Rated: PG

Feedback: Comments welcome at tunecedemalis@yahoo.com

Author’s Notes: This is the third installment in the plot bunny series, which includes Two Men in a Boat, and Dry Heat.

Linda said, “Mark comes across something that makes him think he has . . . a half-brother.” “Yesss,” said I.

Thanks to Cheri for aways-valuable input and constant encouragement, and to Susan and Lynn, who betaed the heck out of this thing.

He heard the car before he saw it arrive, coming into view up the drive. There was no way he would have mistaken it, even by sound alone, for the Coyote, though McCormick was due back from class any minute now.

This vehicle was a scruffy Chevy with some serious rust issues. The driver was not much older than the car; Hardcastle was guessing seventeen for both of them, though all he caught was a glimpse of a sullen, somewhat puzzled face, before the kid turned to look at something on the seat next to him.

“Can I help you?” Hardcastle took a step out of the garage. It required some serious getting lost, to wind up all the way at the end of the Gulls Way drive.

“Ah,” the kid turned to look out the window at him, this time even more puzzled, “yeah, maybe. I’m lookin’ for a guy named Mark McCormick.” He seemed to be making a little bit of an effort. The sullenness had faded away, replaced by something oddly familiar.

“You’ve got a delivery for him?” the judge asked; he was accustomed to seeing used auto parts arrive in all manner of transport. “I can sign for it.”

“Oh, no,” there was a shake of the kid’s head. “I need to see him.” Then there was a pause before he added doubtfully, “He lives here?”

“Yeah,” Hardcastle shrugged. “You know McCormick?”

“Sort of,” the kid’s head had tipped down, then his eyes came up again. Hardcastle instinctively knew he was being lied to, and a second later he had a flash of insight. He knew why he knew, almost as certainly as if he’d been told.

“You’re related?”

The kid’s face had taken on an all-too-familiar wary mask, one that Hardcastle hadn’t seen in a while, but recognized immediately.

“Um, maybe.”

The judge was running the numbers. It was not outside the realm of possibility by a long shot. After all, by the time he was sixteen, Mark already had three years of auto thefts and assorted other juvenile delinquencies under his belt, and had been more or less on his own for quite a while.

It just didn’t seem likely that the object of his calculations would have wandered off and left some girl in a fix. He knew Mark had some very strong notions about that sort of behavior.

Assuming he knew.

The kid was still staring at him. Hardcastle realized he’d been wearing a rather frozen expression. He tempered it now with a quick smile.

“Well, he’ll be back in a few minutes.”

As if on command, Hardcastle heard the deeper-throated, familiar sound of the Coyote’s engine and McCormick taking the drive too quickly, as usual. The unexpected guest had heard it, too, and was glancing over his shoulder out the window.

“That’s him?” he asked, and then he opened the door of the car and stepped out, without waiting for an answer. It was almost as if he was preparing for a confrontation, or maybe he was just eager; it was a little hard to tell.

Hardcastle stepped back, wishing he could give McCormick some sort of signal. Instead he just stood there as Mark pulled in alongside the fountain and looked at the two of them with a puzzled smile.

“Company?” He climbed out of the car as usual without opening the door.

“Yours,” Hardcastle replied cryptically.

The kid stepped forward a little. “You’re Mark McCormick?”

Now that they were both standing there, the resemblance was even more apparent, though he lacked an inch or two of McCormick’s height, and his build was closer to what Mark’s had been when he’d first come to the estate, about four years earlier.

If McCormick was seeing any of this, it didn’t show. He only answered with a puzzled, “Yeah, I am, and you’re--?”

“Thomas Strasi . . . Tom.”

This didn’t appear to have any meaning for McCormick, who gave Hardcastle the merest suggestion of a shrug before turning back to the younger man and saying, “What can I do for you, Tom?”

“I need to talk to you,” he said, casting a quick glance at the judge and then back to Mark; it was clear he meant alone.

The judge took the hint, but waited for McCormick’s confirmation, which came in the form of another, more apparent shrug. “Ah, sure.”

He pointed up the driveway to the gatehouse and let the kid precede him. Mark gave the judge one more quick glance over his shoulder as he followed the younger man. The puzzlement was still there.

McCormick unlocked the door and shepherded the kid in. The place was in an average state of untidiness, nothing spectacular, and, despite this, his visitor was looking around with a certain amount of curious awe. He kept it subtle, though--quick sideward glances. The face he presented full-on to his host was two shades this side of bored.

Mark smiled to himself. Being jaded was part of the package at that age. He pointed casually to the sofa and said, straight out, “So, talk.”

Tom took a few steps toward the seat with no apparent offense. Before he sat down, he pulled something out of his right hip pocket, holding it folded over in his hand. Mark pulled up a chair, trying not to look too impatient.

“I’ve been looking for somebody,” the kid began, after he settled himself a little nervously on the edge of the couch.

“Me?” Mark asked, perplexed.

“Not exactly.” Tom shook his head. “But I think maybe you might know where he is.”

McCormick had a strange sinking feeling, as though he knew what was coming next.

"His name is Knight, Tommy Knight.” The kid’s face was cool, barely revealing a glint of hope. He must not have made much of McCormick’s frozen expression. “Maybe you know him as--”

“Sonny Daye,” Mark responded, as if by rote.

“Yeah. That’s the name he’s going by now.”

McCormick nodded, then he fixed the kid with a steady look and said, “Why are you looking for him?” As if I need to ask. The kid was obviously too young to be collecting for a bookie; that only left the obvious.

Tom didn’t blink or shift. He seemed to be considering the question as though it was quite important. He finally let out a breath, and with it a quick admission, “I think he’s my father.”

Even knowing it was coming, Mark felt his own breath go out in a sudden exhalation. It was more than obvious, it was . . . inevitable. The only question was-

“How did you find me?”

Tom Strasi looked up at him without lifting his head. He held out what he’d taken from his pocket, a folded envelope, still sealed. Mark took it from him and looked down at his own handwriting.

The address was Sonny’s, the last one he’d known of--a hotel in Tahoe. He’d written his own return address carefully, to prod the memory of a man who wasn’t a very reliable correspondent. The postmark was three weeks earlier.

“Where did you get it?” Mark asked quietly.

“I didn’t steal it.” Strasi’s answer had a hint of petulance to it that suddenly made him seem considerably younger.

“I didn’t say you did,” McCormick sighed. “Where’d you get it?”

“From the garbage can, in his room--I bribed the clerk. He’d already checked out. I only missed him by a couple hours.” The kid’s frustration came through in the choppy cadence of his sentences. “I was so close.”

“So, the trail got cold again and you figured you might as well follow up on this.” McCormick looked down at the sealed letter. “And technically you did steal it,” he added, trying not to sound too much like Milton C. Hardcastle. And it’s hard to call it stealing when it’s something nobody wants.

“From a garbage can,” Strasi hammered home the obvious, “and I didn’t even open it.”

“Don’t worry, there wasn’t anything personal,” Mark tossed it down on the coffee table casually. He was still staring at it when, a moment later, he heard the kid clear his throat.

“But you know the guy,” Tom insisted. “You know how to reach him?”

Mark lifted his eyes. He shrugged once, trying to maintain a calm attitude of indifference. “Know him? Yeah.” He heard the anger seeping out around the words. He couldn’t help it; he’d felt something snap the moment he’d seen the letter. “But I have never known how to reach him.”

The kid was frowning.

McCormick shrugged again. “He’s my father, too. I chased him down about three years ago. It'd been twenty-five years since I’d seen him. He showed up here once since then.” Mark looked at the younger man, weighing the words he was about to say. “Look, Tom, if there’s any way he might not be your father, it might be better to go with that.”

“But--”

Mark interrupted, shaking his head gently. “Sonny’s not the dad type. I’d say he’s irresponsible, but doing what he did goes way beyond that . . . God,” he spoke half to himself, his hand on his temple, “I wonder how many more there are out there?

“Listen,” he lowered his voice, speaking with quiet intensity, “he’s a lounge singer, and not a very good one. He moves around a lot, probably whenever things get too hot with his bookies or whatever woman he’s seeing. He’s done time; he cracks safes--he was a burglar.” Mark caught a glint in the kid’s eye. “No,” he added emphatically, “don’t look like that. That is not a good thing. Safecracking isn’t nuclear physics and, anyway, he wasn’t very good at that, either; he got caught.”

“You went looking for him. You found him.”

“Yeah,” Mark agreed reluctantly. “I’m just trying to spare you the grief.”

Tom looked unconvinced. Mark let out a heavy sigh.

“Anyway, he didn’t tell me where he was going. I didn’t even know he’d left Tahoe.”

“But you found him,” the kid insisted, with a focus that seemed entirely unshaken.

