything that had and hadn't happened between them, he loved his father. And that led in turn to the guilty feeling that if he had ever been forced to choose between his father and Hardcastle, he would have chosen the judge despite that newly acknowledged love.
Life wasn't fair. All his life, Mark had lost the people he'd dared to have feelings for. Sonny had been his first loss and now he'd come full circle. All the memories of the five year old he'd been came back to haunt him and Mark could almost hear his voice as he tried to convince his mother that Sonny would be back. Wonder which one of us I was trying to convince.
He'd tried again to convince himself in Atlantic City, bragging to the judge that Sonny had to have been something special to get Hardcastle to break the law--and the judge hadn't disagreed, but let him go on thinking that. Only later, after Sonny had taken off, had Mark managed to pry the truth out of his friend, the bitterness of that moment, when he'd realized his father had tried to run out on him when he was in trouble, had been assuaged by the warmth of the knowledge that Hardcastle had actually broken the law to save him. Hardcase hadn't let him down then, and he wouldn't now. A faint smile curved Mark's lips. How had he been lucky enough to deserve someone like Hardcastle for a friend?
Dusk was falling when he finished putting the gatehouse into a semblance of order. Looking good. Now to find out if Frank had any information about those guys as the funeral. He reached for the light switch.
"Don't turn the light on, kid."
The voice came out of the darkness behind him and he froze, unable to move because it sounded like Sonny. That's it. I'm going crazy. We just buried Sonny. He can't possibly be here now.
Slowly he managed to move, turning to face a dim shape that came toward him from the glass doors, and Mark caught his breath sharply. It was Sonny. He looked like he'd slept in his clothes for a week, and he had a bad bruise on his forehead, but he was too solid to be a ghost. Stunned disbelief gave way to anger, safer than relief, and his fist connected with his father's jaw, knocking Sonny to the floor.
"You bastard," he yelled. "You let me think you were dead for four whole days! What are you doing here? Did you think I'd be crazy enough to care?"
Prudently Sonny stayed on the floor, rubbing his jaw. "I deserved that," he conceded. "But I didn't know I was supposed to be dead until yesterday, and it was better that certain people believed that."
"We buried someone, damn it! We had a funeral for you. But you didn't think to tell me you weren't dead. Oh, no. I'm only your son. What do I matter? Go on, get out of here. I don't need you. I've always known I can't count on you. I'd be crazy to try."
McCormick glared at his father, furious, hurt, and curiously elated, though he wasn't quite ready to admit it, When Sonny climbed cautiously to his feet and headed for the door, shoulders sagging, Mark caught his arm and all but forced him into a chair. "I hope you have a damned good explanation for all this," he growled.
"Not good enough." Sonny's voice was curiously humble. "I'm sorry, son. I should have called, even if I did have to lay low."
"You got that right." Mark wasn't ready to let up yet. He'd been through a lot and his father's presence wasn't enough to make it right, not so easily. "You should have called. But I shouldn't expect that. You never learned responsibility, Sonny."
His father's face fell, and McCormick felt strangely guilty. Here he was, ranting and raving, almost blaming his father for not being dead. He said in a gruff, choked voice, "So you're alive." Then he grabbed Sonny by the arms and shook him, half to prove he was solid. Somehow in the process it turned into a hug. Tentatively Sonny returned it.
When Mark released his father, he felt better though he was still mad as hell. "You don't get off that easy," he warned his father. "You better have a world class explanation." Perching on the arm of the chair, he glared at Sonny, trying to maintain an aura of anger he didn't quite feel."
"I'm sorry, Mark." Sonny reached out and patted McCormick's arm. "I guess I'm not used to having anybody worry about me."
"That's not my fault," was Mark's automatic response, one he suspected wouldn't faze Sonny.
It didn't. "I was running for my life," Sonny defended himself. "I headed for LA because I hopped you'd back me, but I didn't want to lead them to you so I tried to hide out. I got mugged and somebody lifted my wallet. I think it was a wino. I could smell the booze on him. How'd you ever mistake an old wino for me?"
