The Do It Yourself Job

by L.M.Lewis

Sometimes the hard way is the only way.

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

Thanks, Owl, for the pre-holiday beta and the bunny.

Author's Note: The second season episode, "Ties My Father Sold Me", begins with Mark hitting a dead end in his search for the father who abandoned him twenty-five years earlier. He conducts a midnight raid on a government office building, looking for further leads, and nearly gets caught. It's not exactly top-secret information he's after—just a list of known aliases and who they belong to. So, asks Owl, what was going through his head, not to turn to his number one resource person for legally obtaining information about guys whose names are followed by "aka"?

The Do-It-Yourself Job

by L.M. Lewis

It was a project he'd picked up and put down a few times in the past. Only this time, for reasons that weren't entirely clear to him, he'd gone much further in his search.

He had a notion it had something to do with his encounter with EJ Corlette. Not that it would mean much, being able to tell his father he ought to have been the Outlaw Trail champion back in '78. No, it had been more the moment that evening when EJ had handed him the over-sized trophy that should have been his six years earlier. He'd found himself grinning stupidly at the thing—his one-time heart's desire—and turning back to see Hardcase smiling as well. That corny gesture, a pantomime of taking a snapshot—where had that come from?

It was what a proud father would do, capturing a photo for the family album. Only he had no album, and no family to speak of. He'd felt a little ping of realization.

He hadn't made up his mind at precisely that moment. It had been a few hours later, after EJ had left to go back to his Bel Aire mansion, and Mark had lain down on the sofa in the gatehouse to try to make some sense of it all.

A few minutes after that he got up and dug out a nine-by-twelve envelope from the bottom of a drawer: all the scraps he'd gathered together over the years, things salvaged and things hoarded. He looked each piece over again, as if he hadn't long ago memorized their meager details. Altogether they made a pitiful trail that had petered out too long ago to be useful.

There was one item of recent vintage in the batch—a business card for a private investigator, a semi-retired guy who still kept a hand in for all the right reasons. That's what Barb Johnson had said when she'd given him the card a year earlier. She of all people understood his need.

He picked it up and stared at it for a good long time. At one point in the contemplation he lifted his gaze to the window and what lay beyond, across the drive.

The main house was dark—Hardcastle long since gone to bed. No demons over there. All of the judge's unfinished business was neatly tucked into manila folders, filed alphabetically: names, dates, criminal codes. No need to stop and ask "why?"

Mark shook his head and let out a long slow sigh. Hardcastle would never understand all this mystery, the vacillation. Just find the guy and have done with it.

And the judge could do it, too. He'd probably make a few phone calls and have Tommy Knight's newest name and mailing address inside of an hour. Even less time than that if the man was still engaged in any criminal endeavors.

And then what?

If Knight was still a wanted man, ol' Hardcase would say "Mount 'em up, Tonto."

And if he said that, what would you do?

It was an unexpected and disconcerting thought. If it came to that—the judge vs. Mark's own delinquent father—who would he cast his lot with?

He had no ready answer. But it was clear that there was no way he could ask for the judge's assistance on this one, not if it meant in turn helping Hardcastle serve a warrant on Knight—or refusing to do it, for that matter.

He fished out his wallet and stuffed the little pasteboard card into one of the deeper recesses. He would call tomorrow—or maybe just stop by the man's office while he was out running errands. No, make a call first—the only safe way to proceed would be to find out if he had any connection to the judge before meeting him in person. Hardcastle had no lack of such connections and this P.I. might easily be an ex-cop.

00000

It took a few carefully-placed phone calls the next morning to get the low-down on Roger Baily, P.I., but after that fortune smiled on him in the form of a chore that required him to pick up landscaping items that were only available in a specialty garden shop across town. With that much distance to cover, the addition of an extra stop would be barely noticeable.

Then, at the last minute, Hardcastle threw a monkey wrench into his scheme, tacking an idle musing onto the end of his instructions.

"Maybe I better—"

"No," Mark interjected.

"'No' what?" The judge looked peeved.

"No I don't need any help. It's just roses, judge, not rocket science. You already called the order in and, besides, you said you wanted to get a start on reorganizing the organized crime drawers today, right? Pulling all that Martin Grayson stuff—that'll be fun, won't it?"

The judge was giving him a hard study. Apparently there wasn't much to see. The man finally shrugged and said, "Suit yourself. Just make sure you put a tarp down in the truck—don't get dirt all over everything."

Mark nodded impatiently and made his escape. If the judge had any further comments—like why he wasn't dressed down to his usual low standards for hauling plants—he kept them to himself.

