Disclaimer: The characters are not mine and I make no profit from them.
Rated: K+
Author's Notes: It's my take on the story-starter Cheri put up on the H&McC forum. Oh, wait, it was supposed to be a short scene, 1000 words or less. Heck, I can barely bring an author's note in on that kind of a budget. Sheesh.
Well, (and here follows the shameless plug) if you want to see Owl's version, or try one of your very own, come on over to the forum (click on the link in the top right hand corner on the H&McC fic listing page).
And the episode references are: Prince of Fat City, Flying Down to Rio, Hot Shoe, and Just Another Round of That Old Song, all from the first half of the first season.
Thanks for the beta, Cheri.
Priorities
By L. M. Lewis
They had nothing to say to each other, that is, nothing left to say to each other, after the request, which had been refused, followed by the discussion, which had been heated. The ride to the warehouse had been made in stony silence.
McCormick was incensed. How many offers did the old donkey think he could turn down? And this one coming from a hot team, with an even hotter car--it would be nothing at all like that disastrous outing a month earlier. It was a chance to get back in the pole position, to have a real shot at winning.
Instead he was sitting in a dimly lit, unheated warehouse, hidden away behind a stack of pallets, waiting for Herbert Calder, aka Herbie Calendar, aka Cincinnati Cal, to come and discuss deep-sea fishing with the judge.
There was no justice.
McCormick fumed. In his four months in residence at Gulls Way, he had been a model ex-con. He'd put up with a juvenile delinquent for a roommate, pulled Hardcastle's hash out of the fire in San Rio; he'd even forked over his share of the reward money to Henry Willard only a week ago. There had been that one little slip with Teddy Hollins but, honestly, even that had turned into another ride for justice for the Masked Man.
He sighed, but kept it quiet. He couldn't help but think the refusal was Hardcase's commentary on the Denny Collins incident, maybe even on racing in general, that it wasn't important, not like being goddamn Tonto. That, and all that hooey about commitments, not pulling out of a deal after it's made. Not that I had any choice about this deal. Not like I asked to spend the evening hiding in a warehouse, when I could be driving over to Fontana and getting some practice laps in.
But, above all, it was a clear reminder that his life was not his own, even less than it had been when he was merely another parolee, one among many under John Dalem's supervision. Hell, even Dalem would have okayed the offer of a ride for this Saturday's race.
But Dalem would have thrown your ass back in Quentin a month ago for associating with Larry Singer and the rest of Collins' goons. He never would have bought it that you didn't know what was going on with that bunch, you having been in the used car trade yourself. Hah. He hated it when the truth got in the way of a good argument.
He watched Hardcastle, who'd seated himself comfortably on a packing case about twenty feet away, out in plain sight. Alone so far.
And if nobody shows up, this'll all have been a big waste of—
Mark heard the distant echoing sound of a door opening and closing, and the approach of footsteps. He withdrew a little further back into the shadows and froze. If everything went as planned, that was all he would need to do. Might as well be in Fontana.
He heard the judge's quiet greeting as the man stepped out from the shadowy doorway. Calder had come, as predicted, looking even more nervous than he'd appeared in the surveillance photos. Hardcastle was on his feet, but still relaxed. Mark listened with half his concentration--the smooth, persuasive ease, Hardcastle at his most reasonable, trying to convince a guy that it really would be a good idea to testify against Jerry Panati, a particularly vicious hit man who didn't always wait for his problems to stop breathing before he dropped them in the San Pedro Channel.
You'll be sorry.
He grimaced to himself. Calder was voicing concerns, but you could tell, just by his being here, that he was already halfway convinced, and there was no way the judge was walking out of here without a sale.
The sound of the door opening again, even more quietly this time, barely registered, but the second figure in the doorway was only a darkened outline before Mark shouted out a warning and sent a stack of boxes toppling in that direction.
More shouting, and two shots rang out. Hardcastle and Calder weren't in sight anymore. Panati was standing there, cradling his right arm--gun in hand--with his other, looking like he was rapidly getting his bearings again. Mark took off, two quick turns, back further in the shadowy recesses of the warehouse, trying to put some space between himself and the other guy.
But don't lose him yet.
The footsteps were loud enough behind him. All right, lose him. He ducked into the next narrow space, between barrels stacked three high, and tried to contain his noisy breathing. The other guy's footsteps had slowed, stopped. Mark couldn't see him. He held his breath. Panati wasn't breathing either, but there was one footfall, just about even with him now. He pushed, hard.
The whole thing was happening in slow motion, his cover falling away from him at a crazy angle--one barrel coming down the wrong way. Another shot, but he'd already ducked to the side, to keep from getting crushed by the stray barrel, and both barrel and shot missed him. Then the other guy grunted as he was knocked down against what must've been his previous injury.
The gun was free, lying on the ground. Mark snatched at it. Panati wasn't trying to get up. His elbow hung at a crazy angle and he was curled up around his arm, moaning.
There were sirens, shouts, more footsteps. He put the gun down very carefully on the floor, with him between it and the other guy. He had his arms loosely at his sides even before the approaching officers told him to turn around and raise his hands.
Where the hell's Hardcastle? In the reflex actions of the past few moments he'd pushed everything else to the back of his mind.
"Back there," he was still breathing hard, "two men. Judge Hardcastle. There were some shots fired."
One of the officers had finished patting him down and now, tight grip on his collar, gave him a hard yank forward.