Hardcastle was standing out back by the pool, mostly staring out in the direction of the ocean, but occasionally taking a stab at getting ready to grill. He heard the two of them approach, neither saying anything. He looked over his shoulder, keeping his expression as non-judgmental as humanly possible. In return he got an indecipherable look from McCormick.

Mark was pointing the younger man in the direction of the beach. “Go take a walk. Twenty minutes, okay?”

Strasi shrugged and slouched away. McCormick stood there with his hands in his pockets, watching the departure for a few moments. Then he turned back toward the judge. He was looking at the plate of not-yet-cooked burgers.

“You’re making extras?” he flashed a quick smile.

“Yeah,” Hardcastle smiled back. “I figured he’s staying for lunch.”

“Well,” Mark cast a glance over his shoulder, “he’s probably hungry.” He frowned briefly in apparent memory. Then, after a pause, “I dunno, Judge. I’m not sure I should help him.”

Hardcastle felt his jaw drop open in a moment of utter surprise. He didn’t have it quite back together before Mark had turned to face him again. His own expression reflected the judge’s confusion for a moment.

Then McCormick said, “Well, it never did me any good, did it?” He seemed to think the judge needed further convincing. “You know,” he shook his head sadly, “I think some guys just shouldn’t be fathers . . .” Hardcastle put the spatula down slowly. He was about to launch into the younger man’s argument--generally and most certainly specifically--when he heard him add, almost wistfully, “. . . and Sonny is definitely one of them.”

The judge bit down on the first word he’d been about to utter--it would have been a bad one. He ran the numbers again, and this time came up with the much more likely scenario.

“He’s Sonny’s kid?”

“Yeah,” McCormick looked up at him, a little puzzled. “You didn’t notice the resemblance?” Then he shook his head and smiled a little. “Don’t tell me you’re shocked.”

“Well, I . . . um . . .” Hardcastle fumbled for the rest of the answer.

McCormick was still looking at him, staring now, his eyes going a little narrower with sudden understanding. “You thought he was--” Mark looked over his shoulder again. “He’s eighteen. I would’ve been . . . Ju-udge.”

“Yeah, well,” Hardcastle shrugged in embarrassed relief, “you were always telling me how damn precocious you were.”

“Precocious, yes. Careless, never.” Mark shook his head. “Not even when I was fifteen.” He said this with what sounded like heartfelt sincerity. Then he added, with a grimace, “I wish I could say I came by it honest.”

Hardcastle was still reviewing the new version. He looked up suddenly. “So, the kid is looking for Sonny?”

“Yeah, he wants my help.”

Hardcastle frowned briefly. There seemed to be a piece missing-how Tom Strasi had found McCormick-but if that information wasn’t being offered he had a feeling there was a reason.

“He’s in Tahoe, isn’t he?”

“Was,” Mark replied flatly. “Apparently left in a hurry.”

“Before or after he knew the kid was looking for him?” Hardcastle asked dryly.

“Now, there’s a question,” McCormick sighed. “Wouldn’t surprise me if he ducked out just on general principle as soon as he got wind that someone was asking around after him. I don’t think he even knows about this one.”

The judge frowned, not really able to disagree with McCormick’s assessment.

“His mom’s name is Sheila; he was born in Reno. She told him his dad was a singer named Tommy Knight, but there’s no father’s name on his birth certificate. He just got lucky with the Sonny Daye connection-he says a few months ago he was bussing tables in a joint off the strip in Vegas, making a little extra money cleaning up the changing rooms for the performers. He found an old poster with Sonny’s picture on it, four layers down on a board in one of the rooms.”

“He recognized him?”

“Yeah,” Mark shrugged, “no wedding album, but his mom had an eight by ten glossy . . . two bits each,” he added with chagrin.

Hardcastle winced. He laid the burgers on the grill, forestalling the conversation for a moment. When he’d fussed over their arrangement as much as he could get away with--and the kid hadn’t added anything more to the unsurprising story--he finally said, quietly, “I hope you don’t intend to start looking for him the same way you did last time.”

McCormick smiled tightly. “No, Judge, I already know all his aliases.” The smile turned into a frown. “Hell, there’s a lot of seedy lounges between here and Jersey. How would I even start?”

“Dunno,” Hardcastle mused. “Why does he say he wants to find him, anyway?”

Mark looked up slowly, with an expression of astonishment. There was a long, silent moment before he said, quietly, “Judge, he thinks the man’s his father. Isn’t that enough reason?”

“You explained to him about,” Hardcastle made a vague gesture, “about . . . Sonny?”

“Yeah, didn’t make a dent.” Mark exhaled. Then he looked over his shoulder again for a moment. “I dunno,” he shook his head, “you have no idea how big a hole something like that is. How hard it is to fill.”

“Well,” Hardcastle flipped a burger, “I know Sonny’s not big enough.”

McCormick turned back, half-smiling. “That’s the truth . . .” He jerked his head back in the direction of the figure, now approaching from the beach path, “but maybe he has to find that out for himself.”

Mark watched the kid efficiently dispatch two burgers, eying a third with a wolfish and predatory gleam, barely polite enough to wait until the judge nudged the platter in his direction. Well enough, McCormick thought, having lost most of his own appetite before they’d sat down. He was grateful that Hardcastle was being the attentive host.

It was entirely possible that the kid hadn’t even noticed the interrogatory turn that the conversation had taken. The judge was that good at it. Anyway, McCormick himself had been far blunter, back in the gatehouse, and hadn’t gotten this much.

It was fairly apparent that Tom had been on his own for a while and that his departure from home had not triggered an all points bulletin. The kid’s sullen toughness ratcheted up a notch when the discussion drifted in the direction of his mother--no implication of tragedy, more like he had become an inconvenience. Hardcastle let that one drop, like tossing down the less-likely cards from a hand.

“So, where are you staying in L.A.?” The judge smiled and passed the potato salad again.

“Um . . .” There was a pause as Tom helped himself to another serving, “With friends.”

Mark looked down at his own plate, trying to keep the disbelief off his face. Was I ever that bad at lying? It had to be Hardcase. McCormick shook his head just slightly. He exuded some sort of honesty field around him--it made lying a lot tougher than it ought to be.

“Uh-huh,” Hardcastle said, non-judgmentally. Tom squirmed just slightly. “You gonna be staying in town long?”

“Depends,” the kid replied, looking over at McCormick.

“I’ve got to think about it,” Mark said abruptly. “I’m not sure I can help.” And then he added, with more intensity, “I’m not sure I want to help.”

Strasi was giving him a look, halfway between pleading and anger, but he seemed fully aware that this wasn’t open to discussion right now. He backed down visibly, returning his attention to his plate.

Hardcastle frowned for a split second and the moved his chair back a little, plastering a smile on his face, once again the host. “Anybody want dessert?”

It was somewhere in the middle of ice cream and Oreos that Hardcastle made the offer of lodging, and Tom, with a quick look in McCormick’s direction, agreed. More surprising than that, though, was the conclusion of the meal, when Strasi got to his feet and began gathering the dishes.

“Can’t help it,” he had a half-grin on his face, “twelve months of bussing tables, it’s like a reflex.”

Hardcastle tried not to look too amazed. He’s a different person once he’s fed and knows he’s got a place to sleep. He looked over at Mark, who had an equally bemused expression on his face.

“No problem,” McCormick smiled back. “Don’t suppose you spent any time with a lawn service?”

Tom shrugged a ‘no’ as he picked up the stack of dishes. Mark got to his feet, took what was left and led him toward the kitchen door.

Mark filled the sink while Tom scraped and stacked. There were no significant leftovers. Tom hadn’t said much more since they’d left the table, but the sullenness hadn’t returned.

“There’s a sofa in the gatehouse,” McCormick offered, as he tackled the first of the dishes. “That okay?”

“It’s fine,” Tom nodded. “I sleep in the car mostly.”

McCormick nodded back. He didn’t point out the disagreement between this and Tom’s earlier claim. At any rate, he was completely familiar with the concept, and had a very clear memory of a time when a sofa seemed a big step up in accommodations.

Strasi had finished the scraping. He took a dishcloth off the rack and started on the glasses. There was a quietly industrious pause before he asked, “Who is he?” with no question that he was referring to Hardcastle.

McCormick smiled. “He’s the guy who owns this place,” and, that clearly not being enough of an explanation, added, “He’s a retired judge. I work for him.”

Tom frowned. “Doing what?”

“This and that. The dishes.” McCormick smiled vaguely. “Stuff.”

Tom now wore a look of dubious disbelief.

“Let’s see,” McCormick looked out the window. “This afternoon. Thursday. I have to pick up a new air filter for the truck, and that hedge over there on the south side of the drive is looking pretty ragged-assed . . . gotta deal with that. Oh, and I was gonna wash the ‘Vette. But since you’re here, I’ll put you on that one . . . and then I’ve got a couple of chapters to read for constitutional law.”

