Disclaimer: These are not my characters and I make no profit from them.
Author's Note: In the second season episode "What's So Funny?" an ex-con that Hardcastle once sentenced invites him to a comedy club where he is performing. The routine features a parody of the judge, and the comedian, Denny Frye, wants Hardcastle's permission to do the shtick on national TV. Hardcastle reluctantly agrees but Frye doesn't survive long enough to celebrate. Mark witnesses him plummet from the roof of his hotel a short while later. Long story short: a competing comedy club owner is using a girl who loves comics and her jealous ex-boyfriend to thin the talent herd. After figuring that out, the obvious solution is to use Mark to lure the guy into another criminal act. Apparently it's not enough that he and the girl get smootchy somewhere conspicuous, Mark also has to do some comedy first. Here's an AU version.
A Stand-Up Guy
by L.M. Lewis
A man is sent to San Quentin for the first time. That night, after the lights in the cell block are turned off, he hears his cellmate shout out, "Number twelve!"
The whole cell block breaks out laughing. A few minutes later, somebody else in the cell block yells, "Number four!" Again, it's met with raucous laughter.
The new guy asks the other man what's happening and the older prisoner says, "We've been in here for so long that we all know the same jokes. So we just yell out the number instead of saying the whole thing."
The new guy thinks about this for a minute and then hollers, "Number six!"
It's greeted by dead silence. The fish is mortified and turns to his cellmate to ask, "What's wrong? Why didn't I get any laughs?"
"Well," the older man shrugs, "sometimes it's not the joke, but how you tell it."
00000
Boots Dikeman had a file in his back office: multiple drawers containing hundreds of yellowed 3x5 index cards, each with a joke handwritten in fading blue fountain-pen ink with a number in the upper right-hand corner. There was a whole section labeled "Eggplants". He'd dragged Mark back there after his aborted rehearsal and sat him down in front of his desk as he riffled through his collection. He muttered to himself the whole while as he plucked and rejected—
"Mothers-in-law, no . . . pomegranates," he scanned the card quickly and then, uttered a more decisive, "no." But despite the rejections, eventually he had a small stack on the desk between them.
As the hunt continued, Mark reached out cautiously to take the top card from the deck. Number 428. He read silently: I got pulled over for speeding last night. The cop weighed about 275 pounds. He looked me over and said, "Sir, I notice your eyes are bloodshot. Have you been drinking?" and I said, "Officer, I notice your eyes are glazed. Have you been eating doughnuts?"
He sighed and returned it to the bottom of the pile, hoping maybe there'd be enough so that he could pass on a few.
"There," Boots straightened up and shut the last drawer decisively. "That oughta be ten minutes worth. If I give you any more time than that, I might as well just let this Austin guy shoot me, too."
Mark smiled wanly as the weary club manager pushed the stack toward him.
"Remember, it's all in the delivery," the man added, and then, with less sincerity, "Don't worry, it's only ten minutes. How bad can it be?"
Mark had to wonder how it could be that those ten minutes loomed larger than what was intended to follow: enticing Sonny Austin—in a blind rage at finding his ex-girlfriend playing smash-face with yet another comedian—into making an attempt on his life. He finally shook his head and stood slowly, gathering up the cards and nodding his pretended gratitude.
"Thanks for the jokes."
"Delivery," Boots reminded.
"'Delivery'," Mark nodded solemnly.
00000
It wasn't as if Mark hadn't ever been in a tight spot: pinned up against a wall on a curve doing one-twenty, in a courtroom looking at a bus ride to hell, caught a blind off the main corridor with a couple of hulking, over-muscled types between him and safety. But none of those had involved stage lights and a chance at really public humiliation.
He heard Boots doing the standard introduction. He felt his feet getting him up on the stage as if by autopilot, a grin fixed to his face. He heard polite applause that could quickly turn to heckling derision if he didn't perform. He took a moment to scan for Sonny Austin, but the lights were too bright and the space beyond them was just patches of white tablecloth and shadowy, judgmental figures.
And then he was on. The mike felt awkward.
"My ex-girlfriend," he said, "was a ditz." He felt his plastered-on grin slip just slightly as he edged past the truth and into the joke. "I bought her this really nice silk scarf for her birthday. I thought she liked it a lot but the next day she returned it. When I asked her why she told me it was too tight."
There was a titter or two, no catcalls yet. He plowed on—
"So after we'd been together for a while, I put my car in her name. I thought I'd save a little money on the insurance. It was a Porsche convertible. The next day she drives it to the mall. A little while later I get a phone call. She'd left the key in the ignition and locked the door. I said it was okay; I'd be right down there. She told me to hurry. It looked like rain and she'd left the top down."
