Disclaimer: These are not my characters and I make no profit from them.

Thanks, Owl and Cheri, for the tag-team betaing.

Author's Note: Moving along to episode six of the first season. In "The Boxer", Mark's old prison buddy, Kid Calico, an Olympic boxing hopeful, is being squeezed by sleazy fight manager Frankie Kane into turning pro. Hardcastle steps in, offering an alternative contract to shield Calico from further interference. Kane tries to lure the Kid into a shady fight by kidnapping his father—a former boxer whose own Olympic ambitions were destroyed when he took a dive years back. All ends well, though, when Mark rescues Jack in time to prevent the Kid's forced dive in the rigged match.

Round One

by L.M. Lewis

Mark surveyed the lawn, verdant and growing despite the fact that it was past mid-July and the total rainfall in the past two weeks hadn't been enough to wet the bottom of a rain gauge. Then he turned and watched the judge sauntering up the drive, returning from his trip to the mailbox. He waited for Hardcastle to be close enough before launching his lament.

"You know, I don't think God intended Southern California to have grass."

"Sure He did, that's why he gave us irrigation pipes. See?" Hardcastle pointed to one of the tiny spigots, protruding near the edge of the drive. "'Cause He didn't want you to get out of practice with the lawnmower." He smiled the blithe smile of someone who was going into his air-conditioned den to do nothing more strenuous than wield a letter-opener.

Mark snorted and pushed the mower into position. He was just bending to pull the cord when the judge interrupted him.

"Hey, this one's for you," he said, holding something out..

Mark frowned, wiped his hands, and stretched over to reach for it. It wasn't as if he usually received no mail, so obviously there was something special about this letter, to risk a delay in the start of chores.

He glanced at the return address and smiled. He only knew one guy who was currently in Colorado Springs.

"It's the Kid," he announced cheerfully, ripping the flap open with his thumb. "Wonder how it's going there."

"Well, read it and find out." Hardcastle had stepped in a little closer to look over his shoulder.

Mark pulled the letter out with an intended flourish, but halted and fumbled when something smaller fell free as it unfolded.

"Hey," he knelt and gathered the tickets—two—from where they fallen. "Oh, man."

He looked up; Hardcastle was grinning as well. Mark turned back, studying the pastel-hued pasteboards more closely.

"Games of the Twenty-third Olympiad, Los Angeles, 1984," he read off. "Look," he held them up, "boxing, on the 29th. Must be first round, right?"

"Yeah, I think so."

"And look at these seats, right down in front." He passed them along for Hardcastle's closer inspection as he unfolded the letter one-handed and scanned the first few lines.

"He says thanks again. Wants us to be there just in case he gets KO'd in his first bout—hah, like that'll happen. Food's great but he's gotta be careful so he doesn't end up a cruiserweight." Mark's smile became a little more puzzled. "And then there's a P.S.—'Thank the judge for taking care of that other thing.'"

He sat back on his haunches and looked up again, fixing the older man with a questioning look. "Consider yourself thanked," he said, then flicked the bottom of the letter with one finger, "now, what's that all about?"

Hardcastle, still studying the tickets, said, "Yup, great seats—front and center."

"Ju-udge."

"Huh?"

"Quit stalling. You been running around doing good deeds behind my back again, Kemosabe? What's Calico thanking you for?"

"Well, we pulled his hash out of the fire when Kane kidnapped his old man, didn't we?"

Mark smiled. "No, actually I did that, remember? Me and that thing you keep mistaking for the Batmobile." He hooked a thumb in the direction of the Coyote, parked over by the fountain. "Nope, here he's thanking you, not us. So what gives?"

Hardcastle shrugged. "Might've been something from a few months ago."

Mark gathered himself and stood, tucking the letter into his pants pocket and shaking his head slowly. "Ack. It's like pulling teeth. Okay, lemme make it simple: What. Did. You. Do?"

The judge sighed and looked put-upon, then finally caved under Mark's best and most relentless stare.