All of this was met with a blank stare.

“You’ve washed a car before, haven’t you? I mean, you know you have to wipe it down with a chamois and all that?”

Tom nodded wordlessly.

“Then tomorrow I’ve got an early class-eight-thirty. But it’s summer session; I’m done by noon again.”

“Constitutional law?” Tom asked, obviously having a little trouble keeping up.

“Yeah,” McCormick handed him a plate, “I’m a law student.”

Tom squinted. “Aren’t you, um, kinda old?”

“Late bloomer.” Mark shrugged. “And I spent a couple of years studying applied criminal justice. San Quentin.”

The blank expression remained for only a second more, rapidly replaced by a knowing look that McCormick found oddly disturbing. It was as if nothing he’d said, up to that point, had made any sense to the kid.

Mark sighed.

“Okay, right up front, right now. I have a very low tolerance for criminal behavior, but, compared to that guy out there,” he jerked his thumb in the direction of the patio, “I am positively lenient. So, if you have any notions of pulling a fast one, or in any way scamming him, consider yourself warned.”

Tom managed to look hurt, though it didn’t last long enough to test McCormick’s credulity. Then he flashed a grin and said, “Hey, maybe you should just help me track down Tommy Knight and then I’d get out of your hair.”

Mark gave him a slightly annoyed look. “I’m beginning to think the two of you deserve each other.”

McCormick had settled the kid with bucket, supplies, and Corvette, and then retreated into the house. He found Hardcastle sitting back in his chair behind the desk, studying nothing in particular on the opposite wall of the den.

“Thanks for the new roommate,” McCormick grumbled reflexively as he sat down.

“Aw, come on,” the judge smiled, “didn’t you always want a little brother?”

McCormick thought about this a moment, then gave the judge a hard look. “The problem is, knowing Sonny, you might wind up like Father Flanagan here.”

“Anyway, he seems pretty well-mannered for-how old is he, anyway?”

“He says eighteen,” McCormick grimaced. “Can’t blame him for that. It’s hard to get work unless you lie. But there’s lots of places that’ll look the other way. And . . . yeah . . . he knows the scam.”

“What scam?”

“Be nice to the person who’s feeding you.”

“Hah,” Hardcastle was grinning now. “Too bad you never learned that one.” He looked over his shoulder. “What’s he doing now?”

“Making himself useful,” McCormick sat back a little further, as befit an overseer. “He’s washing the ‘Vette.” He watched the grin fall off Hardcastle’s face. “Aw, come on, Judge. He’s washing it, not overhauling the transmission.”

The judge was peering out the window. “He knows about the chamois?”

“Yes, we discussed chamois at great length.” McCormick assured him, suppressing his own grin. The ‘Vette was not a subject for jest and he didn’t want the judge rushing out right then to supervise. He had something else to discuss. “And, anyway, that’s not why I came in here.”

Hardcastle looked back toward him at this change of tone; his eyebrows rose slightly in an unasked question.

“What the hell am I gonna do with brother Tom?” Mark asked bluntly, hooking a thumb in the direction of the driveway.

Hardcastle gave him a considering look. “I thought he wasn’t your problem.”

McCormick exhaled heavily. “I’d kinda like him not to become anybody’s problem. Which is what he will be, sooner than later, I think, if he doesn’t figure out a way to eat regularly that doesn’t involve a slim jim and some wire cutters.”

“You’re speaking from personal experience here, I take it.”

“Very personal.” Mark shook his head slowly. “Anyway, you saw him polish off three Hardcastle Specials out there today.”

The judge nodded, then he studied the far wall for a moment. “Look,” he fastened his gaze back on McCormick again, “seems to me we got a couple of choices.” The ‘we’ had come out with no particular inflection, as if it was only a matter of course.

“You can say ‘Sorry kid, can’t help you,’ and send him on his way tomorrow.” Hardcastle’s eyes narrowed down a little when he said this, showing that it really wasn’t an option anymore. “Or, you show him how the lawnmower works and we start buying the family-sized packages of hamburger--”

“But we don’t know anything about this kid--”

“He’s a kid, seventeen, tops, maybe not even that.” Hardcastle said flatly.

“Oh, Judge, you have no idea,” Mark shook his head.

“I--” Hardcastle shut him mouth abruptly on whatever it was he’d been about to say. Mark recognized that they were both treading awfully close to Things We Don’t Talk About. After a long awkward pause, Hardcastle began again slowly. “Or you can start by helping him find Sonny. Who knows, it might help.”

McCormick made a face. “Not likely.” Another pause. “All right. We put him up in the gatehouse. I’ll try and talk to him some more, and maybe--”

“I’ll run a background check,” Hardcastle finished for him, “see if anybody’s looking for him.”

“More likely the State of Nevada than his mother, I’ll bet,” McCormick added with quiet certainty as he pulled himself out of the chair. “And what are we going to do if we find that out,” he muttered, half to himself.

“Aw, come on,” Hardcastle reassured, “he’s only seventeen.”

“Yeah . . .” Mark moved toward the door, still muttering, “I better go make sure he’s not taking the hubcaps off the ‘Vette.” He made a small waving gesture at Hardcastle’s sudden look of alarm. “Don’t worry, Judge, he’s only seventeen.”

McCormick had to admit, the kid did nice detail work and there weren’t going to be any water spots. Mark strolled around it casually, noting the gleam he’d put on the chrome. Then his eye was drawn to Tom’s car.

“Now that’s a sleeper,” he said admiringly.

“Huh?” Tom looked up from the finishing touches he was putting on the back right hubcap.

“The Nova,” Mark smiled. “Is it a ’69 or a ’70?”

“Ah . . .”

McCormick frowned.

“A ’70,” the kid said, with what sounded like incomplete certainty.

McCormick’s frown deepened. “It’s yours, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Tom said defensively. “Well, someone gave it to me. It’s kinda rusty.”

“Hah, better that way. Even more of a sleeper.” McCormick shook his head and smiled thinly. “Pop the hood.”

Tom clambered to his feet, wiped his hands on the chamois and walked over to the Nova with what appeared to be reluctance. He opened the hood and then stood a little behind McCormick as he peered into the inner workings.

“Yeah,” Mark looked back at him with a smile that held some puzzlement. “It’s a big-block. This is, um, about 375 horsepower. Very nice.” Tom was still wiping his hands, looking nervous. Mark straightened up. “You didn’t steal it.” He made it a statement, not a question.

“No.”

“Yeah, I know. This one came with a steering column interlock.” McCormick said quietly. “End of an era,” he sighed. “Not impossible, but somehow I don’t think you’d be up to the challenge. Anyway, why would someone go through that much effort, if they didn’t know what was under the hood?”

Somehow, the kid was managing to look abashed at having been found innocent. “I haven’t had it very long,” he said, in a half-hearted attempt to explain himself.

“So, who gave it to you? The ‘friend’ you’re staying with in L.A.?” McCormick pressed a little harder.

This time the sullenness was tinged with panic. “No,” he said. “Just a friend.”

McCormick backed off. He knew there were other ways for a seventeen-year-old kid to keep from starving, but he didn’t think there was any way he’d get that topic on the table for discussion. “Well, leave it like it is,” he said, watching the kid visibly subside at this apparent change of subject. “If you fix it up, every cop from here to Reno will pull you over.”

It was getting close to dinnertime when Hardcastle heard the backdoor and then the familiar sound of McCormick puttering in the kitchen. There were no voices; it sounded as if he was alone. A moment later he heard the Chevy pulling out of the drive. He frowned, got to his feet, and strolled toward the kitchen.

There was no sign of cooking, only dishes being set on the kitchen table. McCormick looked up from that and said, “I sent him down to Tony’s for pizza. That okay?”

“Ah,” the judge exhaled, “I thought for a minute there, you’d already kicked him out.”

“No,” McCormick looked pensive. “I showed him how the lawnmower works. That’ll keep him busy tomorrow while I’m at class.” Then he added, “He did a nice job on the ‘Vette.”

“So you’re letting him stay?” Hardcastle smiled. “I didn’t know you could do a whole character analysis based on how a guy washes a car.”

“No,” the pensive look had turned into an outright frown, “but you can tell a lot about a person by what he drives.”

“That rust bucket?”

“Well,” McCormick scratched his nose absently, “that’s one book you shouldn’t judge by its cover. It’s got an L78 under the hood--low intake, a whole lot of torque; it can probably break 14, even in the condition it’s in now--which is not bad at all where it counts.”

“Lemme know when you’re gonna start speaking English again.”

McCormick looked up from his pondering and flashed a small smile. “Let’s just say it’s all go and no show.” But it was right back to serious when he said, “So where’d he get it?”