00000

The P.I.'s office was located on the third floor of an older building on Wilshire. Baily was about Hardcastle's age, with the same no-nonsense look in his eye. Not an ex-cop, but a long-time practitioner of his trade and nobody's fool. He looked over what Mark had brought and listened to his request with only a few well-placed comments and just one question.

"Why you lookin' for this guy?"

Mark frowned. "Does it matter?"

"Yeah, kid," Baily edged forward in his chair, elbows on his desk. "I make it a practice to never be an accessory before the fact. If you've got a beef with him, it's not my beef, see?"

"It's nothing like that," Mark said sullenly.

"Then what is it?" The investigator leaned in, looking more insistent.

"He is—" the frown was back and Mark corrected himself, "he was my father. He ran out on my mom twenty-five years back."

"I figured." The P.I. pursed his lips, then picked up a pen and tapped it on the desk absently. "Listen," he said, "I see this kinda thing a lot—a guy takes a powder. Hell, even the moms do it sometimes. The kid thinks if he can just find 'em, everything will be okay."

"It's not like that."

"What then? You want something from him?"

"Yeah," Mark hardly had to think before he answered, "I just want to know why."

"What if he doesn't know? What if he says he left because your mom cheated on him and he found out you were somebody else's bastard?"

Mark was half on his feet, his expression darkened. "She—"

"I know—she didn't," Baily waved him back down with a casual hand, "but if you think this guy won't have some kind of excuse—" The P.I. broke off and simply shook his head slowly. "I'm just saying, no matter how much you think he ought to be sorry, he won't be."

"I still need to—"

"I know," Baily sighed and picked up the notebook he'd already jotted the scanty details into. "Looks like you've got a dead end here, right around ten years ago."

Then, after another moment that left Mark in tense expectation, he said, "Okay, I'll give it a shot. Maybe we'll find him; maybe you'll get your answer. Maybe you'll even like what you hear."

"I don't have to like it," Mark insisted. "I just need to know."

00000

After that, with the wheels set in motion, Mark thought he ought to have been able to set it aside. He tried mightily, but found that as the week passed he became even less able to focus on anything but the anticipated phone call. He slept fitfully and pushed his food around on his plate. The first part was his own problem, the second was drawing attention from Hardcastle.

"Whatsamatter, you don't like chili anymore?"

Mark dragged his gaze away from a spot in the past and brought it back to the meal at hand. He took a dutiful spoonful.

"Last time I made this you had three helpings."

Mark swallowed and said, "Last time I was popping antacid tablets for a day and a half afterward." He forced a tight smile. He thought he'd put it over but the judge didn't look like he was in the market for even high-grade manure.

"You're coming down with something. Hanging out at that track last week in the middle of the night with Corlette—"

"You don't get sick from a chill," Mark pointed out. "Besides, I wore my Nomex long johns. They're pretty warm you know, even when you're not actually on fire."

It surprised him how he could make this idle chatter work while another part of him was still running a tape loop—the eventual call from Baily, a current name and address. Hell, maybe the guy even lived out here—Las Vegas maybe. It was possible. He'd gotten out of Jersey, hadn't he?

Mark snapped out of his reverie and became suddenly aware that he was being stared at. He started to take another spoonful, and then just as abruptly gave up on that, too.

"I still haven't got those roses in," he said as he started to rise from the table. "There's holes to be dug."

Hardcastle said nothing more to him. Mark carted his bowl back to the kitchen. He made it out the back door unhindered and even put in two more plants before dropping that and hustling over to the gatehouse. But there was no call in what remained of the early evening.

00000

After six days he'd become fatalistic. The man might be dead; that would certainly account for the abrupt end to the trail. Lots of ex-cons died—it was an occupational hazard that came in part from knowing other ex-cons.

What if the address Baily found for him was in a cemetery—would he pick a couple of the judge's roses and go visit the plot? The conversation would be one-sided but at least he could get the long-rehearsed words off his chest.

He looked up from his work, digging the last in a semi-circle of holes that now only awaited the setting of plants. He heard the approaching sound of the truck's engine and the vehicle itself appeared on the back drive a moment later.

"You still not done with that?" the judge said impatiently as he opened the driver's door and stepped out. He'd been off discussing cases with Frank.

Cases must have extended into happy hour, Mark figured, or Frank was giving the city some overtime. But Hardcastle didn't look particularly happy—surreptitious maybe, but not happy. He had his hands driven deep into the pockets of his jacket, with one side bulging more.

Mark gave that an idle, puzzled glance and then passed over it without further thought. He brushed his hands off on his pants.

"I'm gonna go get cleaned up."

He did, too, and by the time he was done it was near-dark outside. No phone call, and as the evening slipped away into night Mark's fatalism hardened into something even more certain.