"Well, there was some kinda talk about his parole officer not okaying him to go out of state for the Olympic trials."

"What? How come you never told me about that?"

"Probably 'cause you would've started raving about how unfair the system is and all that—here's the Kid trying to make good and the parole office is throwing down roadblocks and all that—"

"You're damn straight," Mark said, incensed.

"See? Like that. And I should have to listen to that for a couple of months?"

"Especially since I'd be right, too."

"Hmm . . . yeah," Hardcastle scratched an ear, "didn't seem all that fair. He'd done his time and he was back on the straight and narrow—"

"So you went and pulled some strings—"

"I don't pull strings," the judge barked gruffly. Then, in a more moderate tone, he added, "I just made some calls, maybe went a couple rungs higher up and convinced them that Calico was doing his bit to be an honest citizen, and they ought to do theirs to encourage him."

"You got in the ring for him," Mark said, smiling.

"Yeah, well," Hardcastle said thoughtfully, "turned out that a couple rungs wasn't quite high enough. I started getting the impression that the parole board was just doing somebody else a favor—maybe the guys over on the Olympic side weren't real keen on having an ex-con representing the good old U.S. of A."

Mark's expression sobered. "You heard what he was in for, right? She'd told him she was twenty-one. He had a picture of her—she gave him her picture. She woulda fooled me." He sighed and added ruefully, "She liked fighters. Her folks didn't."

He looked back down at the letter and shook his head. Alls well that ends well, he supposed, but only if a guy didn't get charged interest on his mistakes.

This time it was Hardcastle who forged ahead, right through his dark ponderings.

"He did his time and he was staying clean—that's what counts. That ought to be part of the American spirit, huh? Everybody gets a fresh start once they've earned it."

Mark smiled wryly. There'd be no convincing Hardcase that the system had overreacted in this case, either. The law was the law. He supposed he'd have to settle for what he could get.

"Thanks," he finally said.

The judge shrugged again—his all-purpose 'Don't make nothin' of it' shrug.

Mark turned to the mower again, nodding once at the man's hand and the tickets. "Put those somewhere safe, okay? First round," he chuckled, shaking his head, "like he's not going all the way for the gold."

00000

The afternoon of the twenty-ninth found them edging down their row, ringside, and pleased to find Jack Calico already sitting one over from their own allotted places. There were handshakes and then Mark eased aside and let Hardcastle settle into the seat next to Kid Calico's dad. He figured they'd have reminiscences to share.

Or maybe not. Mark frowned, remembering the shady circumstances surrounding Jack's own run at the gold. Okay, then, he figured, Hardcastle was better at dealing with awkward conversational silences, too, mostly because he ignored them. He might have been doing that now. Mark had missed the beginning of it, but the judge and Jack were already deep into a discussion of the finer points of Olympic v. pro boxing.

And, somewhere in the middle of that Jack admitted, "He didn't want to jinx anything, making plans past the first elimination round. He's been disappointed enough times to make him practical about stuff like that."

Mark leaned in a little and confided, "This time he's gonna hafta be disappointed about not being disappointed."

They all chuckled and sat back. The noise level in the arena had been rising. Now it settled sharply as the announcements were made—English first and then in French. The first bout began and they watched the flyweight contenders with impatient detachment. The short, four-round fights perfectly illustrated Hardcastle's earlier complaint that it was all about points, not power.

Mark leaned toward the judge and muttered, "They're little, but I wouldn't want to meet one of 'em in a dark alley."

Hardcastle gave that a nod and said, "That's what Joe Cadillac was like, way back when. He was never where you'd thought he was gonna be when you started throwing the punch."

"He's still like that," Mark retorted.

Jack pried his eyes from the ring to shoot them a curious glance. Both men smiled and shrugged.

"You fought Joe?" Jack asked, giving Hardcastle a respectful look. "He was district champ the first year I was in Golden Gloves. He was damn good back then."

Hardcastle elbowed Mark. "See, what'd I tell ya?"