"It's not hard when he's burned to a crisp," Mark grated out. "He had your ID. What were we supposed to think? You were missing from Vegas and we had a body with your wallet. Thanks for another really great experience, Sonny. It ranks right up there with my fifth birthday."
"I didn't know about it," Sonny repeated. "I only heard about the fire yesterday, and I didn't know you knew about it until today. If I had, I would have been here sooner, and that's the truth. I wouldn't have put you through all that."
"Just like you didn't want to leave me in Tommy Sales' hands? I know you, Sonny. You'd do anything for me as long as it didn't interfere with Number One."
"I got here as fast as I could. I can't change what happened, and I'm sorry for what you went through. I guess you were worried about your old man, weren't you?"
McCormick grimaced. "What are you doing here now?" he demanded, ignoring Sonny's question. "Looking for a hand to get you out of trouble?"
"Partly," conceded Sonny honestly. "But mostly to let you know I was still alive."
Mark gave a short laugh. "The funny thing is that I believe you. I guess maybe I'm like you after all." He paused before asking, "Okay, Sonny, what kind of trouble are you in? No, wait. I want Hardcastle in on this."
"When don't you?" Sonny spoke softly. "Go ahead, get him."
Mark stared at him in surprise. He'd never considered the possibility that Sonny might actually be jealous of the judge. He hadn't quite believed that he cared enough for that. But this wasn't the time to probe into that can of worms. He headed for the door, pausing to ask warily, "You will be here when I get back?"
"My word on it."
"For what that's worth," Mark muttered under his breath as he crossed the yard to the main house.
Hardcastle was tidying the den when Mark entered the house. "You got everything cleaned up, McCormick, or does it look the way it usually does?"
Mark made a face. "Yeah, Judge, it's cleaned up, and you'll never believe what turned up while I was doing it."
Hardcastle glanced up in surprise, alerted by the younger man's tone. "What? Was something missing after all?"
"I found something I thought was missing," Mark told him, feeling a flutter of excitement. "Or maybe I should say 'someone'. Sonny's alive, Judge. He's over at the gatehouse."
"Your dad's alive?" Hardcastle demanded, incredulously, studying McCormick's face. "That's great! Really great!" His eyes narrowed with sudden suspicion. "What'd you do when you found him?"
"I decked him," admitted McCormick with a shamefaced grin. "He made me mad, thinking he could just waltz in here and have me glad to see him."
"You are glad to see him, aren't you?" asked Hardcastle. "He's your dad, kiddo."
"Yeah, but--I guess I'm glad to see him," confessed Mark reluctantly. "But don't tell him I said that. He really had me going there."
"Shows you care about him."
"Why are you anxious for Sonny and me to be pals, Hardcase?"
"I thought that was what you wanted. He's your father after all."
"I don't need another father," Mark exclaimed, then fell silent as he realized what he'd just said. "I don't need a father," he corrected awkwardly. "At least not one who pops in when he happens to feel like it and doesn't bother to tell me he's alive."
"Let's go talk to him." Hardcastle headed for the door, propelling Mark before him, and though he wore a broad grin, he made no reference to McCormick's slip. "He's probably got a good explanation. At least if I'm there when he tells you about it, you won't punch him out again."
*****
They found Sonny just as Mark had left him when they got to the gatehouse. After a quick look around, Hardcastle suggested that they remove to the main house. "Because this place has been searched. And because I think we'd be safer there. At least we'd be armed."
Mark started to ask when they'd been watched, a little pissed off because the judge hadn't warned him. Then his common sense took over as he realized that he would have been no help at all during the last few days. Maybe later he'd find a way to be mad at Hardcastle for keeping things from him, but for now they had to find out who was after Sonny.
Sonny looked uneasy until they were seated in the Judge's den, relaxing only after Hardcastle opened his gun case and took out a rifle which he passed to Mark. McCormick checked it out automatically, then set it beside him before turning to his father. "Okay, Sonny, you've got a lot of explaining to do."
