Rated: PG
Comments and suggestions appreciated at: tunecedemalis@yahoo.com
To Cheri-through 250,000 words and countless semi-colons-many thanks.
It wasn’t a sound that woke him up that morning, but an absence of sound. McCormick rolled over, blinked a couple of times and studied his watch. He blinked one more time, hard, then squinted, trying to make the numbers say something other than nine-fifteen.
Damn.
He’d stopped bothering with an alarm clock a few months ago, relying on the much less fallible Hardcastle lay-up system, by which a clock could be set, regularly, at six-thirty each morning. McCormick was up, on his feet, pulling on a shirt and looking out the window, all within a minute. No truck in the drive, no signs of activity at the main house. He frowned. He supposed the man might be otherwise occupied, though the list of things that interfered with morning basketball without otherwise inconveniencing McCormick, was . . . ah, can’t think of any.
He might be sick. Did Hardcastle ever get sick? In a year, he had yet to see it. Mark’s frown deepened as he pulled on his jeans, hopping a little unsteadily on one foot and then stepping into a pair of untied sneakers. He took the stairs down, two at a time and poked his head out the door. Still no signs of anyone. But no sign of anything wrong, either.
He ducked back into the gatehouse, brow knitted. He ran his fingers through his hair, tied his shoes and re-emerged a moment later, looking, he hoped, casual. All right, you overslept. It happens. It’s not a felony.
No, he supposed, but it was definitely a misdemeanor. And a guy in the judicial stay of Milton C. Hardcastle could not really afford too many of those. Okay, it’s partly his fault. How were you supposed to know he’d pick today to break training?
The truck was definitely missing. He heaved a small sigh of puzzled relief, went around to the kitchen door, and let himself in. Now, knowing the man wasn’t here, the silence seemed less ominous. The newspaper was on the kitchen table; one coffee cup was in the sink. There was half a carafe still sitting in the coffee maker, which was turned off. He touched the glass-still warm. He let you sleep in.
Mark turned his attention to the table and finally saw the note, half laying under the open newspaper. Written in the judge’s familiar scrawl, it was terse, but not unfriendly-
‘Kiddo, here’s a list of stuff to keep you busy while I’m out.’
The ‘stuff’ ran to eight items, starting with the hedges, which he’d already known about, and proceeding downward through the pool, and the lawn, a couple of gardening items, then branching out to some slightly more exotic chores, closing with instructions to change the air filter on the ‘Vette.
Mark sighed; the first three would have taken most of the day, even if he’d gotten up at the more usual hour. It was fairly likely that Hardcase had not yet figured out that the result of an impossible list was that his yard-man-pool-guy-auto-mechanic would throw in the towel before he even got started-might as well get chewed out for all eight as for four or five.
Still, this time he thought he’d at least give it a try. He had a vague notion that he’d been moody the past week or so, out-of-sorts. Hardcastle hadn’t called him on it, had pretty much given him his own space and left well enough alone. He felt a grudging gratitude for that, and felt he ought to be making some amends.
Then he frowned down at the list again. Despite Hardcastle’s often unrealistic expectations, it had the look of an all-day plan. But, if that was so, then where the heck had the man gone off to? . . . And why is that any of your business?
Mark made a small mental shrug to a question he didn’t much feel like answering. He went to the cupboard and then the fridge and poured himself a glass of milk. He sat down; all the while giving the first question more thought. In the end he’d concluded that he wasn’t the only one who’d been a little withdrawn lately, and that all the ‘space’ he’d been given, to brood decently in peace, might have been fortunate coincidence.
He put the empty glass in the sink, then washed and dried it and the coffee-cup-not on the list, just routine.
He’d kept at the hedge trimming until almost lunchtime; he was less desultatory about it than when he was being observed. He’d been listening for the phone with one ear. No calls. All this solitude was slightly unnerving, he’d decided, as he made himself a sandwich and took it out to the poolside. He’d done some calculations while he was spreading the mayo; it had been at least three days since Hardcastle had chewed him out for anything, and at least that long since he, himself, had much of a smart mouth.
Leave a couple chores undone-that’ll fix it. He half-smiled as took a last bite of the sandwich, then got up and took out the long-handled brush, and started scrubbing down the sides of the pool.
The sun transited the zenith. It was hot-September hardly passed for fall in Southern California, but the days had grown noticeably shorter. Not short enough. He surveyed the pool, snagged one last wayward beetle, and put the equipment away.
Air filter next, he’d decided. It was a reward of sorts, though it had a disadvantage in being the least visible thing on the list. He supposed he might leave the empty box lying out somewhere prominently visible in the main house.
In the cool, cavernous, dimness of the garage, he stood for a moment, adjusting his eyes. Then he frowned a little. Edge-on, in the angled light, there was a visible flaw in the Coyote’s front quarter. The last set of bullet holes had been there. Howard’s repair work had passed muster under ordinary lighting but . . . last set of bullet holes? He shook his head in bemusement. When had a good day become one where nobody is shooting at you?
And it’s still an okay day if they shoot at you and miss.
He sighed. If it got any worse than that, he supposed he’d have to recalibrate.