“He saved his tip money?” Hardcastle asked skeptically.

“Yeah, that’s what he should’ve said when I asked him, but, instead, he got pretty jacked up. Said a friend gave it to him. Probably figured I was gonna ask to see the papers next.” McCormick leaned back against the counter and shook his head slowly. “He’s in some kind of trouble, Judge, I just don’t know what.”

“Well, he’s not wanted for car theft either here or in Nevada, at least under the name Thomas Strasi, if that makes you feel any better.”

McCormick smiled again. “Fast work. That only leaves forty-eight states and a whole lot of aliases. But I don’t think he stole it, at least not the old-fashioned way.”

Hardcastle pondered that distinction for a moment before continuing. “And there is a Tom Strasi, with a mother named Sheila, from Reno. He would have just turned seventeen. No record of a driver’s license, and the plates on the Nova belong to a ‘73 Town and Country Wagon--who knows where that is--but he’s got no juvenile record in Nevada, or here either, unless it’s sealed.”

“He would have had to start pretty young to have it sealed already.”

“Sheila, on the other hand--”

“Please,” McCormick interrupted, “just tell me she’s over thirty-five.”

“Oh,” Hardcastle frowned for a moment, “Yeah, thirty-eight, though in her line of work she might not admit to it. And she’s got a record, in Reno and Las Vegas, couple of other places, too. Mostly for something it’s harder to get arrested for there than here, at least in seventeen Nevada counties.”

McCormick gave him a curious stare. “Seventeen?” His eyebrows went up. “You keep track?”

“Point of law.” Hardcastle shrugged. “Nevada Bar, 1946. Besides, you’d be surprised how often the question comes up at parties.”

“I’ll bet.” McCormick smiled, but again it didn’t last. “Is she in prison now?”

“Not in Nevada. Not on parole, either. Last address is in Reno, no phone number.”

“Doesn’t matter.” Mark let a long breath escape. “Even if she wanted him back, you can’t make a kid stay where he doesn’t want to be.”

“She might know what’s wrong.”

“She might be what’s wrong.”

“Or maybe she just did what she had to do to support a kid on her own,” Hardcastle reasoned calmly.

“Getting herself arrested? Getting her kid thrown into the system?” McCormick sputtered, “Nope, Judge, that doesn’t wash.” He frowned again. “And when did I become the heavy? You’re the one with the ‘legal’ and the ‘illegal’. The very least a parent owes a kid is to be there, and you can’t do that if you’re busted.”

Hardcastle let him wind down, but didn’t let the tense silence that followed stretch out too long. After only a moment he asked, “You got the VIN off the Nova?”

“Not yet,” Mark shook his head. “I can get it tonight.” They both straightened up to the sound of a car in the drive. McCormick moved past the judge to go to the front door. Hardcastle caught his arm and halted him.

“Listen, we’ll work it out.” This got him a slow nod from the younger man. “And anyway,” Hardcastle continued, “how much trouble can he be in? He’s only seventeen.”

Mark lifted his head and shot him a look of absolute disbelief, before he continued on toward the door.

The pizza was a success, by amount consumed if no other criteria. It was hard for McCormick to tell if Tom’s dedicated eating was reflex, or an intentional ploy to avoid conversation. The judge carried on over him, with the discussion leaning toward the Dodgers.

There wasn’t much to clean up, but again the kid made a move without being asked. This time Mark let him handle it.

Hardcastle glanced up at the clock. “Game starts in a few minutes. You coming?” He’d kept that last part loose, addressing both or either.

“Got some reading to do,” McCormick replied. “Might be back for the last couple of innings. Tom?”

“I’m . . . kinda tired.” Truth was, it looked to Mark like he wasn’t lying, though it was just as likely that he preferred to avoid another interrogation.

McCormick got up from the table. “You wanna bring your stuff into the gatehouse?” Tom nodded wearily. McCormick turned toward the judge and added, “See you later maybe.”

This got another nod as the party broke up. McCormick resisted the urge to grab a flashlight from the kitchen drawer on the way out. He thought he had one under the sink at the gatehouse, but he wasn’t sure the batteries would be any good.

He led the kid across the darkened front drive to where the Nova sat, looking slightly less forlorn as a mere dark outline in the shadows. Tom opened the trunk and took out a gym-bag sized duffle.

Traveling light, Mark thought, or you left in a hurry.

Tom followed him up the walk to the gatehouse, and blinked a couple times as he watched him open the door. McCormick had had every intention of making up the sofa, sheets and everything, but the door was barely open before Tom trudged through and dropped down on it, kicking off his sneakers and barely taking the time to pull a throw pillow in under his head before he flopped onto his side.

By the time McCormick had dug a blanket out of the closet, the kid was already more asleep than awake--no response but a grumbling mutter when he tried to hand it to him. Mark wound up doing the spreading himself.

He retreated to his desk in the loft and Ducat’s Constitutional Interpretation. He figured he’d wait at least a chapter or so before making his foray back to the Nova, but his eyes kept getting drawn off the page, and back to the figure on the couch below.

Traveling light and depending on the kindness of strangers . . . and things didn’t get much stranger than at Gulls Way. McCormick half-smiled to himself, then felt a twinge of guilt for his plans to add to the background search. It’s for his own good. He buried his nose back in his book.

It was the bottom of the eighth, and the Reds were ahead by three, with Hershiser getting ready to take the fall. Hardcastle had only been paying cursory attention to the debacle, since getting off the phone with Frank. McCormick had stepped in a few minutes ago, gotten a flashlight out of the kitchen drawer, and gone out again without a word. Now the judge heard him at the door again. Quick work.

He slouched into the den, looking slightly guilty as he tossed a slip of paper down on the desk. Hardcastle picked it up, glanced at it, and redialed Frank’s number. By the time he’d gotten off the phone the second time, McCormick had taken a seat in front of the TV, and was going through the motions of watching the game.

“It’ll take a while,” Hardcastle rested his chin on his palm. “Out of state and all. Might not hear back until tomorrow.”

“What’ll we do if it’s stolen?” McCormick asked rigidly, without taking his eyes off the screen.

“I thought you said he couldn’t’ve done it.”

“I . . . said I didn’t think he could’ve stolen it, I mean, not off the street. That doesn’t mean he might not have taken it. From somebody he knew . . . a misunderstanding.”

“You mean,” Hardcastle flashed a quick smile, “like it was registered in someone else’s name for insurance purposes?”

This got him a glare over the shoulder. “I’m being serious.”

The judge gave this a sharp nod. “I know . . . I’m sorry. Look, you’re worried that maybe he was being taken advantage of by somebody? That he took the car and hit the road?”

“Yeah,” McCormick muttered, almost as sullen as Tom himself, “it happens.”

There was an awkward silence. Hardcastle was very much aware that they were standing on the brink of Things We Don’t Talk About.

Then McCormick edged back a little. “Okay,” he exhaled, “look, just promise me that if it does turn out to be ‘stolen’, you’ll give him a chance to explain, that’s all.”

It was no surprise to McCormick to find Tom still crashed out on the sofa at seven-thirty the next morning. Mark would have preferred to sleep in himself after a night that involved more thinking than rest. Instead, he dragged himself off to class.

He was more pleasantly surprised, when he returned at noon, to hear the sounds of the lawnmower coming from what he referred to, with only a margin of exaggeration, as ‘the south forty’. He didn’t know how long the kid had been at it, but he was well out to the perimeter of the lawn, and the judge, standing on the front steps with his hands in his pockets, looked fairly happy.

“He’s a quicker study than you were.”

“Yeah, but he doesn’t know a spark plug from a fuel injector.” McCormick glanced over his shoulder again, then quickly back at the judge. “What did Frank say?”

Hardcastle opened the door and led him into the hallway. It was hard to read the older man’s expression.

“Well?”

“Nothing, so far. The VIN’s not in the Nevada database, California neither. I asked him to try Arizona and New Mexico. But it might be one that’s so old it fell off the list. Sometimes these computer records are a little sketchy on the old stuff.”

McCormick frowned. “He had to get it from somebody.”

“I thought you’d be happy.”

“Well . . . no. There’s still something wrong. We just haven’t figured it out yet.”

“Yeah, well, in the meantime, since I was just sitting there waiting for Frank to call back, I found Sonny.”

Mark jerked his head up at the casual mention of the name. “How the hell did you do that?” Then he added in bemused wonderment, “And why the hell didn’t I sic you on him three years ago?”

“Coulda saved yourself a lot of grief.” Hardcastle shrugged. “I know a lot of people.” He led McCormick into the den and handed him a piece of paper off the desk.

“Las Vegas?” McCormick read the address off in disbelief.