The titters had stopped. Pamela concealed a yawn.
Mark thought about shouting out "Number 428", but he didn't think anyone would get that, either. He sighed and edged forward toward the mike, trying to concentrate on his delivery so he wouldn't have to think about the words themselves.
"A couple months later somebody took the car. My ex-girlfriend was distraught. Her friends told her to call 911 and report it stolen. It took her a while because she couldn't find the eleven on the dial. Eventually she must've figured it out, though, because next thing I know, a cop is pulling me over. Okay, so I was a stilled a little pissed from the fight—you know how you have that big break-up fight, the one where you find out she hates Bruce Springsteen?"
This time there was a smattering of knowledgeable chuckles.
"And, well, okay, she found out I'd only wanted to save money on my car insurance. Seemed like a fair trade to me."
A few guffaws joined the mix.
"And, anyway, when the cop pulled me over I thought maybe I'd been leaning on the gas pedal a little. I might've said something like, 'Are you that guy from the Village People?'"
He reached up and rubbed the back of his neck in a moment of thoughtful reflection and then said, "That didn't go over so good."
He hadn't gotten a laugh with it that first time. Of course back then he'd been a lot angrier.
Delivery is everything.
He was smiling. Chagrin was a big part of it. He wasn't sure how this next bit was going to go over.
"But it turns out the 90 in a 40 zone wasn't the big issue." Mark shook his head sadly. "It was that once Melinda—that's my ex—got some help with that 9-11 thing, I was busted for grand theft auto." He paused again for effect and then added, "Two years. San Quentin."
This time there was a little pause, an undertone of surprise punctuated by a couple of audible gasps, and then some laughs—a little edgier now.
He shrugged with studied nonchalance. "I got to meet a couple more of the Village People."
The laughs were more relaxed this time.
"So two years later I got out," Mark said brightly, straightening his shoulders. "And I said I didn't care if my next girl was Mother Theresa and we were going to share the Popemobile—cars and women do not mix. Uh-uh." He shook his head vigorously to underline the point while the laughter was still ringing.
Then sat there, waiting for it to subside before he said, "But something came up." Another roil of laughter. He had the rhythm down now. He paused one beat for effect and then added, very flatly, "It was a car."
This time he bucked straight through the laughter with, "So there I am in the back seat of another black-and-white and," he leaned in slightly toward the mike and lowered his tone, "this is where it gets weird."
He caught a snicker from the front row. He glanced down, singling the guy out. "Oh, you thought it was weird before, huh? No, that was just my regular luck." He made a sad beckoning gesture that took in the whole audience and got enough of the women to chime in with "Awww," to get another laugh on that.
Then he held up one hand palm out, demanding silence and said, "Wait, it gets better, or," he paused in moment of introspection, "worse, actually. See, I wound up in front of the same judge who'd heard that first case. And I'm thinking, if this guy gave me two years for taking my own car, what the hell is he going to give me for stealing somebody else's?"
The laughter was coming in waves now. He couldn't make out Hardcastle in the audience, but he could imagine a little pocket of stern, disapproving silence from over there somewhere. He almost didn't care. He was on a roll. He thought he understood it—whatever that thing was that pulled Sonny Daye into the spotlight. He'd almost forgotten about Sonny Austin, but he saw Pamela now, sitting down near the front, basking in the reflected glow of the spotlights, her face alight.
He smiled at her and then glanced up sharply, taking in the rest of the shadowy crowd. They were all his friends, now—except for Austin.
"So, I'll bet you're wondering why I'm here, and not on Death Row, right?" He waggled his eyebrows and tapped the ash off an invisible cigar.
"Well . . . I may not be doing time, but," he glanced down at his watch, "I'm out of it right now. "But if you want to hear the rest of the story, tell Mr. Dikeman he needs to give me another gig tomorrow."
There were a couple of hollers, a semi-collective groan, and then some canned band music as Mark stepped back from the mike. Boots loped onto the stage, alternately clapping and gesturing. The crowd gave it up enthusiastically as the manager commandeered the mike and promised another set from this "hot new talent" in the near future. Mark slipped into the wings.
00000
As planned, he met up with Pamela by the stage door. This next bit relied in part on luck, but he thought it wouldn't hurt to twitch the lure a little.
He leaned over and gave her a kiss. She reached up and pulled him into it, converting it into something with more passion than he'd planned. Though they'd left the spotlights behind, the glow was still there by street lamp. He ushered her to the Coyote and she slid in, still smiling. She seemed to have forgotten Sonny Austin, too.
Or maybe not—as he pulled out onto the street a dark sedan emerged from the shadows of a nearby alley. Sonny had risen to the bait. Pamela glanced over her shoulder and let out a little gasp of recognition. Then she turned back to him, biting her lip slightly.