After pulling out his own automatic, Hardcastle locked the case and sat at his desk, slipping the weapon into his shoulder holster. It looked incongruous with the jogging pants and beat-up old sweatshirt he was wearing, but the judge didn't seem to care.
"This time it wasn't my fault," replied Sonny defensively. "I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time."
"You've got a knack for that, don't you?" asked Mark. He knew Hardcastle would want to give Sonny the benefit of the doubt, but the last few days had been too painful for that. Sonny had to prove himself all over again.
Sonny must have known that too for he heaved a sigh and braced himself in the chair. "Have you ever heard of Big Jimmy Cossetti?" he asked.
"He's a mob boss," replied Hardcastle promptly, and McCormick half expected to be sent to the basement for the mobster's file. "Works out of Vegas, but he's got ties to the West Coast and the Southwest. I never met Jimmy, but I had his uncle Felix in my courtroom a few times in the sixties. Don't tell me Cossetti's after you? He's semi-retired these days."
"He's not after me," Sonny explained with a nervous glance over his shoulder. "He's about the only one who isn't. Somebody's after him."
"Who? You?" asked Mark skeptically.
"No. But a couple of guys at the club were talking about getting him. I don't know if there's a contract out or if they were doing it independently. They were in the dressing room across from mine and I heard them."
"You eavesdropped," suggested the judge.
"Well, yeah. It never hurts to know what's going on," Sonny admitted. Mark wondered if his father had tried to blackmail them and it had gotten out of hand. "Anyway," Sonny continued righteously, "they came out and spotted me, so I ran. I came over to LA on the bus and went looking for a cab. That's when I got mugged. I woke up in the drunk tank with no ID and they let me out in the morning. I didn't want to come out here right away in case I was being followed. I didn't want to lead a couple of hit men straight to my kid. You've got to believe that, Mark."
"Oh, I do," said Mark unconvincingly. "Somebody just happened to ransack the place this afternoon and it had nothing to do with you? Right."
"You didn't tell me that," his father accused, looking uneasily toward the windows as if he expected to find armed thugs waiting there for him. "I'm sorry, son. Maybe I should take off."
"No, you're not taking off," interrupted Hardcastle impatiently. "Running away won't solve anything, Sonny. I think it's time you faced up to the whole mess. If they come, we're ready for them, and if they don't, we'll get you police protection. At least you've got a base here and somebody to watch your back. Besides," he finished as if it were the clincher, "I won't have the kid worrying about you and wondering if you're still alive. You had a helluva nerve not contacting him, Sonny. I don't ever want you to pull anything like that again, understand?"
"I didn't mean to worry him," Sonny replied. "I thought I'd lay low for a few days, that's all. I've got an old girl friend in Encino and I hid out with her. She saw the obituary in the paper and told me about the funeral. I came as soon as I heard that," he added defensively, "but that's not good enough for him, is it, Judge? Both of you always expect the worst of me."
That wasn't far from the truth, thought Mark uncomfortably. It had been easier to suspect Sonny than to lower his guard and admit that he cared. Even when Sonny had been helping them get the bar into shape, Mark had been ready to believe the worst of him. Until now he'd thought himself safely past that. Maybe Sonny really hadn't figured that his son would believe him dead.
"It's hard not to believe the worst, Sonny," he admitted.
"Dad," prompted the judge from the background.
Mark tried to mask his annoyance. So Hardcastle was still on that kick, even after all this time. "Sonny," said Mark pointedly, "it all boils down to the fact that you've got a couple of Cossetti's rivals after you, and from what happened here today they are not totally convinced that you've shuffled off this mortal coil. They might even have seen you show up here." He frowned. "How'd you get here anyway?"
"I had Doreen drop me off. I didn't see anyone lurking around and I don't think anyone saw me. All I wanted was to let you know that I was still alive. I wasn't planning on sticking around to get you into trouble, too."
"I think it's too late for that," came an unfamiliar voice from the doorway. McCormick started and reached for the rifle, but a shot rang out and he jerked his hand back, spinning to see a dark-haired man armed with a magnum. The judge looked at the hole it had made in the ceiling in dismay, then glared at the thug.