“The feds have been keeping an eye on him. You know they offered him the witness protection program after that Tommy Sales thing.”

Mark sat down in a chair, a little unsteadily, still holding the piece of paper. He looked up at the judge. “But he didn’t take it?”

“Nope, turned ‘em down flat, according to my source. Told them he wasn’t a snitch. That’s probably why he blew out of Atlantic City so fast, though. Not all of Sales’ goons got swept up, and sometimes the word gets around when the feds start leaning.

“They made a second offer from the L.A. office, right after that situation with Doyle Madison; he turned them down again.”

McCormick shook his head. “I don’t get it. He’s already got so many aliases, what difference would one more make?”

“Well, I’m guessing he still wants to be a stand-up guy, in both senses of the word.” Hardcastle smiled thinly. “Kinda hard to do the lounge act when they set you up in Fort Wayne as a postal worker. And it seems like Nevada is one of the few places that Sonny has managed not to be seen talking to the feds.”

There was a long pause while McCormick took all this in. “I suppose,” he started up slowly again, almost talking to himself, “he figures he kind of has to keep moving around.”

“Well, that doesn’t cover not writing.” There was enough anger, just underneath the judge’s words, that McCormick looked up again. He dropped his eyes back down quickly, pretending to study the paper, while he tried to figure out just what Hardcastle did and didn’t know. He must’ve written to him, too.

He opened his mouth and closed it again, not sure what the hell he’d been about to say. ‘Thank you?’ Instead, on the second try, he segued into a question.

“So what do we do with this?” He was holding up the paper.

“Show it to the kid, or don’t show it. Your choice.”

Mark was holding it so tightly that it was almost crumpled. “Neither,” he said determinedly. “He’s not going to give up until he finds the guy; he’s made that clear. But, oh, God, to just send him there on his own. Hell, the man barely acknowledged me the first time around, and I had him dead to rights. What’s he going to say to this one?” McCormick shook his head. “I’ve got to go with him. Honestly, I don’t know which would be more disappointing, finding him, or not finding him.

“Anyway, he’s driving without a license in a mystery vehicle with bad plates.” Mark smiled crookedly, “at the very least he needs a car and a chauffeur.”

“So, we’ll take the truck,” Hardcastle clapped his hands together as if it was all decided.

“‘We’?” McCormick lifted his head and looked quizzically at the judge.

“Yeah,” Hardcastle’s smile was slightly shark-like, “I figure you’re gonna need a referee.”

Tom had listened to Mark’s version of the plan, over a lunch of ham and cheese sandwiches, with more stoicism than outright pleasure. He clearly suspected his tour guide had more information than he was offering, and he appeared downright puzzled about the judge joining them.

Hardcastle listened right along, taking a small amount of satisfaction from, for once, not being on the receiving end of a classic McCormick spin.

They were taking the truck because it was August, and an ancient and venerable road monster, like the Nova, was not the ideal transport across the Mojave. The judge would drive because he was crazy like that. Hardcastle had to just shrug and look idiosyncratic at that point.

No, they didn’t know exactly where Sonny was, but they had some ideas where to look and, hell, six eyes were better than two anyway. Why Las Vegas? McCormick ducked his head for a moment, took a bite of his sandwich, and chewed it thoughtfully.

Finally, he swallowed and said, “Why not? He’s about a thousand times more likely to be there than in L.A., and you’ve already wasted a day and a half here.”

Tom was looking at him doubtfully, though he wasn’t letting it interfere with his appetite. He finally succumbed, as so many had before him, to the sheer, buoyant enthusiasm of the man.

“And, if we leave after lunch, we can be there by dinner,” Mark concluded pragmatically.

Tom was nodding along by then. Hardcastle, in keeping with the official version, asked him if he had any photos of Sonny, to assist in the search.

“Um, just the one from that poster. It’s pretty old.”

The judge got up from the table, as the other two did the cleaning up. He ducked back in the den, and riffled through the contents of the bottom-most desk drawer on the left. He suspected there was probably a reason why he hadn’t yet put this particular photo in an album. McCormick had seen it at least once, shortly after it had been taken-three men standing in front of a bar and grill.

He wandered back into the kitchen, still looking down at the picture, wondering why he hadn’t noticed before how damn happy McCormick had looked. Tom put down the washrag he’d been wiping the table with. He leaned over to see the photo, taking in the three faces and the sign behind them.

“That’s him?” He peered more closely at the figure on the right.

Mark put the last dish in the rack and wiped his hands on a towel--very slow, deliberate movements. Then he reached out and took the picture from the judge, looking down at it with what anyone else might have called dispassion.

“Yeah,” he said, “that’s him. ‘Bout a year and a half ago. That was the last time I saw him.” He handed it back to the judge without any further study.

“Where was it?” Tom was still leaning over, still staring at the picture, now that it was back in Hardcastle’s hand.

“Here,” McCormick shrugged, “well, in the Valley. It was a bar. We were going to go into business together.”

Tom was staring at Mark with an expression of absolute bewilderment. “He was here. But I thought you said--”

“It didn’t work out,” McCormick interrupted harshly. “It turned out to be a very bad investment.”

The judge glanced down, one more time, at the photo, before slipping it into his shirt pocket and, one more time, he was glad he had decided to go along. Whether we find him, or don’t find him. But he wished, just for once, he could explain to the kid’s idiot father, just how little it would take to make his son happy-how damn little Mark would settle for.

They drove across on highway15 in relative silence, McCormick staring out the window at who-the-hell-knows-what, the judge listening to the sports guys discuss the Dodgers’ chances against the Giants, and the kid dozing, on and off, in between them, occasionally needing a little propping up on McCormick’s side.

And, despite the vagaries of Southern California traffic, they made Las Vegas before the last bit of red was out of the western sky. Hardcastle headed for his usual off-the-main-drag haunt, nice enough but not too fancy, a place McCormick was familiar with from previous visits.

Tom was wide awake now, and took in the sights with the disinterest of a near-native--one who had spent most of his days here in the back kitchens of second-rate establishments. He didn’t question their destination, but McCormick noticed him scanning the faces of the clusters of Friday-night revelers as they crossed in front of the truck at each intersection. That’ll get old real fast.

They had a plan, briefly discussed that afternoon, while Tom had been off in the gatehouse getting his things together. The address the judge had ferreted out for Sonny Daye was in a seedier part of town, most likely an old motel that had declined into a by-the-week rental. With that went the suggestion that he was between jobs, maybe having to lay low, but that would hardly keep him from the poker tables, or out of the bars.

It would add something to the verisimilitude of their story, if they were somehow able to run into him without having to go right up to his door and knock. That would be the plan for Day One. If that failed, they could always resort to planting a little information with one of the doormen.

It had been Mark who’d commented that, “It’ll probably work as long as he doesn’t see us coming.” It was Mark, now, who suggested they check into their hotel and find an all-you-can-eat buffet, preferably at some place Tom hadn’t previously worked, and start the hunt after that.

Tom seemed strangely patient about the whole thing. That, and an unusually light appetite for dinner, left McCormick with the impression that he, too, was having second thoughts.

After dinner, things fell into a pattern. They made their progression by foot. Hardcastle had the photo, useful in support of the story that he was looking for an old buddy he was supposed to meet up with at whatever establishment he was currently in--a quick scan of the most likely-looking gaming tables, followed by a friendly chat with the most helpful-looking floor walker.

Mark and Tom took their positions at the back exit, just in case Sonny saw Hardcastle first. The whole thing took no more than ten minutes at the smaller places, which was mostly what they were focusing on. In ten-minute increments, they ground through most of the evening.

At the thirteenth or fourteenth such stop, when McCormick had finally lost count, they found themselves outside a door on a side-street, where only a few neon signs provided any light. Mark studied Tom’s face, still turned toward the door. If there was any anticipation there, it wasn’t perceptible. If anything, now that they were in near-darkness, Mark thought he’d caught a hint of dread.

“You don’t have to,” he said abruptly, and was surprised to see the kid jump at the sound of his voice. Tom cast a quick glance toward him.

“Whaddaya mean?” he asked, with an edge of suspicion to his voice.

“What I mean is you don’t have to meet him. You don’t have to.”

“Yeah, I do,” Tom replied, almost under his breath.

“It’s just that . . . there’s no rule about this sort of thing. If it’s right for you, it’s right. If it’s not, it’s not,” Mark added, practically.

“Let’s just find him, okay?” Tom said, with an edge of surliness that hadn’t been there before.

Mark looked at him more closely for a moment. He finally let out a slow breath. “Look, just don’t expect anything to change when you find him You’ll still be you and he’ll be . . . Sonny. You can’t change that.”

“Maybe you couldn’t,” Tom said flatly.

McCormick shook his head. “Nobody can. It doesn’t work like that.”