Jack shook his head in recollection. "Everybody thought he'd turn pro, but he got a job in the rackets. He never got out," the older man mused. "Too bad. He had a lot of moxie. Would've had a good career."

Mark kept his mouth shut and went back to watching the bantam fighters exchanging rapid-fire blows. Somehow he didn't think pointing out Cadillac's eventual rise to wealth and power would cut much ice with either of the two older men.

In steady progression, the first round winners in the lighter classes had been determined. Eventually Kid Calico was introduced, greeted with cheers from the hometown crowd that included his ringside friends and supporters.

His opponent went the four rounds but it had to be evident, even to two old guys who believed in the ten-count, that Calico had landed more punches. The official judges agreed and a roaring cheer went up from the spectators, a heavily pro-Calico crowd. There were slaps on the back for Jack, who'd watched the whole thing with a rapturous expression and glistening eyes.

"He done good," Hardcastle rumbled over the noise and gave a sharp nod of approval.

"He sure did," Jack crowed, diving one hand into his pocket and pulling out a small envelope. "Now before I forget," he leaned in so they could hear him, "I promised I wouldn't give these to you until after he cinched it. They're for round two, day after tomorrow. Sorry about the short notice." He smiled contentedly as he handed over the tickets.

"That's real nice of him," the judge said, passing the envelope along to Mark.

Jack put out a hand and the two men shook heartily as he said, "We both decided it was the least we could do—you two have done a helluva lot for my boy. Listen," he looked over his shoulder, past the ring toward the cluster of team personnel, "I gotta go catch up with him. They won't let him wander around till the trainer's checked him out."

"You give him our best," Hardcastle said, and they watched Jack make his way—with more handshakes and congratulations from fans who recognized him.

The judge grinned and rocked back slightly. It was only after Jack was swallowed up in the crowd that he cleared his throat. Mark glanced at him sharply and saw that his grin had faded into a more pensive expression.

"What's wrong? You're not thinking about Cadillac again; that's not good for your blood pressure, you know."

"Nah," Hardcastle brushed that away, but the pensive look remained. "You don't believe in all that jinx stuff, do ya?"

"No . . . well, not this one, but every sport's got 'em—jinxes, superstitions."

"Yeah, what about racing?"

Mark smiled wryly. "You can buy all the tickets you want in advance," he said cheerfully, "but you'd better not eat peanuts in the pit. That's very bad luck."

"Come on," Hardcastle frowned in disbelief, "you just made that up."

"Uh-uh, it's the truth; ask anybody."

"Well," Hardcastle said doubtfully, "okay, I guess maybe that explains why you went a little crazy about the peanuts that time in my chambers."

"Hah," Mark laughed, "no, that was just because you were asking me to choose between ten years in prison and working for you."

He got a disgruntled hmmph from the judge and then, "We won't bring any peanuts then, but you figure my getting these in advance is okay?"

He'd pulled another envelope from his shirt pocket. Mark hastily patted his own, thinking he'd somehow misplaced what he'd been handed a short while earlier. He hadn't. He frowned and reached for the one Hardcastle was holding out. He opened the flap and slid the two tickets out, his frown instantly blooming into a smile.

"August twelfth, the finals—yes." He studied the print then scanned the auditorium. "Right there." He pointed to the next section over and one row up. Then he turned back to Hardcastle, his smile broadening. "Great seats. When'd you get 'em?"

Hardcastle shrugged lightly. "When they first offered them—I figured the least his ex-manager could do was show up and cheer him on."

"The finals," Mark sighed, giving them one last long look before returning them to the envelope and handed it back.

"Not bad luck?" the judge inquired mildly.

"No way—it's good luck. You bought these months ago?"

To Hardcastle's silent nod Mark added, "See, that's the best luck of all—having someone believe in you that much—to be sure that you're gonna make it all the way."

His smile hovered for a moment, then turned abruptly into something more guarded.

"Just one thing," he said, suddenly and abruptly serious, "no peanuts—I mean none—for the next thirteen days."