The call would come tomorrow—one week to the day since he'd presented the case to Baily. And hadn't the man's parting words been "Give me a week or so"? Mark ignored the last two words. He had this figured for a week--if no success by then, surely Baily would have exhausted the possibilities.

His possibilities, maybe, but not all of them. Mark looked out across the darkened yard toward the beckoning light from the judge's den. All he had to do was ask.

The temptation dangled there. He turned away from it abruptly. The reason he'd had before was just as valid as ever, and now this on top of it—he'd sneaked off and gone to a stranger for help rather than tell the judge in the first place.

He lay down on his bed with no intention of facing Hardcastle over the dinner table. The call would come tomorrow—he knew that now for certain.

00000

It was a hazy September morning with an almost electric heat in the air despite the early hour. There was no getting around breakfast—two missed meals in a row would have been inviting questions. But Mark thought the avoidance wasn't entirely on his side—Hardcastle hadn't shown up under the hoop next to the gate house for the past three days running.

The morning meal was quiet and perfunctory and Mark spent the rest of the day in routine chores. He saw nothing of the judge, not even through the window to the den, which meant the man was probably communing with his files.

One quick call to one of his old cronies back in Jersey—

Mark shook his head and tried to focus on the last few bits of detritus marring the otherwise calm surface of the pool. There wasn't even a breeze off the ocean today. He straightened up, tapped the last leaf onto the concrete and wiped his brow. He felt . . . older.

Not half as old as Hardcase.

He found a half-formed grin creeping up despite everything else that occupied him. It ended up with a slightly sardonic tilt. The only way to face disappointment was to refuse to admit something mattered.

The first hint of moving air stirred his hair as the sun dropped toward the west. He felt an unexpected chill from the soaked neckline of his gray sweatshirt. He stowed the skimmer and glanced at his watch. It was already five-thirty.

It'll be today.

He headed for the gatehouse—no stopping to look for the judge. Up in the loft he took out the papers one more time, as if they still had some secret to reveal.

And at last, almost as if he'd finally found the proper invocation, the phone rang.

It was a brief conversation. Baily didn't coddle him with false hopes and he supposed he ought to be grateful for that. It was only a moment after he'd hung up that he became aware that Hardcastle was snarling at him from down on the patio.

It was some kind of "Come and get it!" and was followed, seconds later, by the man himself, barging in through the gatehouse door. Mark gathered everything up clumsily and barely got it stuffed it into the left-hand drawer of his desk before the judge had made it to the top of the stairs grumbling on worriedly the whole way about his recent behavior.

It was all Mark could take: the guilt he felt for sneaking around behind Hardcastle's back, layered on top of the sharp disappointment of Baily's call—no matter how much he'd been expecting it. He was on his feet, fleeing from the judge's presence, saying nothing about where he was going or why, only warning him curtly to stay out of his stuff.

And then he was outside in the still warm twilight, breathing hard. He knew where he was going. He'd obviously known it for sometime, along with the message that Baily was going to give him. He'd already stowed what he needed in a nondescript black nylon duffle stuffed deep into the foot space on the passenger side of the Coyote.

He drove north on the PCH, waiting for the cover of true darkness and the quietude of the dead of night. Eventually he pulled over in a secluded spot and pulled the bag out. He made the transformation quickly—dark clothing for the sweat-stained pants and shirt he'd worn that day—but then he slid back into the car and sat there for a while.

The half-moon was setting over the ocean. He checked his notoriously unreliable watch—not quite ten p.m. He wished he didn't have so much time to kill. It wasn't that he thought he'd lose his nerve, it was just the slow-rising tide of regret lapping at his will—eroding it. Why was he so certain he had to do this today? If he'd put up with the uncertainty and doubt for twenty-five years, what was another week, or a month, even?

He shoved that thought aside, shaking his head and trying to recapture his resolution. Twenty-five years was long enough. He might not be able to state exactly why, but tonight was the night. He started up the Coyote and headed south again, only glancing aside wistfully once as he passed the entrance to the estate.

00000

He was already regretting taking the Coyote on this little jaunt. It was damn high-profile transportation for a black bag job, but there'd been no chance of using the truck without notifying Hardcastle he was up to something.

He knew his way around the place he was visiting. He'd been there on a few occasions in Hardcastle's company. The last time had been only a few weeks ago, checking on one of the judge's then-current projects—a felon who'd come to California ten years back after things had gotten too hot in Jersey. There was a small office there—a task force that kept tabs on the migratory patterns of career criminals and mobsters to coordinate federal and state pursuits.

Mark wasn't sure if an ordinary federal felon with a baffling complexity of aliases would rate their attentions, but during their last visit, while the judge had been closeted with one of the task force's agents, he'd had a chat with the secretary—even letting her show him around a bit.