"What do you want?" he demanded.
"Your houseguest. Sonny, you did a good corpse routine, but you didn't fool me. I know how sneaky you are."
"Is that why you hired me, Kingston?" demanded Sonny. "You wanted me to take the fall when Cossetti bought it?"
"No, I thought you'd been in enough trouble that you'd know how to look the other way, but, no, you had to go sticking your nose in my business. You might've got away with it, if your kid hadn't called wanting to know what happened." he glanced over at Mark. "Thanks. You thought he was dead, but I know Sonny, so I tracked you down and came here to wait it out. I actually started to believe he was dead when you had the funeral--you're a better actor than I expected. If I hadn't come by one last time, he might've gotten away."
"What makes you think I haven't?" Sonny challenged. "I talked to the cops this afternoon and told them everything I know."
"Sure you did." Kingston was clearly skeptical.
"I'm not lying, Kingston. I talked to Lt. Harper at headquarters and told him all about Cossetti and how you were mixed up in it."
"Bull. You didn't know I was in on it until you saw me just now. You didn't call Harper or any cop. I've been listening outside and you didn't have time to do it. I saw the blonde bimbo drop you off."
"You don't know everything," said Sonny with a cocky smile. "I called Harper from Doreen's place. I met the guy last time I was in town. Folks like me has to take a friendly cop where I can find one. Maybe I didn't know for sure you were involved, but Manigan and Jones are your boys and I don't think they'd try to off Cossetti unless you gave them the word. Harper knows all right, and he'll be here soon because I told him to meet me here."
"I think he means it, boss." A second man, older and stocky with a too-pretty face peered over Kingston's shoulder. "We gotta get out of here."
"I'm not hanging around," returned Kingston scornfully. "But I'm not leaving witnesses either. We'll kill these two and take Sonny with us. If the cop shows, he can blame Sonny for what happened. A not very touching reunion between father and son. Your kid doesn't exactly sound crazy about you, Sonny."
"You leave my kid out of this," Sonny insisted. "He doesn't know anything. Take me along if you want. You've got to know I'm on your side. After all, I'd be out a good job if I crossed you."
"Do you believe this guy?" Mark asked the judge. "Sonny, you're on whichever side seems convenient." He sneaked a look at Hardcastle to see what the man was planning, but the judge persisted in looking harmless. Maybe he could fool Kingston, but Mark wasn't fooled. The gun in the holster was too obvious, but he'd think of something.
"You're not on my side, Sonny," Kingston snarled contemptuously. "I wouldn't trust you as far as I could throw you."
Sonny looked dejected, until he caught Mark's eye and winked.
Oh great, now he's up to something that will probably get us all killed. Mark shot his father a warning glance, which the man totally ignored.
"Then take me out of here," Sonny urged. "Leave my kid alone. I'll keep quiet if you let him go, and he won't talk, not if it means I'll be killed."
"I'd be a fool to take an offer like that. Besides, what about him?" He pointed at the judge with his gun barrel. "He doesn't owe you, Sonny. He's a big time judge. He won't look the other way. No, I'll have to kill them both."
"Sonny won't care," spat Mark. "As long as his hide's in one piece he doesn't care what happens to me or Hardcastle." He knew better, though. Sonny might run, but he wouldn't let his son be murdered in his place, at least Mark didn't think so. Sonny was setting something up, and was going to need backup.
"What a shame," said Kingston with mock regret. "Father and son at odds. Not a pretty picture. Take care of them, Jones. I'll haul Sonny out of here. And hurry. If the cops really are on the way, I don't want to hang around."
Jones edged past his boss, leveling his gun at Hardcastle. Mark realized the man really meant to kill them, and, with a yell, threw himself at Jones, who had to jerk the gun around at him. Without looking, Mark knew that Hardcastle was drawing his gun, but too late. Helplessly, Mark watched Jones' gun point directly at his stomach, and he made a wild attempt to check his charge in mid-stride.
