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

Thanks Owl, speedy as always.

Author's Note: Storyfan said, "Why?" and I said, "Why not?" ;-) Thanks for the bunny, which hopped enthusiastically to the head of the line. And—in a happy nod to the late, great John D. McDonald—Mark only wishes he could make time stand still in this one.

The Girl, the Stainless-Steel Watch, and Everything

by L.M. Lewis

Hardcastle had already been out on the patio for a half-hour, perusing the LA Times sports section in rare tranquility, when a frowzy, berobed McCormick came stumbling out of the gatehouse and found his way to the table. He'd cut the kid some slack that morning—neither one of them was quite recovered from the jet lag incurred on their flight home from the East Coast only two days back.

In truth, it hadn't been entirely jet lag that had thrown them both off-kilter. The judge sneaked a sideward look at the younger man, hoping to see some further adjustments to what had happened in Atlantic City.

Well, one positive sign, he thought—McCormick had finally shed his shabby and unreliable watch, plastic strap and all, and was wearing the one the judge himself had given him for his thirtieth birthday.

"Nice watch," he said with a grin. "Somebody has good taste."

To Hardcastle's surprise, Mark glanced down at it and—for just a fleeting instant—scowled. It might have been the earliness of the hour; the man looked like he hadn't gotten all that much sleep.

Pacing the floor half the night, I suppose. The guy's got to get a grip.

Then the judge frowned in puzzlement. There was something else different about his too-silent breakfast companion—besides the silence, that is, which seemed to be sporting a little air of resentment.

A second later the judge hit on it. Maybe it had been the familiar movement—McCormick turning his wrist to glance at his watch. But usually the watch was on the other side—an odd-enough feature in a right-handed guy to have mildly puzzled the judge in the past. He'd supposed there might be a story there, but he'd never bothered to ask.

Now, though, this new watch was in the more standard position: on his left wrist.

Hardcastle cocked his head. It looked like conversation might be an uphill battle this morning but he felt a certain obligation to try. He cleared his throat, and not at all tentatively. Mark glanced up at him, looking maybe just a tad sheepish.

"Sorry about the late hours." Mark said quietly, shooting another look at his watch. Unmistakably, there it was again—the quick scowl.

But the judge stuck to the first thing. "Yeah, saw you go out; figured you were just taking a ride—getting some air maybe." He left that open-ended, thinking he'd give McCormick a chance to talk about it.

"Nah . . . well, sort of. I called up Vonna."

"Vonna?" Hardcastle didn't have to search the memory banks too hard. "Vonna Westerlake?"

It was hard to forget a girl like Vonna, even if you wanted to: her strange reluctance to wear clothes, and all that hair, spun gold—no, honey. Though he supposed it was harder to spin honey. But—

"I thought you two were ancient history."

"Well, yeah, but, well . . . Vonna's kinda like comfort food."

"A couple scoops of ice cream after a lousy day, huh?"

Mark nodded slowly, and then seemed to drift in thought for a moment. He finally took a deep sigh and straightened up a little. "Anyway, I blame you, I think."

The judge sat straighter too, with a look of surprise on his face. "Whaddid I do?"

Mark held out his left arm straight, an awkward angle that put the watch-face forward. "This," he said insistently, pointing at it for emphasis

"What, it doesn't work or something?" Hardcastle squinted more closely. Nice styling, sharp-looking stainless-steel band, the kind with adjustable links. A perfect fit. And he glanced down at his own reliable timepiece. They were in perfect synchronization. "Looks okay to me."

"Ah," Mark said knowingly, "but that's because you weren't there last night . . ." he paused on that and gave it a near-shudder before adding, "thank God."

"What happened?" Hardcastle asked with a grin. "One of those alarm thingies go off or something?"

"No, nothing that simple," Mark said with grim ease, like a man who'd never had to silence a watch in a funeral service. "There we were, me and Vonna, up at the overlook—the one just south of Tajiguas—"

"That's a long way to go for ice cream."

"Shh," Mark admonished with a stern look. "And, anyway, we had that nice almost-full moon—"

"Gibbous, you mean." Hardcastle said, nodding judiciously and ignoring a further scowl from the younger man, who forged on—

"And it was setting over the ocean . . . warm breezes."

"The Santa Ana's are cranking up again," Hardcastle sighed. "We might be in for it this year."

"Ju-udge."

"Okay, so you and Vonna are up there at lover's leap in the Coyote, getting ready to act like teenagers."

"Exactly," Mark nodded, "and I was making my move—very smooth—"

"In case she'd forgotten how?"

Even McCormick had to perceive the unlikelihood of that, but he lowered his chin and gave the judge another stern look. "Smooth, just . . . because."

The judge cringed slightly. "And do I want to know what happened next?"

"Doesn't matter—you don't get a choice." Mark said firmly. "So there I was, my right arm around her bare shoulders . . . all that hair, and, well, that's when I noticed."

"What?"

"I was stuck."

A look of horror crossed Hardcastle's face.

"Not that kind of stuck. Sheesh, Judge, have you ever tried to get past second base in the Coyote? No, don't answer that," he added sharply. And then he took a breath. "Let's just say there's some flaws in the design."

"No back seat," observed Hardcastle.

Mark seemed to give that a moment's thought, and then nodded in sage agreement.

"But man on base has never been a problem," the younger man pointed out, "up till now." He shook his wrist slightly, the stainless steel links glittering in the sun. "So there we were: her hair, my watch, one hell of a lovers' knot. Couldn't get the damn strap unlatched, and me trying not to scalp her. Couldn't even drive to where there was more light. It takes two hands to handle a stick, ya know."

Hardcastle had been on the verge of adding something to that, but wisely kept his mouth closed and tried to make his nod sympathetic. But eventually that gave way to an obvious observation.

"Wouldn't have happened if you wore the damn thing on your left wrist like most people do."

Mark sighed, obviously converted, but, alas, too late.

"So why did you always wear it on your right?" the judge finally asked, still curious.

Mark stared at him for a moment, then shifted his gaze to somewhere a little less direct.

"That," he said archly, "is another story."

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Author's Postscript: I'd fully intended my 200th posting on ffnet to be something with a tad more, ahem, substance, but maybe this is the one that better captures the process for me . . . and there's always another story.

Many thanks to the Kind Readers who've stuck it out, the wonderful betas who've lent eyes and ideas, and the dear providers of bunnies—timely and ever so useful.