Flagrante

by L.M.Lewis

Some 'Who knew what, when, why and how' from "Ties My Father Sold Me"

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

Thanks, Georgi, for the suggestion—and to dear Owl for both seconding it and providing the kind of beta support that is flagrantly necessary for my stuff.

Author's Note: In "Ties My Father Sold Me", an uncomfortable reunion dinner between Mark and his long absent father, Sonny Daye, is made even more uncomfortable by the intrusion of an enforcer sent by a local mobster, Tommy Sales. Sales wants Daye to use his safe-cracking skills to retrieve some evidence from the chambers of a federal judge. When it looks like the goon intends to take Mark's dad for a ride, Mark and Milt intervene. In the next scene (or at least one suit change later), back in their hotel room, they get Daye to spill the whole story. He reluctantly agrees to make a statement to the local cops implicating Sales. He's next seen in front of the hotel and climbs into the backseat of a squad car with Milt for a ride down to police headquarters. This is observed by yet more of Sales' men, and after the police and their passengers depart, Mark, who declined Milt's offer to join them, is pursued and kidnapped by this new crew of goons. He's taken to Sales' office to be used as leverage by Sales in his continued attempt to get Sonny to commit the break-in.

Obviously we have some difficulties here, with plans being pursued in the face of a change of circumstances that would, at first glance, seem to make both sides' actions untenable: Sonny and Milt because they've put the authorities on alert to Sales' intentions, and Sales because he knows Sonny's gone to the cops. And what about that flagrant necessity defense of Hardcastle's? Why resort to that when it appears that all he needs to do is explain what's going on to the Powers That Be?

Flagrante

by L.M. Lewis

Mark got to go for a car ride after all, and all that quiet thinking time that he'd been looking for had been replaced by the steady prod of a blunt-nosed pistol in the hands of his seat-mate. He was thinking, though, and it was a lot faster and harder than he'd originally intended.

The guys who'd run him down must have seen Hardcastle and the police escort that had come for Sonny. That meant he had about five minutes to live, most likely, once they got back to their boss and told the tale of Daye turning snitch. There's nothing quite as useless as a lever once the thing you're trying to move has taken a hike.

Unless he could somehow convince the man that Sonny wasn't out of reach yet.

00000

Detective Delario, a friend of a friend and head of the organized crime task force in those parts, greeted Hardcastle warmly and Sonny Daye with only a little less enthusiasm—though in the latter case it was more like the smile a fisherman has for the catch of the day. They were ushered, with dispatch, into an interview room, already set up with tape machine and a stenographer.

After that, though, things didn't go quite as smoothly. Sonny, who seemed to share Mark's natural gift for patter, became gradually less forthcoming and more evasive. Hardcastle helped where he could, prodding the man's memory and adding what details he already knew, but the overall impression was that of a reluctant witness. After the first half-hour, Delario glanced up at the judge and made a quick gesture with his chin toward the door.

"Let's take a break," Hardcastle said, falsely cheerful. "Don't want to ruin your voice, eh?"

Delario was already on his feet and Hardcastle rose to follow. As Sonny stood, the judge gestured him back.

Out in the hallway, door closed behind him, the detective shook his head slowly. "He's got a pretty good wind-up, Judge, but no follow through. That proffer won't be worth the paper it'll be written on if he backs out."

"At least once you have it signed, if he does a flop on the stand you'll have grounds for perjury."

"That and a nickel will get us a cup of joe—we don't want him on some penny-ante charge; we want Sales."

Hardcastle held out a placating hand against Delario's rising ire. "Sonny may be a weasel, but he's our weasel," he said. "We just need to keep him more afraid of us than of Sales, just a little—and in a good way, of course." He smiled toothily and felt suddenly more relaxed. He hadn't realized until just then how much all this playing nice had been costing him. "Lemme see what I can do."

They stepped back into the room. The detective made a quick gesture to the stenographer to hold off.

Sonny was fidgeting in his seat and glanced up at the wire-shielded clock on the wall. "You know I got the early show again to—"

"Plenty of time," the judge continued smiling as he cut him off. "The detective here was just raising some questions about your sincerity, Sonny. He thinks you might back out on him if things get too hot."

Sonny looked sharply toward Delario but didn't immediately offer a denial.

"So he's starting to think that you might be a good candidate for material witness, being as you've been so tight with Tommy Sales all this time, on the payroll and all—"

"Ju-udge."