"You're not scared?" she asked hesitantly.
Even as he accelerated slightly and took the first corner he realized he wasn't. Concerned, yes. After all, there were always unforeseen possibilities. He'd seen a helluva lot of those over the last couple of years.
"Nah, not as scared as I was up on that stage tonight." He flashed a smile that was intended to be confident, his gaze alternating between road and rear-view mirror.
She must've picked up on the reassurance. They weren't being pressured all that much by the vehicle behind them—not yet, anyway. This was like that first slow, stately climb at the start of a roller-coaster ride. It had to be a chase, though, preferably with a shot or two fired. Mark took the next corner and accelerated. If he got his wish he wanted it to be from at least a few car-lengths back.
Mark wasn't sure exactly when the other man had crossed that invisible line between reconnoiter and pursuit, but Sonny didn't seem to be letting his anger mess with his reflexes. The sedan surged forward, closing the gap between them.
Pamela stiffened beside him, but the time for reassurance was past. He hollered, "Hold on!" and took another turn at higher speed, enough to test the sway bar. The sedan lost a little ground, but came roaring back on the straight stretch that followed.
In the part of his brain that wasn't occupied with the nuances of evasion, Mark realized that leading a pursuer into a trap was a lot like working off those cards Boots had shoved at him earlier. He was on a preplanned route with no room for improvisation. He was out of the habit of running on a closed course, and he'd always preferred chasing to being chased.
Another corner—this time Sonny's sedan came screeching around behind him, barely losing ground. Almost as soon as the centrifugal force eased, Mark saw a dark shape protruding from the driver's window: a gun, clutched in Sonny's hand with its muzzle resting on the side mirror.
It'd be a crap shoot at this speed and distance, and Mark reminded himself that he wanted there to be no doubt of Sonny's lethal intentions but still—
"Get down," he shouted at Pamela, not that there was much 'down' in the Coyote, and fiberglass made lousy bulletproofing.
He heard the first shots over the roar of the engines—sharp popping sounds. He expected any moment to feel a tire shred. There was no point in further evasion; he'd be just as likely to steer into such a random fusillade. He held his course, hoping the guys up ahead had heard the gunfire. One more corner—he prayed Sonny wouldn't get a last lucky shot off in the turn.
A thud—a pothole, maybe, but more likely a bullet lodged somewhere. He glanced over at his passenger—scared stiff but otherwise okay. He was pretty sure he'd know if he'd been shot.
He smiled. It might still be utterly inappropriate he knew, but there they were, dead ahead, a congregation of cop cars blocking the road with only a Coyote-sized break in their formation. He couldn't help the elated whoop that escaped him as he shot through it.
He slid to a stop, slewing gravel and dirt. He heard shouts behind him and the other car's crash. Off to the side, he hoped.
He turned sharply to Pamela. "You okay?"
She nodded wordlessly. He eased himself up and out of the car. They'd traveled about two hundred feet past the road block. There was a beehive of activity back there, and now more vehicles were arriving.
He spotted Hardcastle's GMC pulled in behind the formation. He found himself grinning—partly relief, he suspected. He turned to climb back into the driver seat only to see that Pamela's door was open and she was already out on her side.
"I can—"
"Can we walk?" she said quietly.
"Ah, sure." He tamped down his grin and ducked around to her side of the car, closing the door and offering her a gallant arm.
She smiled hesitantly and took it. The hesitation didn't last long. She tucked herself in tightly to his side and sighed.
"You were wonderful tonight."
"Ah—" Mark frowned; he supposed everyone reacted differently to being shot at. He hoped she didn't expect it on a regular basis. He decided to go for lowered expectations: "Driving's what I do. It doesn't usually get that hairy." He smiled modestly.
"Oh, that?" She shook her head, looking almost dismissive. "No, I meant earlier, at the club."
Mark halted in his step for a moment and stared down at her. True the first part of the evening had loomed pretty large in his mind, but even he realized that when people talked about a comedy routine "dying" they meant it metaphorically.
Pamela didn't seem to notice his bafflement. She effused on, gesturing with her free hand. "You were so . . . so fresh and spontaneous. I really felt like it was just you and me, at a bar maybe, and you telling me about your life."
"Well, it kind of was my life," Mark said with a philosophical sigh, "just with the unfunny parts edited out."
This time Pamela froze in mid-step. She straightened slightly and stared at him, then swallowed once and said, "San Quentin?"
He nodded. "Two years."
She hesitated again, but it was only for a split-second. It was as if she'd weighed everything in the balance. Whatever her calculations, it was obvious what her conclusions had been. After all, it hadn't been an issue with Denny Frye. Her shoulders visibly relaxed and she leaned into him again.