"No!" Sonny screamed, throwing himself at Jones as Mark jumped. The bullet from Jones' gun buried itself in the arm of the sofa, spurting padding an inch from Mark's side. He let out an involuntary yelp as he crashed to the floor, shaken, but unhurt.
Kingston couldn't get a clear shot at Sonny, but he slammed the butt down on his head, causing the singer to drop beside Mark just as the judge's .45 blasted, loud and echoing in the enclosed space. Jones made a funny little choking sound and folded up, the gun clattering from his hand as he grasped at his shoulder.
"Sonny?" Mark cried. His father didn't move, unconscious, but at least he was breathing.
Kingston started to turn as the judge shot Jones. "Look out, Judge!" Mark screeched, coming up under Kingston's arm to deflect his aim. The gun went off and Hardcastle vanished behind his desk and didn't instantly reappear.
"Judge!" Mark bellowed desperately.
Kingston tried to strike Mark with the gun butt, but he caught his wrist and as they grappled for the weapon, Sonny stirred. Reassured on one count, McCormick could direct his concern to Hardcastle. "Judge, dammit, answer me!"
"I'm here, kid." His voice was so normal that Mark didn't think he'd been hit. Relief washed through him and Kingston took advantage of it to twist his wrist free. Hardcastle popped up with his gun, but Mark was between him and Kingston so that he couldn't get a clear shot. As McCormick dove for the gun once more, Kingston swung his arm in a wide arc and the barrel cracked painfully against Mark's arm. He let out a howl of pain.
"Get down, McCormick!" the judge bawled at him.
He ducked aside and Hardcastle fired. The bullet caught Kingston in the wrist, shattering the bone. He screamed in terrible agony and lost his grip on the gun.
McCormick heaved a deep sigh of relief and manhandled Kingston into a chair, the dark-haired man clutching at his shattered wrist. "You bastard," he snarled, lifting blurred eyes to glare at the judge. "It's broken."
"Aw, did he fall down and go boom?" McCormick mocked him. "Sonny, you okay?"
"Just a little sore," his father responded as he sat up, then abruptly, he flung himself at Mark, knocking him to the floor. Pinned beneath Sonny's body, the wind knocked out of him, Mark couldn't see what happened as a bullet went by at extremely close range. The judge let out a yelp as another shot matched his.
Struggling and wheezing to catch his breath, Mark pushed at his father's arm. "Sonny, let me up. What's going on?"
Sonny rolled aside. "We forgot Manigan," he panted, his voice thinned with pain. "He must have been outside."
"Did he get you?"
"No." Sonny moved and caught his breath sharply. "I think I broke my arm when I fell."
"Judge?" McCormick called in a gasping voice as he struggled to breathe normally again. Thankfully the pain in his oxygen-deprived lungs was starting to ease up. "Judge, are you hurt?"
"I'm okay." Hardcastle loomed over his partner, a thin trail of red running across his forearm denying his words. On closer inspection, though, the wound seemed a mere scratch. He stretched out a hand and hauled Mark to his feet, whereupon he promptly doubled over. By the time Mark could straighten up, Hardcastle had rounded up the three thugs and had them covered.
Kingston's wrist was a mess, and the fight had gone out of him entirely. Jones looked white and shaken, but he was conscious if not exactly ready to take on the world. Someone had given him a handkerchief to press against his wound, and only his eyes betrayed his fury. Manigan was a silent lump in the doorway. It didn't look like he'd be going anywhere fast.
Hardcastle's arm was barely bleeding; it'd only take a band aid or two, and then he'd have Mark waiting on him hand and foot for a week. Well, that might not be so bad, thought Mark as he turned to his father. Things could have gotten a lot worse.
Sonny was on the couch, his face white, his arm cradled against his chest. "You okay, Mark?" he asked.
"Just fine." Mark smiled. "Thanks, Sonny. It looks like you just saved my life."
"He did," agreed the judge. "Call him 'dad', kiddo. I think he deserves it."
"I guess so," conceded Mark, knowing that Sonny's timely rescue at the risk of his own life had touched him more deeply than he'd ever be able to admit. "Thanks, Dad." The words came stiffly, but didn't feel as wrong as they would have done before.