"I'm with him. Hardcastle," Mark protested. Then he looked past the officers toward the main part of the warehouse. "Where the hell is he?"
He heard more footsteps, shouting, more officers. He was being handcuffed, and hauled, still more-or-less by the collar, but it was in the direction he wanted to go, so he didn't fuss.
There was a cluster of officers up ahead. "There," Mark insisted. "He was talking to an informant." No one was much listening to him. He jerked the handcuffs sharply in frustration and got himself a quick whack on the side of the head.
"He's with me," came a gruff and not-too-happy voice, as the small crowd up ahead parted.
And there he was, back on the packing case, sitting, though not so comfortably. This time he had a handkerchief pressed up against the side of his head and a trickle of blood, not quite dried, on his cheek. But his tone was sharp, "Get the damn cuffs off him."
Mark grinned, then, almost as quickly, mastered that, substituting something a little sterner, less relieved. "Great plan," he muttered, hearing the snick and feeling the cuffs fall away. And then, "What the hell happened to you?"
"Hit my head on something going down." Hardcastle looked over his shoulder accusingly at the boxes behind him. "We got him?"
"Yeah, yeah," McCormick grumbled, rubbing his wrists. "I think he broke something."
The older man was looking him up and down. "And you okay? I heard a shot."
"I ducked." Mark shrugged, and then the grin was back. There was no helping that. He was relieved. Calder was standing there, flanked by two officers, looking shell-shocked and entirely ready to cooperate. The rest of the officers were standing down, giving the judge a little more space.
He sat down on the crate next to Hardcastle's and leaned over a little. "Lemme see."
The judge pulled the cloth away reluctantly. No gash, just a decent lump and some abrasions. Mark winced. "How long were you out?"
A thoughtful pause and then, "Long enough."
Mark sat there, fairly thoughtful, too. More sirens, ambulance this time. The paramedics came in, wheeling their stretcher. They stopped in front of Hardcastle but he waved them on through.
"Well," Mark started to look a little stubborn, "you oughta let them take a look at you, too."
"Nah, I'm fine. A little iodine and a bandage."
"You were unconscious."
Hardcase was looking pretty stubborn himself. "Only for a couple of minutes."
Long enough. Mark looked over his shoulder for a second, to the spot where Panati had been standing, about ten feet away.
They let that one lie. The stretcher was departing, bearing its snarling, moaning burden. Followed by two police officers. One of the paramedics turned as they were passing and asked, "Sure?"
Hardcastle waved them by again.
"Iodine," Mark shook his head. "A band aid."
Hardcastle checked his watch. "You still have time to get over to Fontana."
"Don't change the subject," McCormick looked firm. "You ought to go to the hospital. Let 'em take a look at you."
"I thought you wanted to go to Fontana," Hardcastle persisted.
Mark frowned. He had.
"Well . . ."
"I mean," the judge continued, "we got this one kinda nailed; they're gonna dig those slugs out of the wall, find the casings. We got the gun." Hardcastle smiled in dogged self-satisfaction. "Hell, we don't even need old Herbie." His smile turned into an expansive grin, out of place with the smudges of blood. "And it's only Friday night. Pretty fast work."
Mark was sitting there, elbows on his knees. The silence that followed this last bit seemed to creep up on him, interrupting a thought. Hardcastle was clearing his throat.
"So," he continued on, a little slower, almost hesitant, "you could do it. Fontana, I mean, the race."
It was the oddest thing. Mark's chin was propped on his fist now. He hadn't been thinking about Fontana, but about the damn Panati file; the thing was two inches thick, at least, and some of the crime scene photos in it had been—
He'd been thinking about the file.
What he hadn't been thinking about was how close the damn guy had been, and Hardcase on the floor, knocked out cold. That one didn't bear looking at too much. Nope, think about the file.
"So, if you still want Saturday off . . ." the judge prodded a little harder.
"Ah . . . I dunno," He tried to get his thoughts organized. "It's kinda late; they probably already found somebody else."
The older man looked mystified.
"Well," Hardcastle finally said consideringly, "it wouldn't hurt to ask."
"But there'll be a lot of paperwork here, police statements—" Three steps closer, he figured, a second and a half, and he would have had a clear trajectory at the man who'd been unconscious on the floor behind the crate. Long enough.
"I can handle that," the judge insisted. "Hell, that way you won't have me leaning on things and getting underfoot up at the track."
"There'll be other times," Mark said, trying to keep his tone light and off-hand, but pretty certain that Hardcastle had caught the direction of his gaze, and probably the direction of his thoughts, as well.
He watched the mystification slowly clear. He thought for a minute that he was going to have to deal with some sort of jibe, but, instead, Hardcastle fell silent, too.
Another moment passed. The silence was getting a little unnerving. It was too personal. Mark shrugged. "I think I just wanna go home . . . and you really ought to get your head looked at."
This finally got him a grin. "Well, you've said that often enough."
Mark exhaled; they were back on safer ground. He grinned right back. "I think there's a good chance that you falling on it might improve things, except that it's so hard. No," he shook his head slowly, "not much hope there."
"Okay, well, no Fontana then," the judge was strangely persistent. Then he surveyed the organized chaos around them with a weary eye. "But don't go thinking I can arrange this much excitement for you every weekend."
"Oh, God, no," Mark laughed, "You don't have to do that."