Just as they had resumed their strolling pace, another dark sedan pulled in, this one between them and the roadblock. Mark felt a twinge of caution. It seemed unlikely that any of Sonny's henchmen would risk so bold a move, but he suddenly felt isolated, even with so many cops less than a hundred feet away.
But as the driver's door opened he saw it was only Boots Dikeman, looking frazzled but not hostile.
He glanced around nervously and said, "They got him?"
Mark nodded and gestured toward the roadblock. "He even fired a couple of shots."
Dikeman looked even more alarmed. "You're okay?"
Mark realized it was him, not Pamela, who was being stared at. "Sure," he said nonchalantly, "we're fine."
"Thank God," the manager shook his head slightly. Then, as though he'd forgotten something in the excitement, he turned and reached back into his car, fetching out a clipboard. To Mark's questioning expression he said, "Tomorrow night's schedule. I'm going to give Rogers the night off, and push Simmons back fifteen minutes. That'll give you thirty. You can handle a half-hour, can't ya?"
Mark realized his mouth was slightly agape. He closed it.
Boots must have taken his stunned silence for a negotiating ploy. "I didn't have a contract handy," he confessed, "everything happening so fast and all—but we can go back to the club and hammer something out. Six months to start, but I think I can have you on Merv Griffin inside of three. You're a natural, kid. Who'da thunk it?"
He felt Pamela next to him, still clutching his arm but bouncing slightly on her heels. "Oh, Mark, isn't that terrific? And everybody knows Mr. Dikeman can spot talent. If he says you're the next big thing, you are," she bubbled.
"I . . . um—"
"You don't know what to say, huh?" Dikeman beamed. "Don't worry, kid, as long as you keep the lines comin' when you're up on stage. That was sheer genius tonight, stopping in the middle of the story. 'Serial comedy'. I love it."
"I kinda had to stop because—"
"Why don't matter," Dikeman assured him. "Just keep 'em coming back for more."
"Well, about that . . ." Mark had finally caught sight of the judge, standing with a clutch of cops near the center of the swarm of activity. No doubt he was supervising the arrest process. Not everybody in the DA's office thought Hardcastle walked on water, but they'd have to admit he knew what would stand up in court.
He became aware that he was being stared at again. It was Dikeman. He dragged his own gaze back from that further-off action.
"Look," he said sensibly, "I'm not a comedian. Well, not a professional one, anyway." He tried to look serious; a grin crept out. "I mean, it's nice of you and all—"
"But—"
"But I can't." He shook his head sadly. "I didn't break off tonight because it was some genius move to keep 'em wanting more. I did it because I figured if I got into the part about working for the judge who sentenced me, I'd tip Sonny off."
"But—"
"And I gotta get over there." He disentangled himself from Pamela, shrugging slightly. "It's what I do." He tried not to notice her deeply disappointed expression.
Then he turned and walked away from both of them before he could have a change of heart.
00000
Hardcastle listened to the Miranda being read by a burly middle-aged cop. The officer had a bass-baritone register that sounded a final as the echo of a prison door slamming closed. The judge found it deeply satisfying.
Then he glanced around, wondering where the hell McCormick had gotten to. Probably off somewhere holding hands with Sonny's ex, though if the girl liked comics, the whole thing was doomed.
More doomed than even he'd imagined—there was McCormick himself, strolling toward him, hands in his pockets and no Pammie hanging on his arm.
"Everything under control?" Mark asked as he sauntered up. "Got his rights quoted off the card and all that?"
Hardcastle grunted an affirmative and then raised one eyebrow slightly and said, "You okay?"
"Sure," Mark shrugged, "fine. Ducked the bullets and slid into home ahead of the ball."
"Bullets?" Hardcastle looked at him askance. "It wasn't that tough a crowd."
Mark grinned. "Not even any tomatoes. Hey, maybe I'm in the wrong line of work."
"Uh-uh." Hardcastle shook his head. "Stick with driving. Hell, you didn't even tell any jokes tonight. You know: 'Two men walk into a bar. . .'"
"Jokes, huh?"
"Yeah, like Abbott and Costello. 'Who's on first?'"
"You didn't like the one about dialing 9-11?"
"You call that a joke?" the judge sniffed. "Anyway, for a minute there I thought you were gonna spill the beans—tip Austin off."
"Tell 'em I work for the Long Ranger? No way, Kemosabe. Anyway, the essence of comedy is to keep it believable.
"And besides, you know what they say," he took in a deep breath and scanned the mars-lit chaos for a moment, then he smiled and said, "always leave 'em wanting more."