His hypotheticals had been pretty probing. Hardcastle, emerging unexpectedly from his meeting and catching the tail end of it, had rolled his eyes and whispered, only half-humorously, "Casing the joint?" Mark had hastily denied everything with a nervous smile. He hoped the judge had bought the explanation that he was just being civil. It helped to have a reputation for taking a polite interest in secretaries.

But at least he knew where to start. In and out, quick and neat.

00000

It had been quick, indeed, but far from neat. And despite its gaudiness, Mark had been glad to be behind the wheel of the Coyote when he'd had to elude the two police vehicles in hot pursuit. He lost them in the back streets, hoping he'd kept enough distance to outrun a decent description for the APB as well.

He drove for a while, well out and away from the neighborhood of the crime, but not straight back to Gull's Way. If he was going to get busted, he didn't want it to be with Hardcastle standing by, watching the whole thing. He couldn't explain that, except maybe to admit that a double dose of the man's anger and disappointment would have been more than he could take.

But there was no sudden appearance of flashing lights in his rear-view mirror, no cacophony of sirens, and eventually, as the sky was starting to lighten in the east over the mountains, he made his way home.

It was broad daylight when he arrived, and everything looked quiet as he unlocked the front door of the gatehouse. It was only as he stepped inside, already perusing the contents of the hard-won file folder, that he was greeted by Hardcastle's wearily resigned question.

"Well, where were you all night?"

Not quite resigned. He added, impatiently, "I'm only going to ask you once so I better like the answer."

From the tone, it didn't seem that he was going to be very happy with any answer, let alone the truth.

Mark started with the bare facts, and it was only after he told the man that the day before had been his birthday that he noticed the dinner plates still in place, and a jar of his favorite tomato relish out. Of course Hardcastle had known—he had a file on him, didn't he? And to make matters worse he'd taken some pains, made dinner—bought a present, for crissake.

He watched Hardcastle heave a theatrical sigh after he handed the roughly-wrapped box over.

Mark apologized, and all of the judge's wan disappointment evaporated into another demand to know where he'd been.

He told him—well, not exactly the where part, though the judge could hardly fail to recognize the source of the document Mark had handed him. He also didn't exactly explain who the man of many names was, besides a felon, which Hardcastle picked up on almost immediately.

Mark cringed. As bad as this was, he thought he'd made the right decision confirming that the guy known more recently as Sonny Daye had no outstanding warrants before letting Hardcase know about his existence.

"Who the hell's Sonny Daye?" the judge asked with patent disgust.

Mark wanted to know the answer to that, too, though all the evidence pointed to one thing, at least—that he'd been the man who'd shared bed and board with Donna McCormick, and was the most likely candidate to be Mark's father.

Hardcastle let him be for a moment, reading on through the file, and asking no more pointed questions for the time being, to Mark's relief.

"Atlantic City," the judge finally muttered. "Looks like it, anyway." He turned another page. "Pretty current—though with guys like this, things don't stay up-to-date long."

Mark nodded. He'd been thinking the same thing.

"And you gotta see this guy? He owes you something—money?"

Mark winced again. "Not money." It had to be obvious by now.

"So—you going to Atlantic City?"

Mark looked up suddenly. Could it be as easy as that?

"Ah . . ." he bit down and swallowed hard, "I don't have enough for the airfare."

"So you need a loan." The judge nodded soberly. Then he mused, as if it were a non sequitur, "I always liked Atlantic City. It's cheesy but . . . "

It was an offer, not in so many words, but still an offer, and Mark felt suddenly grateful for it. He hadn't actually thought much past the discovery. Oh, there'd been imaginings over the years, lots of fantasy meetings back when he was growing up—hell, even still—but having a name and likely location where the man could be found, that was a whole different matter.

He heard himself saying, "Would you come?"

The older man cocked his head as though he had to think about it. In the middle of his discomfort, Mark still had to suppress a half-smile. This show of disinterest was completely Hardcastle.

But the man didn't keep up the pretense for long. It was a little short of his usual enthusiastic clap of the hands, but a moment later he nodded sharply and said, "What the hell—why not? It's too damn hot here right now, anyway." He was half to his feet. "I'll go rustle us up a couple of tickets. You pack."

And then he was stomping off like a determined bear, his distinctly non-judicial robe flapping behind him.

Mark sat there, slightly stunned but distinctly lighter. It was as if he'd been carrying a load of rocks uphill for a long time and somebody had finally said, "Here, I'll take half." It was still heavy, but the relief was immense.

He looked at the little package—plain paper with an overabundance of tape and the addition of string for good measure. He smiled and shook his head as he picked it up. A watch, the man had said.

He needed a watch.