But the kid wasn’t looking at him anymore.

Another hour and five more places. The kid had clamped down pretty tight. More like going to an execution than a joyful reunion. McCormick sighed. Hardcastle seemed to catch on when he came out of the last joint, with another shrug of his shoulders.

“Nothing there, either.” He glanced down at his watch. “Almost midnight. You guys look beat. Whaddaya say we head back to the ranch? We can sleep in tomorrow, anyway. Sonny’s not really a morning person.”

This barely got a nod from Tom. Hardcastle led them back to the last place they’d parked the truck.

Still, they hadn’t been back at the hotel for more than a few minutes before the kid said he was going for a walk.

“Three and a half hours wasn’t enough for you?” Hardcastle asked in disbelief.

“That wasn’t walking; that was standing around,” Tom said determinedly. “And, anyway, I just got some stuff to think about, that’s all.”

Hardcastle was looking at his watch dubiously. “It’s kinda late.”

“Judge,” Mark intervened quietly, “this is Vegas. There isn’t any ‘late’ here.”

If Tom was grateful for the support, he didn’t show it. He started toward the door, not even acknowledging the judge’s, “Just be careful, will ya?”

The door closed with a finality just short of a slam.

“What the hell was that all about?” Hardcastle asked.

“That is seventeen.” Mark made a face. “You don’t remember seventeen?”

“I dunno,” Hardcastle shook his head. “Seemed like more than that.”

“Maybe,” Mark rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I think he’s handling it better than I did. Maybe it’s better like that; it’s like being born blind. You never know what you missed.”

Hardcastle frowned. “And how are you holding up?”

“Okay,” McCormick shrugged. “Him, though . . .” He shook his head. “I’m not sure we can string this out too much longer. I think the concierge better have a hot tip for us first thing tomorrow. That’d be a good time of day to find Sonny at home.”

“You want to get this over with, huh?”

McCormick was staring out the window; he didn’t acknowledge the question for a moment. Then he said, abruptly, “You know, it is kind of late. I think maybe I should go keep an eye on him. He can’t have gotten too far.” Mark was on his feet.

“Okay,” Hardcastle said. “You keep tabs on the kid and I’ll set things up for tomorrow . . . and you be careful, too,” he added, reaching for the phone as he heard the door close a second time.

The message light was blinking.

There were still plenty of people on the street and it took McCormick a moment or two to spot the kid, a half-block away and moving toward the corner with more purposefulness than a mere stroll. Mark didn’t try to catch up--he didn’t think his company would be appreciated right now--but he didn’t fall behind, either. You’re tailing him.

Yeah, so?

He stuck his hands in his pockets and walked a little faster, sparing a look to the side for a turning car and then up again--the kid had disappeared.

Dammit. He didn’t know why it suddenly seemed so important, but he spent a quick, nervous, couple of seconds scanning the sidewalk, and then finally concluded Tom must’ve turned down a smaller, less well-lit street up ahead. He picked up the pace until he got to the corner, then paused, slipping into the shadow of the building as he edged around the corner.

He needed have bothered. Tom still had his back to him, about two hundred feet down. He was leaning over against a car, talking to someone who was inside. An ’80 LeBaron, McCormick catalogued automatically, but it was too dark and too far to make out the plates, or much about the man driving it. Only one guy, though.

Mark hadn’t even had time to make up his mind about what he’d do next, before the kid had straightened up and backed a step or two from the car, which slowly pulled away, executing a u-turn. He was still standing there, frozen in his own indecision, when Tom abruptly turned and looked up, straight at him.

He couldn’t see the expression on the kid’s face, but body language said it all-shoulders slumped, chin dropped down a little. Then, a moment later, the head was back up again, and Mark knew, even before he’d closed the space between them, that he’d be dealing with anger, not embarrassment.

He kept his own posture relaxed, and walked at a quick stroll, hands in pockets. Still, he couldn’t keep the first question from escaping, without any preamble of greeting-

“Who was that?”

Tom’s glance darted away. “A friend, a guy I used to work for.” The kid shrugged once and then added, “Just a guy.”

“Make up your mind,” Mark replied suddenly. It sounded harsh. He didn’t care. It was better than trying to shake some sense into the kid.

And, just as suddenly, Tom went rigid; his eyes locked onto McCormick’s.

“Okay. He’s somebody I know. What’s it to you?”

“I’m your brother,” Mark said, and, as soon as it was out, he knew he’d made a mistake.

It only took the kid a second to come to a full boil. “Brother? Shit. Half-brother, maybe, and you aren’t even sure about that, are you? Or at least you hope not, huh?” Tom’s eyes were narrow, and, even in the silvery shadows of the street lamps, McCormick could see he was flushed. “You sure as hell know where Tommy Knight is and you drag my ass all the way out here and then try to walk me into the ground. Why? You figure I’ll get tired of looking and give up? Well, I won’t. If he’s here, I’ll find him, with or without you.”

McCormick didn’t have time to reply before Tom spun on his heel and started off up the street. Mark lunged forward and grabbed him by the arm, half-expecting to get swung on. Instead, Tom froze. Then he turned and glared.

“No more games,” Strasi said through nearly-clenched teeth. “You know where he is or not?”

McCormick nodded once, abruptly.

“Then why the hell didn’t you just tell me, back in L.A.?”

McCormick frowned for a moment. “Because I thought you would run off by yourself and try to find him. You would have, wouldn’t you?” He didn’t wait for an answer; he wasn’t even looking at Tom’s face anymore. “That would have been bad.” The frown deepened in memory. “It may still be bad, but it’ll be better if you have somebody with you, trust me.”

He lifted his eyes. Tom was staring at him impatiently. “Okay,” Mark added suddenly, “I can take you to him. I think we need to get this over with.”

“Uh-huh,” Tom said quietly, “but you can just give me the address. You don’t have to go.”

“Yeah,” Mark replied, almost under his breath, “I do.” He looked over his shoulder back toward the busier street. “Come on; we’ll need a cab.”

As soon as he’d gotten off the phone, Hardcastle knew what he was going to do. He’d always known that Frank hadn’t gotten his lieutenancy on good looks and a sparkling personality, but jumping over all the more geographically-likely states to bag the VIN on the third try--good cop instincts. Well, and it probably hadn’t hurt any that he knew about Sonny.

He supposed he could make a phone call and accomplish the same thing faster, but he didn’t want to give McCormcik’s wayward father a chance to cut and run one more time, at least not before he’d had a chance to have a word with him. Hardcastle grabbed his keys and dashed off a quick note to Mark, cryptic enough that if Tom got back first it wouldn’t set off any alarms.

He wasn’t going to waste any time hunting down McCormick and the kid. Who knew how long it would take him to find them, and as long as they were just out there wandering around, they’d be okay.

And, besides, it was Sonny who was the lynchpin.

Sonny’s new address fulfilled Mark’s darkest expectations. Lots of coming and going at night here. He cast a quick glance at Tom as they exited the cab. He didn’t seem particularly upset. Tense, maybe. The kid was looking around, as if he expected the man to be sneaking off even as they approached.

At least it was the kind of place where there weren’t any back exits-an old two-story motel where the doors faced out front. Sonny’s current address, according to Hardcastle’s source, was room 204 of this establishment. Steps led up either end to a second-floor balcony that ran the length of the building; that might be a little tricky.

Mark briefly considered the notion of sending Tom up the other stairway, but concluded he didn’t need to cast that much aspersion on Sonny’s character-besides, either he or Tom could probably outrun him even with a half-block head start.

Nevertheless, he took the steps quietly, saying nothing to the kid as they made their approach, and he felt somewhat relieved when they had gotten themselves firmly planted in front of the door. Two sharp raps, enough to be heard even by a sleeping man; there were no lights on inside. Mark waited patiently; Tom fidgeted, still glancing over his shoulder from time to time.

“Okay,” Mark sighed heavily, “not here right now. No big surprise.” He turned toward Tom.

“That’s it?” the kid hissed quietly. “We’re this close and we just walk away?”

“No,” McCormick frowned, “we go find some nice quiet place out of sight that still has a good view of this building. Then we hunker down and wait. He’ll be back eventually.”

“No,” Tom’s protests were getting a little louder, though still not more than a harsh whisper. “If someone saw us--if he saw us--he won’t be back. Or maybe he’s already left.”

“You want to wake the manager up and talk to him?” Mark asked, practically.

“No,” Tom shook his head emphatically “We need to take a look in there.”

“No cleaning lady to bribe right now. It’s one-thirty in the morning.”

“That’s not what I mean.” Tom was staring at him expectantly. After a moment of that, he added, “You can do it, or me. I’ll just break the window.”

“What the hell makes you think I can do it?”