"—practically family." Hardcastle barely took note of the man's rising panic; he plodded on with unyielding conviction. "And putting you in custody would guarantee that you made it to the witness stand in one piece now, wouldn't it? We sure wouldn't want Mark to end up an orphan so soon after you two got back together again, not even a trip to the ball park to show for it." He shook his head woefully.

Sonny was staring, aghast.

"But if he was a little more convinced that you mean what you say and intend to stick by it, he'd probably figure you were safe with just me and McCormick looking after you. Leastwise, that's what I told him. Whaddaya think?"

Sonny stayed frozen for a moment and then nodded wordlessly and could be seen summoning up a smile not unlike the one he probably produced for hecklers. Fortunately, Delario had never caught his show. Everyone settled back into their seats and the stenographer got another nod from the detective.

The story started up again with marginally more enthusiasm from Sonny, keeping one eye on Hardcastle who continued to smile encouragingly. Delario looked stern but not implacable.

The judge managed to hold onto his smile, tempered with some teeth-gritting, even through Daye's self-aggrandizing version of the encounter in front of the restaurant. He beat back any desire to set those facts straight. They were immaterial, and the only person whose opinion about the incident mattered in the slightest wasn't here to listen to this Sonny-centric version of what had gone down.

And then it was over. The room fell silent once the formalities were over. Sonny looked wrung out. Delario seemed moderately pleased, and Hardcastle just wanted to go back to the hotel. It was slowly dawning on him that his assessment of both Sonny and the risks he was running were entirely realistic. Only keeping close company with the man until Sales' arrest would offer any possibility of getting him to the witness stand.

It looked like McCormick was going to have a really good opportunity to get to know his dad again.

00000

The goons, probably in recollection of the incident with the car door, roughed him up a little once they were out of the car and into Sales' building. It was perfunctory, though, and nothing that would show. Sales didn't seem like the sort who tolerated deviations from the plan.

Mark didn't waste his energy fighting back, not against those two plus the door guard who held a gun. He just tried to hold onto his train of thought, hammering out the last couple of details and trying to plan for contingencies.

And eventually they got tired—punching people is hard work and there's always the risk the victim may throw up on your shoes. Mark felt himself dragged to his feet and even dusted off and straightened up a bit, like a kid about to be sent into the principal's office.

He was prodded into an elevator and they ascended to a penthouse floor only accessible via a key-locked button. Mark frowned. All this openness—being taken to the man's home base without so much as a blindfold—was worrisome. The elevator opened onto a minimal anteroom—obviously anyone who got this far was expected—and the walnut office door opened from within.

Another man with a gun. He bore a disconcerting resemblance to Mark's old parole officer. That might have been what triggered it—Mark's long acquired habit of disregard for authority. Mr. Sales himself, the Big Tuna, was there as well, and now casually assuring Mark that whether he lived or died was in his hands.

This absolutely required a smart remark. It was either that or show how worried he really was, which wouldn't add to his eventual stab at persuasiveness any. Much to his surprise, he didn't earn himself any more abuse, just a chair off to the side, a little out of the way.

Sales was reaching for the phone, a hand already on the dial, when one of the goons still standing by the door cleared his throat nervously.

"Um, Mr. Sales?" There'd obviously been a little jostling and nudging over there as the two of them decided which one was to be the bearer of bad tidings. The guy Mark had slammed with the car door apparently had less seniority and gotten stuck with the job.

Sales glowered at him but replaced the receiver in its cradle and snarled, "What?"

Mark felt himself tense up--bad news for Sales but worse still for him. He watched the storm clouds gather over their boss's expression as the lesser goon described what he'd seen.

". . . and then the cops drove off. Sonny and that old guy in the back, nobody in cuffs."

The first part of Sales' response consisted of a few choice one-syllable words—harsh and guttural—but he got that under control with remarkable speed. Mark knew the next thing on the agenda would be witness disposal and before that order could be issued he sat forward just slightly and said, with feeling, "That's Hardcastle's doing."

It was unexpected enough to draw all eyes to him, even Sales', who then growled, "Who the hell is Hardcastle?"

"A judge—California Superior Court. He's got a beef hanging over my head. I do his fetching and carrying and he continues the judicial stay. Who said slavery's unconstitutional? Hardcase Hardcastle."

There might have been something resonating—some primal recollection relayed from friends of friends. There was no immediate demand for him to shut up or for somebody to shoot him. He had them interested.

"So he heard my old man was working out here in some big mobster's club, and he figures, hey, another notch on his gun—if he can get somebody on the inside of your organization to roll over, see?"