The more pleasant jobs never took as long, he concluded, as he wiped his hands on a rag and closed the hood of the ‘Vette. He stepped out into the afternoon light and blinked. There was no putting off his least-favorite task any longer. Lawnmowing: eternal, tedious, Sisyphean-the kind of chore that occasionally made him wonder if the good days might not be the ones where he was getting shot at.
He maneuvered the lawnmower out and filled the tank. He checked his watch-two-fifteen. Okay, you will do this for two hours, and then, if he’s not back, you can . . . do something else.
The motor started up with disheartening reliability at one yank of the cord. He headed out across an unobstructed swath, saving the more challenging edges for the point where his brain would be starting to shrivel up and he’d need some mental stimulation.
He settled into the noisy monotony of the process, his mind wandering back to the same subject that had been haunting him the past few days. Maybe it was seeing the Coyote, bearing yet another sign of the passage of time, and of hard usage. Flip wouldn’t mind.
He had such hopes for it . . . for you, too.
But he wouldn’t mind, not as long as it’s being used . . . and you’re happy.
He didn’t realize, in the momentary shock of the thought, that he’d stopped walking. He stood there, frozen for a second, then reached over and turned the machine off. In the sudden, ringing silence, he surveyed his surroundings-the lawn, not quite half done, the house behind him, and beyond it, the gatehouse, unseen but entirely familiar in his mind’s-eye.
Then all this brooding, this mulling about-you were just being unhappy about being . . . happy?
He shook his head and allowed himself a smile. I suppose it’s possible. He was reaching down to pull the cord again when a small movement, from the bushes near the side of the lawn, caught his eye. A bird, maybe? No, not that-not a stray dog, either. A little too high up, more volume than that, and a small flash of white amid the green.
Somebody’s over there.
He didn’t turn his head fully, continuing his reach for the cord and finishing the pull, almost uninterrupted. Someone who was hiding in the bushes was almost certainly up to no good, but, at this point, he was just the yard guy, and apparently not the intruder’s target. He turned the mower at the end of the lawn and started back, this time angling to move past the far side of the house. He paused for a moment near the edge of the rose garden, and leaned over to snag a piece of twine from one of the trellises.
He proceeded on, around the house. In the front yard he stopped again, quickly wrapping the twine around the dead-man lever, and tying it down tight. He pushed the still-growling mower up against the curb of the driveway, so it wouldn’t wander off, then continued the circle around, to approach the bushes from an unexpected direction.
Now, from the side, he could see the guy more clearly. He was in his twenties, dark hair, crouching and staring at the house; no weapon in sight, but his expression radiated ill intent. A burglar? No, McCormick considered, unless he was one who hadn’t done his research. More likely someone who felt personally offended by the judge and, oh, the list is so long.
Go inside, call the cops.
But he won’t be here by the time they arrive, and then all you’ll be able to tell him is ‘twenty-five-ish, scowling, dark hair.’
That wouldn’t shorten the list all that much, Mark suspected. He crept further back into the bushes, to finish his approach from behind. The guy was fortunately so intensely focused that he was oblivious to the movement. It was only the unfortunate honk of a car, somewhere off in the distance behind them, that caught his ear and turned his head, just as McCormick was drawing in arm’s reach.
His first word was a surprised ‘ooof’ as McCormick barreled into him, knocking him backwards. It was only then that Mark saw the guy’s gun, as he scrabbled for it briefly in the band of his pants. Then that was down on the ground, too, fumbled for, and fallen. McCormick kicked it out of the way, rather than risk a grab for it.
The guy scrambled backwards and was on his feet. He took off laterally, just evading McCormick’s grasp. Mark got to his own feet, glanced down at the gun and started to reach for it, then paused. What the hell would you do with it? Shoot him? A quick single shake of the head and he was off, plunging after the now-unarmed intruder.
Straight back, through the thicker part of the greenery, but still in sight, and now again almost close enough to touch, when a bent branch snapped back and caught McCormick full on the cheek. He pulled up, hand to his face, uttered a quick heartfelt cuss, and then bolted forward again, with the additional incentive of pure aggravation.
He flattened the guy with a flying tackle just a few feet short of a hole which had been cut in the fence at the edge of the estate. The wire cutter lay on the ground nearby. Mark had him up by the collar, with one arm yanked well up behind the man’s back.
“That’s a burglary tool,” he smiled thinly over the guy’s shoulder, nodding down at the ground, “and we’ve got ourselves a deadly weapon back up by the house. You an acquaintance of Judge Hardcastle’s by any chance?”
This got him no reply but a growl. It would be a bit of a walk back to the house.
Gotta start carrying a pair of cuffs in my work jeans.
It might have been a false impression, but Hardcastle thought the squad car, coming eastward on the PCH, had entered the road from the driveway of the estate. He slowed up, and frowned as it passed, too fast for him to come to any further conclusions.
He proceeded on, his frown having faded to a milder, but still concerned expression. On first inspection, as he pulled in the drive, there was nothing untoward or unexpected going on. McCormick had the gas can out and was filling the mower. Hardcastle glanced down at this watch-almost six. Still only on the third item, must’ve gotten a late start. The judge sighed. But he wasn’t much in the mood to rail into the kid about it. That he was still working at all was a miracle of industriousness.