“You’ve got a set of picks. I saw them.” Tom left it at that, leaving Mark to wonder if he searched the gatehouse or his luggage.

Probably the luggage.

And why do you take them with you when you go out for a walk?

‘Cause you never know, huh?

He pulled the case from his pocket with a sigh, thinking this would be a lot harder if he himself didn’t want to know what the hell Sonny was up to. He removed what he needed, and set to it with the nonchalance of a man reaching down to fumble open a lock with a key in the dark. After a moment or two of persuasion, it yielded with a snick, and Mark caught a quick look of admiration crossing Tom’s face.

“It’s a motel room lock,” he said to the kid, with some asperity. “A cheap motel room lock.”

Tom nodded once as he pushed the door open slowly. The air inside was a little stale and still had some of the day’s heat in it. The bed was unmade, and there were a couple of stubbed-out cigarettes in the ashtray, but no other obvious signs of habitation.

“Gone,” Tom said in a hushed voice. Mark just stood there in the doorway.

The kid flipped on the lamp next to the small table. Mark eased the door shut and made sure the curtains were tightly closed. Tom had already dumped the contents of the overflowing wastepaper basket onto the floor. Most of it was a crushed pizza box. The kid was pawing through the rest.

“Won’t be any letters from me,” Mark said dryly. “I just found out this morning that he was here.”

“Receipts,” Tom said with exasperation. “Places he goes.”

“I know,” Mark exhaled. “Listen, kid, he’s gone. He’s moved on. He does that.” He shook his head. Tom was paying him no attention. “It wasn’t you this time. It probably wasn’t you last time.”

Tom had slowed down--it wasn’t care but hopelessness. “I need to find him,” he said with quiet intensity. He turned over the last few pieces of Sonny’s cast-off refuse. “I need to.”

“Come on,” Mark stepped over and tapped his shoulder, trying to get him refocused. “We can’t hang around in here. We gotta go.”

He grabbed his arm and gave him a boost up. Tom stood reluctantly and was still looking back over his shoulder as Mark led him to the door.

McCormick eased the door open an inch and looked out in that direction, seeing no one. The rest was left to luck. He opened the door and stepped out, pulling Tom after him and heading for the stairs.

He was halfway down, and turning to offer Tom some reassurance--something about Hardcastle and ways and means-when he spotted a LeBaron parked a short way down the block. He still couldn’t make out the license plate, but it didn’t seem like a night for coincidences, and when he looked back at Tom, from the expression on the kid’s face it was plain he’d seen it, too.

“Who the hell is he?” Mark asked with angry urgency.

“He . . . he must’ve followed us.” Tom half stuttered. “I dunno.”

“He’s your friend,” Mark prodded, scanning the area carefully. The car looked empty, but he saw no one in the shadows below. “What does he want from you?” There was a pause, and then Mark answered himself. “It’s Sonny he’s after.” As soon as he said it, the look on Tom’s face let him know it was true. “Who is he?” Mark hissed.

Tom didn’t answer and Mark had no time for an interrogation. They were out in the open, and at least some of the people who wanted Sonny Daye wouldn’t be too kindly disposed toward Mark McCormick either, and none of them would want Tom for a witness. Up or down?

“Down. Hurry.”

There was still a chance that they hadn’t been spotted. There was practically no light in front of the motel. Whoever he was, he might still be trying to get his bearings. But not if he followed us here. And the answer to this was the shadow that emerged from behind the staircase as he stepped down onto the landing.

“Don’t move,” a low voice uttered a simple command. Mark froze at the blunt touch of metal at the side of his neck--a gun.

Mark felt Tom edge past; now he was down on the landing as well. He apparently had reason to believe the order didn’t apply to him.

“He’s gone,” the kid whispered. “He didn’t know.” Tom was nodding back at Mark. “We don’t know where he went.” The guy in the shadows gave the kid a shove with his free hand.

“Step away, Tom,” Mark said, trying to keep his tone even and reassuring. What he really wanted was for the kid to see the cold, hard light of truth without him having to spell it out. Run and keep on running. But he couldn’t risk saying it out loud.

“Where?” The man was addressing Mark, not Tom.

“We don’t know where.” The kid tried to push his way back into the conversation.

The blow came out of nowhere; Mark had looked aside at Tom when he’d spoken. Then he was down on his knees, trying not to go all the way to the ground. He felt a trickle of something warm on the side of his face.

“I said where?”

The trouble with getting pistol-whipped was that it could rapidly escalate to being shot. Mark tried to organize his thoughts, tried to think of something he could say that wouldn’t totally piss this guy off. Unfortunately, Tom got there first again.

“We don’t know.”

That one hadn’t worked. Didn’t work this time, either. The second blow took him all the way down, though he managed not to black out. He heard the pistol being cocked and was looking up at the shape of it, couched in the man’s hand, a darker shadow against the larger one, all back-lit by a street light. He still couldn’t make out the face of the man who was planning to shoot him just because he didn’t know where the hell Sonny had gotten to now.

The kid was off to the side somewhere, still protesting their ignorance. It was only a matter of time before the guy with the gun turned it on him, too. Probably as soon as Tom convinced him it was true.

And McCormick still couldn’t think of anything to say except, maybe, jeez, what a stupid way to die, which he almost said out loud, except that another voice interrupted his.

“Put it down, now.”

McCormick tried to blink the blood out of his eyes, though it really didn’t matter. The shadow behind the shadow might not be identifiable, but he’d recognize Hardcastle’s cop voice anywhere. And the guy must’ve heard it the same way, too, because the pistol was no longer pointing in his direction.

“Down.” Apparently he wasn’t quite fast enough for Hardcase.

The gun was on the ground now; Tom snapped it up and carried it out of reach. Whose side do you think you’re on, kid? Hardcastle had the man up against the wall and was doing a pretty adequate one-handed frisk.

Now that all the excitement was over, a guy stuck his nose out of a first-floor doorway. The judge said, “Call the cops,” leaving the man to wonder just who the hell was holding a gun on somebody in front of his room.

Mark thought about sitting up, then decided, what the hell, no rush. He heard sirens far off, but getting closer, and thought he’d close his eyes for a minute.

“McCormick?”

Maybe it had been more than a minute. Now there was the strobe illumination of the mars lights underpinned by half the rooms in the motel, all lit, with their occupants staring curiously out of half-open doors. Mark was sure none of them would admit to seeing any of what had happened before, when the cops finally got around to asking.

Hardcastle wasn’t holding a gun on anybody anymore. The other guy was a ways off, handcuffed and probably already Mirandized, straight off the card, knowing the judge.

“You with me here, kiddo?” Hardcastle was crouching down, looking concerned. Mark was vaguely aware that the judge had been talking to him for a while.

“Yeah,” I’m okay,” he murmured. This got a look of relieved disbelief from the judge.

“I’ll settle for, ‘I’m gonna live’,” the older man harrumphed, taking a handkerchief out of his pocket to deal with some of the blood. “‘I’m okay,’ is kinda pushing it.”

“Where’s Tom?”

The judge was frowning. Mark tried to sit up.

“You didn’t have them arrest him, too?” He felt Hardcastle’s firm hand halting his attempt to rise.

“Lie down. Got an ambulance coming. He’s okay. He’s over there.” The judge’s chin jerked in the direction of one of the squad cars. Tom was leaning against the bumper, talking to an officer. In truth, it looked like he was a witness.

Mark settled for half-upright, leaning against the judge. Despite the balmy night and the still-warm concrete, he was starting to shiver. All that leftover adrenalin. Hardcastle pulled him in a little tighter.

“Not that I don’t think maybe he ought to be,” the judge muttered.

Mark shook his head once, then thought better of it and settled for an urgent, quiet protest. “You promised you’d give him a chance to explain.”

Hardcastle was giving him a close look, with an expression of surprise. “You maybe didn’t have a chance to figure out that that guy is with him?” The judge was looking over his shoulder again, as if he was wishing the ambulance would hurry up. “Anyway,” he added distractedly, “that ‘giving him a chance to explain’ was back when we were worried that he might have stolen a car, not that he was trying to get you and Sonny killed.”

“Well,” Mark said wearily, “it may not look like it, but he wasn’t trying to get me killed.” There was a pause. “I don’t know about Sonny, but I don’t think Tom knew what that guy was up to.” McCormick frowned in puzzlement. “How did you know?”

“The Nova’s from Jersey,” Hardcastle sighed, as if that explained nearly everything. Then he added, “The guy is Artie Gillentano, known associate of Tommy Sales. The car was registered in his brother’s name. It was reported stolen a year ago. We owe Frank a steak dinner at least.”

“Yeah, at least,” Mark closed his eyes again. Hardcastle was having none of it.

“And,” he said, with enough emphasis to annoy Mark back awake, “Gillentano’s been in Reno the past couple of months. Five’ll get you ten; he sic’d that kid on us, hoping we’d fall for his story.”