If anything, Sales' face had gone more livid. Mark figured livid was good, up to a point. At least it diverted some blood from the higher thinking faculties. He plunged on.

"And yesterday, when you sent that goon of yours—He was yours, wasn't he?" There was no immediate confirmation or denial. Mark shrugged and continued. "Well, that played right into Hardcastle's hands. He finally had something to hammer on Sonny with. He wanted to flip him, see?"

Sales growled, low and dangerous.

"But it won't work. I'd already got to my old man, told him Hardcase can't be trusted. He'll pump a snitch dry and toss him back to the wolves . . . or worse. He's got a history. There was this one broad he worked with back in LA—they called her the Black Widow—"

"So what the hell was Sonny doing going for a ride with the cops?"

"Yeah, well, see, like I said, you played into his hands. Hardcastle knew something was up, and he kept leaning on Sonny, threatening to have him hauled in—trump up some charges. He'd do it, too.

"But I finally convinced the judge to give me a couple minutes with Sonny—I'll be honest with you, I don't owe my old man any favors, he skipped out on me and his old lady way back. Hardcase knew that, so he thought I'd help.

"But, like I told ya, first thing I did, when I got him alone, was made sure he knew the score. We came up with a plan. He told Hardcastle he'll tell the cops all about you. Hardcastle goes and crows to the cops that he's got some hotshot witness. Everybody gets all excited, then Sonny goes in and tells 'em nothing—squat—except that a guy he owes some money to took it personal and Hardcase has been on him to lie about you ever since. Sonny's off the hook, and the judge looks like a donkey—worse than a donkey. He'll end up stinking so bad that everybody's gonna wanna take a couple big steps back from him."

The last word fell into ringing silence. It was the sound of renewed hope—a plan rising from flame and ashes.

Sales shot a look toward the guy holding the gun on Mark. "What about Jace?"

Mark recognized the name from the day before—Jace Trimmer, the goon who'd come to the restaurant.

The winner of the John Dalem look-alike contest didn't waver, with gun or judgment. "Jace is a stand-up guy, Boss. You know that."

Sales seemed to give that a moment's thought and nodded once sharply, in apparent agreement. Then he turned toward Mark again, his frown only partly cleared.

"When you go missing, what'll this judge do?"

"Hang onto Sonny, I figure, to get me back."

"Why would he want you back?"

"Listen," Mark cocked his head, "I may not be Employee of the Month, but I'm damn useful. Let's just say I take after my dad." Mark smiled. "You know how handy it is to have somebody who can get in and out of places, get you things?"

"Yeah."

Mark saw Sales' expression sharpen. He quickly engineered a retrofit. "Locks, security systems, files. Not safes yet, but I'm working on that."

The mobster deflated slightly.

"Anyway, Hardcastle's already misplaced one of his projects, a guy named Beale. We may be just cons, but if something happens to me, there's gonna at least be some questions. And you know how that is—one leads to another and pretty soon he's having to explain the Black Widow to a grand jury." Mark shook his head slowly. "The guy's nuts. Sometimes I think I'd rather be back in the slammer than dealing with this stuff."

Sales' lower lip was protruding and his chin dropped a notch. The silence drew out.

"Whaddaya think, Mr. Sales?" the Dalemesque goon said cautiously.

There was no direct answer, but Sales turned and reached for the phone again. Seven numbers and what couldn't have been even a full ring later, the other end was picked up.

It was as if Mark had ordered it from a catalog—the page marked "Just what you wanted"—as even he, sitting halfway across the room, could hear the judge's grizzled shout: "Where the hell are you, McCormick?"

And just as perfect was the brevity of the call. Sales issued his demand and Mark uttered only a handful of words to acknowledge that he wasn't dead yet.

The mobster pulled the phone back and slammed it into the cradle. Mark glanced up at the guy with the gun. When a few moments passed and no order to shoot was issued he let out a breath that he'd been holding. He'd used up a lot of juice in the performance he'd just given, and there was no way to know what was happening at Hardcastle's end.

"Watch 'em," Sales said sharply to the men by the door. "Rifle, sniper scope. Make sure they're covered. If either one of them looks like he's not with the program, kill 'em, and get back to me."

00000

Maybe some part of his brain, the part that always expected disaster when McCormick was left to his own devices, had already been considering this possibility. It seemed that way, because even before he hung up the now-dead line, Hardcastle's mind was working.

He broke the news to Sonny, of course, though the other man had suddenly become recategorized. No longer "Mark's dad"—which he was, if only by the most technical of definitions—but now a means to an end. He was a tool—and that in more ways than one—but definitely someone Hardcastle intended to have at his disposal.

