No Substitute- cheride
Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction for entertainment purposes only. The characters and concepts of Hardcastle & McCormick do not belong to me, but to their creators.
Rating: K
Author's Notes: A short missing scene from Man in a Glass House, this is another piece that was originally published by Agent with Style, in Hotshoes, volume 2.
Mark McCormick was lounged on his sofa, not seeing the silent images racing across the television screen nor hearing the music blaring from his stereo. His brain struggled to make sense of everything he was feeling and thinking, and it all kept coming back to one single sentence.
You're not a substitute, if that's what you're thinking.
The words played over and over in his mind. No, that's not what he'd been thinking. Well, not exactly, anyway. He had been surprised to learn about a junior Hardcastle—even more so when he realized they would've been about the same age, had the other man lived. Still, it would never really have crossed his mind to think of himself as Hardcastle's son.
Hardcastle's son. Another couple of words that wouldn't go away. Until this afternoon he had never known a son existed, and now he couldn't stop thinking about him.
Of course, there was no reason he should've known. The judge had been correct about that: lots of things he didn't know. But a son? That was kind of a big thing not to tell someone, even if that someone was just an ex-con you had corralled into helping with a Lone Ranger crusade. Maybe Hardcastle had been afraid he would try to pry, or weasel in to that spot. He was certain the judge would never go for that. In fact, the old guy would probably blow a gasket if anyone even suggested that a wiseguy ex-convict like McCormick would ever be close to good enough to be considered a son.
You're not a substitute, if that's what you're thinking.
He shook his head to clear the troublesome memory. Hell, he wasn't trying to be the old guy's kid, he was just glad they were getting along okay. But . . . if he was a substitute son, would that make the judge a substitute dad?
McCormick was surprised when he wasn't horrified by the thought. Not that being a sub for his dad would be all that difficult, but still . . . he had ideas about what a dad should be, and somehow, throwing your son in prison didn't quite fit the picture he had created.
On the other hand, keeping your son out of prison when he'd made another stupid mistake . . . well, that kind of did fit the picture—right down to the blackmail and slave wages. Yeah, he could see that in a dad.
He chuckled to himself at the crazy idea and forced his thoughts to more practical matters. The real question right now was what the judge intended to do about the Cadillac situation. The mobster had definitely struck a chord with his plea for help, and even McCormick had believed the story about his son being held hostage. He could only imagine the impact his words would have on a man who had lost his only child. Hardcastle would want to help, he was sure of that.
But, even before Cadillac had shown up at the estate, Hardcastle himself had wanted the files from the car and had been unable to secure their release. The kidnapping of a priest wasn't going to change the law, and that car would stay just as locked up as it had been before. So what could they do?
"I know what I'd do," he said aloud.
"Yeah," he answered himself, "and you'd get your ass thrown right back in jail, too."
But still . . .
He thought through the situation logically. The files needed to save a life were locked in the trunk of a car at the police impound lot. Hardcastle had a general respect for all people, and a specific respect for Joe Cadillac, so Cadillac's son would warrant some particular attention. Hardcastle did not have any kind of respect for criminals putting innocent civilians in the middle of their turf wars. On the other hand, Hardcastle loved the law. Hell, this whole retirement project was brought about because the judge couldn't ignore the law long enough to convict guilty felons. Actually committing a crime would be a real stretch. But if this situation wasn't resolved, an innocent man, a priest—a son—would die. Even so, Hardcastle would try to find the legal way to do what he wanted done.
But the legal way wasn't working.
McCormick swung himself off the sofa and headed upstairs to his bedroom. He knew now that the judge would reach the same logical conclusion, and he had to get ready quickly. It had taken him a long time to understand what the judge would do; he didn't know how long it would take the judge himself to understand. But, he was sure Hardcastle would try to handle this alone, and he wasn't about to let that happen. This kid had been brought here to help, and help he would.
You're not a substitute, if that's what you're thinking.
McCormick smiled as the words played in his memory again. "You got that right, Judge," he said to the empty room, "I ain't nobody's substitute. I'm one of a kind . . . just like you."
00000
Milton Hardcastle sat in the silent, darkened den, much as he had for the past several hours, thinking over the events of the day. Joe Cadillac had dumped quite a dilemma in his lap. He had also managed to lift the lid on a Pandora's box that the judge had intended stay closed forever, especially as far as McCormick was concerned. But it had opened, and—of course—the kid had been curious.
You're not a substitute, if that's what you're thinking.
Hardcastle shook his head as the words rang in his ears. That had been kind of a silly thing to say, really. Who was he trying to convince, anyway? Even he wasn't sure what he had meant. The kid was definitely coming around, and seemed to be adjusting to his new life, but he certainly wasn't showing any sign of looking for a surrogate father. Too bad.
Hardcastle started at the thought that ran through his head. Too bad? What the hell did that mean? Yeah, he was glad he and the kid were getting along okay, but he hadn't brought him here to take the place of his son. He wasn't even looking for them to be buddies, much less family.
You're not a substitute, if that's what you're thinking.
It occurred to the judge then that McCormick could easily have misinterpreted the comment as an insult, thinking he wasn't good enough to be a substitute. He hadn't thought about it at the time, and he certainly didn't intend it that way. The kid had enough self-esteem problems without him adding to them. He didn't want McCormick thinking that his only value was to fill a void.
No, he thought with a small laugh. Much better he think his only value is yard work.
Still, McCormick's fragile ego couldn't be his concern right now. He forced his thoughts back to the problem at hand. It wasn't everyday that a retired mobster showed up at the home of a retired judge and asked for a favor, but that's exactly what Joe Cadillac had done. Hardcastle didn't doubt for a moment that Cadillac's son really had been kidnapped to use as leverage; that's the kind of crowd Cadillac ran with. And . . . no parent would lie about something like that. But even knowing the gravity of the situation, he was at a loss on how to help.
The files full of evidence that Cadillac needed to turn over to save his son's life were the very same files that he himself had wanted to get his hands on hours earlier, though for very different reasons. But he hadn't been able to get to them; he had been forced to wait for the court order, which wasn't expected until tomorrow morning. If he had them in his possession, he would gladly give up the chance of prosecuting Cadillac and his friends in order to save a life. Well, maybe not gladly, but he would give up the files . . . as a last resort. First, he'd try to find a way to use them to get the bad guys. But he didn't have the files, and that was the whole problem.
He sighed deeply as he tried to figure out what he should do, but he'd been wondering that same thing all night, without much success. He was hit with the sudden thought that his options were sometimes limited by his loyalty to the law. For instance, he knew without question what McCormick would do in this situation. Of course, that's why McCormick was a two-time convicted felon out on a pass in the custody of a retired judge. He wasn't sure he really liked those options; he would prefer to find a legal way around this problem.
But the legal way wasn't working.
"Okay," he said aloud, "I'm just gonna do it."
His mind put forth an argument. Do what? Break into the impound lot and take the stuff? Not likely.
But that was precisely what he intended to do; now he just needed to figure out how to do it. Again he knew immediately that McCormick would have the answer, but there was no way he was gonna ask. Hard to maintain the judicial posture if you go down to the gatehouse in the middle of the night and ask for tips on B&E. Besides, then the kid would just want to come along, and he wasn't about to let that happen. If McCormick went back to prison now, it would take a lot of time and trouble to find a new Tonto to replace him.
You're not a substitute, if that's what you're thinking.
Hardcastle started toward his bedroom to prepare for his very first criminal expedition, and grinned as the words ran through his mind again. "No, kiddo," he said to the empty room, "you're not fillin' in for anybody, and it might be damn hard to find a substitute for you, too."