“What about the envelope?” Mark murmured.

“What envelope?”

McCormick realized what he’d said. “Oh, nothing.” He shook his head again, gently, trying to jar a few loose screws back into position. “Half asleep.”

“If that damn ambulance doesn’t come, I’m gonna take you to the hospital myself.”

“Just tired, that’s all. It’s . . . what time is it anyway?”

“’Bout two-thirty.”

“Sonny’s gone.” McCormick frowned.

“Yeah, I figured,” the judge exhaled. “I came over here tonight to warn him, after I got off the phone with Frank.”

Mark was still frowning. “Why didn’t you just call him? Would’ve saved some time.”

Hardcastle didn’t reply for a moment. “Lucky I didn’t,” he finally muttered, quietly. “I think I wanted to talk to him in person.”

“Oh . . . well, then, probably just as well he got out when he did,” McCormick smiled. “Can I close my eyes for just a couple of minutes?”

“That’s it. I’m taking you myself. Think you can stand up if I give you a hand?”

“What about Tom?”

“He can come, too,” Hardcastle grumbled. “Looks like the cops are almost done with him. He’s telling them he’s eighteen, you know. Anyway, I wanna have a talk with him.”

Mark was swaying, leaning hard, but upright. “You promised, remember?”

“Yeah,” the judge’s grumbling continued, “I’ll let him explain.” He was summoning the kid with a look and a jerk of the thumb. “It damn well better be good.”

Mark watched Tom slouch over toward them reluctantly.

It was almost dawn before they discharged McCormick--seven stitches, a negative CAT scan, and a couple of stolen snatches of sleep. Tom had spent most of the three hours draped across two uncomfortable-looking visitor’s chairs in the corner of the room. Hardcastle had occupied the third, sitting up, looking stern.

Mark looked like he’d gone a few rounds with Ali. One eye was already swollen nearly shut. Hardcastle shook his head and handed the ice bag back to him after he’d helped him with his shirt. Then he gave Tom a couple of nudges. The kid slowly roused himself, and followed them out to the truck. Nobody was saying much.

Not quite six a.m. and the streets were finally quiet. Hardcastle drove; Mark and Tom were slumped together toward the passenger door. Partners in crime. Hardcastle shook his head again. He hadn’t gotten around to the interrogation part of tonight’s festivities, and he was beginning to think McCormick had a few things he wasn’t spilling, as well. What was that about an envelope?

He pulled into the lot of their hotel, jostled them both so they wouldn’t fall out when he opened the door on that side, and eventually got everybody more or less aimed in the right direction. Like herding kittens.

They were both more awake by the time they got up to the room. He pointed Tom to a chair. Mark claimed the far bed, with both pillows, but, this time, he didn’t even bother to take his shirt off.

“Okay,” the judge began abruptly, addressing the younger man. Tom was very much awake now. “Later on today, I’m going to have to talk to a couple of LVPD detectives, and a district attorney, and maybe some feds. None of them are going to be as obliging as that beat cop this morning, so I need to know everything.”

McCormick had at least one eye open now, as well. Tom leaned forward, elbows on knees, and rubbed his face with his hand.

“I . . . I didn’t know he was going to hurt you.” This was addressed to Mark. “I’m sorry.”

Mark nodded, appearing to accept this. Then he asked, “What about Sonny?”

“Um . . .”

Now the kid appeared to be on thinner ice, but at least he was giving his answer some thought. Lying did not yet come naturally to him.

“I . . . wasn’t sure. I figured Artie had some kinda beef with him, like maybe he owed him some money or something.”

“Why?” Mark asked quietly, and he made it cover a whole lot of questions.

“Why the hell not?” Tom retorted, the anger finally rising back to the surface. Then he managed to look a little abashed before he added, “I mean, he left . . . he left my mom like that.”

Hardcastle rubbed his nose. Mark had already shot him the glance that said--your turn. He wasn’t sure if this was exactly what he meant, but the judge finally said, “You know your mom was in that line of work before she met Sonny.

Tom shook his head defiantly.

“I’m not guessing,” Hardcastle added firmly. “Her record goes back twenty years.”

The kid was closing up; the all-too-familiar signs were there. Even the head-shaking had stopped. It was Mark who spoke next.

“What did the guy say?”

Tom was looking down at the carpet halfway between his feet and the bed. It was hard to understand the muttered, “He said,” then he cleared his throat and lifted his head a little, speaking to Mark. “He said he’d fix things. He’d get her out of Reno. He’d protect her. Hell, he said he’d marry her.”

Hardcastle winced. Mark spoke for him.

“Tom . . . he’s a hit man.”

“I . . . didn’t know that for sure.” Tom looked away again. “Anyway, better than nothing.” He seemed to actually believe it.

He’d settle for that little, Hardcastle thought bitterly.

“She . . . gets beat up sometimes. Sometimes she gets arrested. She tried being a waitress once, but, I dunno, she went back to it.”

“Did Artie threaten you? Did he threaten your mom?” the judge asked. Tom was frowning at the question. It was as if he’d been asked what color the sky was in Nevada most days.

“Yeah, well, some. It wasn’t anything I couldn’t handle.”

Hardcastle threw his hands up, though he was about as far from resignation as he could get. He saw Mark smile once and close his eyes.

“Okay, you,” he pointed at Tom, “hit the sack.” He pointed him at the other bed. “I’ve got some things to do.”

“People to wake up,” McCormick murmured, his eyes still shut. “Feds to pester.”

“Well, you gotta admit, a hit man who tries to use a seventeen-year-old kid--”

“Eighteen,” Tom insisted, as he kicked off his shoes and crawled under the covers.

“Sixteen,” Hardcastle corrected. “At least you were when this whole debacle started. And, you gotta admit, a guy who’d do that is going to look a whole lot dirtier to a grand jury, than one who just goes around bagging fellow crooked-noses.”

“I think your mom is going to wind up working for the Post Office in Fort Wayne,” Mark said sleepily.

“I dunno,” Tom was lying down. He studied the ceiling thoughtfully. “That’s kind of a stretch.”

By Sunday afternoon, McCormick could see out of both eyes. They’d left Tom in the capable hands of Agent Wilmsen of the Las Vegas office.

Tom’s parting words to McCormick had been, “If you see him . . .”

“Yeah,” Mark had nodded. “I know. I’ll make sure he knows. But,” he winced a little, and it wasn’t from any of the visible injuries, “don’t hold your breath.”

Now the judge was driving, and the Dodgers were slogging through their eighth scoreless inning.

“No play-offs this year,” McCormick leaned his head back. “I will give you very good odds on that.”

“We got six weeks left.”

“Yes, it would be a long-term investment for me, but still a sure thing. How about a hundred at three-to-one?”

“You couldn’t afford that.”

“I can always afford a sure thing,” McCormick smiled. “Besides, if I have to, I can fix up the Nova and sell it.”

“You can’t sell it; you don’t own it,” Hardcastle grumbled.

“Then who does? Hell, I think we can invoke the homestead principle here-ownership by right of use. Or maybe the law of salvage.”

“It’s a Chevy, not a ship. And it belongs to . . .” Hardcastle frowned.

“Well, I’ll let you think about that one for a while.”

“The feds, probably,” the judge brightened, nodding to himself.

“Ha, they’ll take one look at it and laugh at you.” McCormick shook his head, smiling. “I, on the other hand, would cherish it--”

“I thought you were going to sell it to pay off your gambling debts,” Hardcastle interjected.

“I would only do that under flagrant necessity,” Mark intoned solemnly. Then he fell silent. A few miles had passed, and the silence had settled in, before he spoke again, slowly. “That time, in Atlantic City, when you and Sonny broke into that federal judge’s chambers . . . whose idea was it?”

The silence stretched out again, another mile of it, before Hardcastle asked, “Does it matter, now?”

McCormick gave him a long, considering look before he nodded once.

The judge exhaled. He looked like a man who was struggling with a lie, maybe even going for the best two falls out of three.

“It’s funny,” he finally said, “those were the very words I used.”

“I kinda figured that would have been how you’d’ve put it,” Mark said, staring straight ahead. Then he shook his head in aggravation. “Why didn’t you say something? Why didn’t you set me straight about it?”

“I dunno,” the judge shrugged. “It seemed like you kind of needed to think it was the other way around.”

Mark sighed heavily. “Well,” he shot the judge a sideward look, “I don’t. Not anymore, and . . . thank you.”

It was Hardcastle’s turn to glance at him, mostly in apparent surprise. When he finally found his voice, it was to say, “It’s his loss, you know.”

Mark smiled sadly, studying the road ahead of them. And then he replied, more than half to himself, “And my gain.”

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