He'd strolled over to the window casually while Sonny was still absorbing the news. He eased the curtain back slightly and glanced out, standing slightly to one side with the drape providing cover. He scanned the street. No one loitering. Of course a guy like Sales could have already covered this contingency. He might have his observer holed up in a room across the street, peering out from behind a curtain, just as he was.

The question was, if Sales' men had picked up Mark, then they'd also seen Sonny climbing into a cop car. Yet here was a guy with the smarts to control half the action on the East Coast acting like his original plan was still go for lift-off, which was a damn lucky thing, because if he hadn't believed that, then having had Mark grabbed would have gotten him nowhere, and there's nothing a mob kingpin needs less than a useless hostage.

One thing was obvious; McCormick had somehow managed to make himself useful. Hardcastle squinted, trying to see the outlines of the story the kid must've spun. The details were hazy and the possibilities myriad, but in all versions the commonality was that Sonny had to be, by mob standards, a stand-up guy—and, ipso facto, the guy who thought he was taking him in to provide valuable evidence was a donkey.

Hardcastle sighed. Flagrant necessity wasn't always pretty. He gave the street one more searching look: nothing, nobody. But they'd be there. It was a certainty. Which meant no matter what, Sonny had to put on a convincing show tonight, and from what judge had seen, the man's abilities didn't run in that direction.

It might have been that—the need for a little cinema verite on this one—or maybe it was a sudden and deep-seated need to see what the man was really made of, what his intentions were toward his son. Hardcastle made up his mind then and there. Letting the edge of the curtain fall back he turned and took a seat and said nothing.

Sonny circled around behind him. He probably had glanced out the window, too. He was a blowhard and a coward, but not an idiot. He knew what was up. Hardcastle let him start the conversation, and then listened impatiently as he tried to hem and haw his way out of helping. The judge called it as he saw it and watched Sonny change tacks, flat-out denying any responsibility with rising defensiveness.

It had become more than obvious. The man had no intention of hazarding himself in any way for Mark's sake. Hardcastle had finally had enough. He took a slow breath and launched himself into a moral defense of breaking the law. By the end of it he'd convinced himself, too, had it been truly necessary, and Sonny seemed among the converted.

But even then, half hanging by Hardcastle's grip on his shirtfront, the guy who was easily responsible for most of Mark's chutzpah said, "But what do you know about cracking safes?"

The judge half-smiled and confided, "Not as much as I know about cracking heads."

00000

With their relationship thus redefined, there was no way Hardcastle was going to let his new partner out of his sight. He insisted on accompanying him as he returned to his digs to pick up his gear and grab something to eat. The hotel doorman hailed them a cab and Sonny directed it to go by way of Central Avenue, a not-quite direct route, but one which took in a view of the back approach to the Federal Court Building. Daye had the cabbie pull over there.

Hardcastle couldn't quite displace a sense of déjà vu, watching this man. Of course a casing was a casing, and a joint was a joint, but there was something uncannily familiar with the way Sonny Daye did things. He was relieved when the man finally gave the driver a tap on the shoulder and told him to proceed. The judge wasn't looking forward to witnessing the second act—with McCormick's own version of this indiscretion only two days past.

They made good time to Sonny's place. It was a small and dingy apartment with a transient feel to it. There were no mementos or knick-knacks, and just one photo, taped to the battered door of the fridge: an eight by ten of Kitty with only her fifty-foot feather to preserve her from the falling damps. Hardcastle averted his eyes.

Sonny told him to make himself at home and sauntered off, remarkably relaxed for a man who intended to commit a felony in a few hours' time, even in the name of flagrant necessity. It was another likeness to his son.

But the judge had no intention of relaxing. He waited for the snick of the bedroom door, and then the distant sound of water running before he marshaled the phone and went to work on his own version of preparation.

By the time Sonny emerged it was coming on dusk. Dressed in the all-too-familiar basic black, the family resemblance was a little more obvious. Hardcastle tried not to scowl; after all, on this occasion there'd been a certain amount of entrapment.

"You want some coffee?" Daye asked, crossing to the fridge and stooping, rustling inside it. "I can't—messes up the touch." He stood and turned toward the all-purpose table in the main-room, pushing aside a stack of bills and papers to make room for the box he bore.

Hardcastle had shaken his head 'no' on the coffee question and looked askance at the pizza, which was starting to curl at the edges though not yet beyond what Mark would consider edible. Sonny pried a piece off and folded it in half. It cracked, partly. He bit into it and was already chewing before he said "Help yourself," or something to that effect.