As he pulled in near the porch, he saw McCormick look up. The judge’s frown returned. He climbed down out of the truck and took a closer look.
“What the hell happened to your face?”
The younger man put down the gas can and reached up to touch the darkening bruise on his left cheek. He winced. “I ran into a branch. But just don’t add ‘prune the bushes’ to your list, okay? Where the heck you been all day, anyway?”
“What branch?” Hardcastle took a closer look, ignoring the other question. “You should put some ice on that.” He jerked his chin toward the front steps and started to turn that way.
“Yeah, I will.” McCormick shrugged. “A branch out back, while I was chasing the guy. And you’ll have to go down to the station later on, to swear out charges against him for criminal trespass. They already got him on possession of a firearm.”
The judge froze in mid-turn and glanced back sharply. “What firearm?” Then he was looking over his shoulder in the direction of the now long-departed squad car. “What guy? What happened?”
“A nine-millimeter Beretta.” McCormick frowned. “Pete Hauser? Ring any bells? Twenty-six, dark hair, bad attitude.”
“He was here? Why?”
McCormick shrugged again. “Didn’t say, had a gun, put a two foot hole in the fence. That’ll be on the ‘to-do list’, too, huh? So, where’d you go all day?”
Hardcastle was still standing there, frowning, still trying to catch up with Mark’s terse explanation. “He’s a hit man, dammit.”
“Well,” McCormick scratched his head thoughtfully, “that makes a certain amount of sense. I hope you brought something home for dinner; I’ve been busy.” He lifted his head briefly, looking out across the half-finished lawn with an expression of mild chagrin. “Hey, I changed the air filter on the ‘Vette.”
The judge opened and closed him mouth once on this, and finally said, almost in resignation, “There’s a pizza, in the truck.”
“Great.” Mark wiped his hands off on his already dirt-stained jeans. “Let’s eat.”
Mark was vaguely aware that he hadn’t gotten any answer to the question he’d asked twice. The judge had fetched the pizza all the way into the dining room, and sent McCormick to the kitchen for real plates, which seemed excessive. He’d brought a couple of beers back while he was at it.
Over beer and pizza, he finally spilled the whole story, point-by-point. He felt a twinge of guilt when Hardcastle visibly blanched over the idea of chasing down a hired killer and tackling him barehanded.
“Well, I didn’t know he was a hit man,” Mark protested. “I thought he was just another guy you’d managed to tick off.”
Hardcastle frowned, as if the idea seemed pretty foreign to him. McCormick just shook his head and sat back, feeling pleasantly awash in beer and pizza, and ready to ask the question one more time. But he didn’t get a chance before the judge was on his feet, starting to pick up the nearly-empty box.
“I’ll take care of it,” Mark protested mildly, shifting to get up.
“Nah,” Hardcastle waved him back down, “I got it.” He was already turning toward the kitchen.
Mark sat there, feeling a little puzzled, until a few moments later when the judge reemerged holding a smaller plate, bearing a Twinkie, impaled by a single, small, lit candle. He set it down, with absurd ceremony.
Mark grinned. “It’s not my birthday.”
“No,” Hardcastle conceded, “but it is your anniversary. One year.” He smiled broadly. “Congratulations. And they said it couldn’t be done.”
“Who said?” McCormick looked up quizzically.
“Everybody said,” he paused, “well, maybe not Frank. I think you’d better blow it out before it sets fire to the filling.” He nodded down at the candle.
“Do I get to make a wish?”
The judge shrugged, “Don’t think there’s any rules about this sort of thing. Might as well.”
Mark smiled, took a breath, and puffed it out, feeling utterly ridiculous and not minding at all. He removed the candle stump and pointed at the plate. “Want half?”
“Nah,” Hardcastle hooked his thumb over his shoulder, “they come two to a package, ya know.”
“Yours should have a candle, too.”
After a moment’s hesitation, the judge replied, “Already had my celebration . . . this afternoon.” His smile was lopsided, and a little thin. “Kind of a tradition, one year out,” he added. “The guys still on the bench take the old crony to lunch, make sure he knows they haven’t forgotten about him . . . yet. I did it plenty of times myself.” There was an almost-sigh, diverted into a simple exhalation. “Can’t say I was looking forward to it.”
Mark frowned, thinking over the last couple of days from the older man’s perspective. “How’d it go?” he finally asked, curiously.
This got a shrug, and a brief return of the smile. “No so bad . . . better than I’d expected.” His expression became suddenly more cheerful. “I got to say ‘I told you so’ to a couple of them. So,” the smile had become a grin, “whad’ya wish for? Nothing illegal, I hope.”
Mark covered a moment’s nervous surprise with a cocky grin of his own, and fell back on the oldest excuse in the book. “Can’t say; won’t come true if you tell.”
No power on earth, no power anywhere in the universe for that matter, was going to get him to admit it out loud-that he had, without a moment’s conscious thought, wished for another year at Gull’s Way.
Author’s Post-script: On the occasion of my first year writing H&McC ff, here’s a virtual Twinkie and a candle.
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