"What the hell?" The startled voice from the doorway jerked all three of them around with identical expressions of surprise to find an armed Frank Harper standing there staring blankly at them. "You okay, Milt?" he asked at last, nodded toward the judge's arm.
"What? Oh yeah, this is only a flesh wound." He added in an aside to Mark, "I always wanted to say that." Turning his gaze back to Harper, he asked, "What brings you out here, Frank?"
"He did." Harper pointed to Sonny. "Left a message to get out here on the double because there might be trouble."
Mark swivelled to face his father. "You mean you weren't just bullshitting when you told Kingston you'd called the cops?"
"I didn't talk to Harper," admitted Sonny. "But I left him a message about the contract on Cossetti and the fact that Kingston's boys were after me."
"I just got the message," Harper continued. "Some bright boy on the switchboard thought it was a hoax, but I figured if Sonny really was alive, you were all probably in trouble."
"Goes without saying," Mark muttered with a grin.
"Anyway, I hotfooted it out here as fast as I could, and called some backup," Harper said. "Looks like you took care of the trouble without me."
"They didn't exactly give us a choice," Hardcastle returned, shoving his gun back into his holster now that Harper was here with his uniformed backup. He prodded his wound with a tentative finger. "Ouch," he muttered under his breath. "What next, Frank?"
"Much as it galls me to come to the aid of the enemy, I had them put through a call to Cossetti to let him know what was coming down. He can request police protection if this isn't all of them. And wouldn't we like that?" He grinned broadly. "Why don't we get this scum out of here."
"Sounds good to me."
*****
Mark felt good. A few hours had passed since Kingston had invaded Gull's Way and Sonny was in the hospital overnight, under protest. The paramedics had bandaged Hardcastle's arm, seeing no reason to send him along, which was just as well since Hardcase would never have agreed. He'd spent the time since the ambulance left complaining about crooks who had the gall to shoot up his furniture and bleed on his carpet. Although that particular source of amusement had burned out and the judge was getting ready for bed. "Go on, get out of here, kiddo. I need my sleep. Getting shot's not something I want to do every day."
"Hah!" objected McCormick. "They had to use a magnifying glass to find your wound. And you'll probably make me shampoo the rug in the morning.
"
"Nah, I won't do that. I'll bill Sonny." Hardcastle grinned. "He didn't do too bad tonight, did he?"
"I've got to admit that he surprised me."
"You didn't buy that stuff about his trying to be on Kingston's side?"
"Even Sonny's not that stupid. He was stalling for time."
"He was trying to protect you because he knew he'd brought trouble down on you, kid, and he felt bad about it. He may like to take the easy way out, but he sure wasn't about to risk your life along the way."
"He has before," McCormick pointed out before he could stop himself, then he shook his head. "But maybe he can change. He did okay tonight, right, Judge?"
"He did good."
"But that doesn't mean he won't pull some other dumb stunt later," McCormick muttered warily.
"He wouldn't be Sonny if he didn't," agreed Hardcastle. "Just take him as he is, McCormick. Don't expect miracles and you won't get hurt. All you gotta do is remember that he really cares or he wouldn't have done what he did tonight."
"Yeah, I'm a lucky guy," Mark replied, only mildly facetious.
"Really lucky," the judge agreed, adding with a grin, "And tomorrow it's back to the rose garden, kiddo. We've still got two days before the committee comes around to judge my roses."
"Roses? After all we've been through you can still worry about those stupid roses?"
"I want to win that competition," said Hardcastle reasonably. "Bright and early tomorrow morning, McCormick. I'll see you get an early wake up call."
Mark glowered at him, then he burst out laughing. "You're a sadist, Hardcase. And if you say 'now yet cookin'' I'll probably deck you."
"You've got to control this sudden urge for violence, McCormick," said the judge sententiously before taking flight to avoid the mock swing Mark took at him.
McCormick chased him all the way to the door.
***The End***
BACK to the Hardcastle & McCormick Fan Fiction Page