The judge planted himself in the chair across from him as he watched the man chew. "No question," he said, "about you and him—you're his dad."

Sonny gave the pizza—and apparently the thought—some chewing over. He finally swallowed and then said, with a surprising degree of insight, "You were still hoping not, huh?"

"It's none of my business," the judge said gruffly. Then he frowned and added, "It's just—"

"I'm a big disappointment. I know. Donna thought the same thing. Lots of people think it. I'm used to it."

Hardcastle couldn't shake the frown. He wasn't sure if this was another thing the two men held in common.

"She loved that kid," Sonny went on, his tone growing a little more thoughtful. Then he looked up sharply. "She wanted a kid. She got one. Me, I was never all that sure, ya know?"

Hardcastle said nothing.

"Okay, so you don't know." Sonny shrugged. "All I know is one thing leads to another, and pretty soon she wanted me to be there. Get out of the game. Get off the road. So maybe it wasn't just the kid."

"Did you tell him that? That it wasn't on account of him—that whole 'not cut out to be a father' nonsense?"

Now Sonny was frowning. "Nah—hell, I even offered to get him set up out here, show him around, introduce him to people, I mean once all the rest of this is settled . . . and you know what he said?"

The judge felt a twinge of something. It might have been alarm. He just shook his head.

"He said he had all the help he needed." Sonny cast him a questioning look and gestured with what remained of the slice. "So why the hell did he come back here, anyway, if he didn't want anything?"

"I dunno," Hardcastle said quietly.

All the likeness had suddenly fallen away. It had all been quirks and superficialities anyway. What was left before him was a small-hearted man who couldn't see around his own motivations to anything larger—better. He bore no resemblance whatsoever to the guy who'd risked damn near everything to find him.

"I think maybe you were right," the judge went on slowly, having just now thought it through. "I think maybe you did him a favor, getting out when you did."

"You do?" Sonny brightened.

"Maybe. Sometimes the easy way isn't the best."

"Yeah," Sonny said, looking a little puzzled, and then he agreed more whole-heartedly. "Yeah, that's what I said." He bit down again with satisfaction.

00000

They waited until full darkness, and then further into the night, for the foot traffic to diminish. There was no hope in outwaiting all of the nightlife in Atlantic City, but the section of town where the courthouse stood was at least quieter than the boardwalk. Hardcastle noted with satisfaction that his prediction had been right. They'd picked up a tail sometime during their stay at Sonny's. He made a note to himself to have the doorman at the Chancellor looked into, though it was possible that Sales had merely covered all the bases.

This time the cabbie was instructed to let them off on Pacific Avenue, a few blocks from their destination but, as Sonny said once they were out, a common street with lots of fares, not likely to be remembered. Their shadow came and went, but never deserted them for long. They picked up a second as they made their final approach.

"Ya think maybe they'd give us a hand?" Sonny said sardonically. "I haven't had this big an audience since I worked the Sands."

Hardcastle glanced at him in dubious surprise. "You did a show there?"

The man hesitated, then must have decided it was too easy to check. "Nah," he muttered, "just an expression."

The darkened area behind the main building provided sufficient cover, though Hardcastle made a point of occasionally moving into the areas of less shadow, so as not to disappoint their overseers. Sony got them through a locked gate and into the building with impressive élan and a surprising lack of jitters.

This is what he does best.

"You just kept all these tools in case you lost your voice, right?" the judge sniped when they were through the last door that stood between them and the safe.

Sonny smiled and told him to relax. It was a different smile than the one that he'd worn on stage. The judge had a fleeting thought—This is the man Mark came to see.

God forbid that he ever should. In his true element Sonny was adroitly charming.

He had finally gotten them to the safe. Hardcastle stayed to the side, watched, and pondered how much of what a man becomes is really of his own choosing.

All of it is. The important stuff, anyway. Which was precisely what he was thinking when the conclusion of Sonny's finest performance was interrupted by a sharp command for them to "Freeze!"

As they turned to face a square-jawed member of Atlantic City's finest, Sonny reverted to form and announced, with the evidence tapes in hand, "I had nothing to do with this, officer," and then gave a nod in Hardcastle's direction. "It was all his idea."

Hardcastle grimaced. It was bad enough that the beat guys hadn't gotten the memo—though, as Delario has said, any general announcement to stand down would be too risky—but by now Sales' observers outside must surely be getting nervous.

"Shut up, Sonny," he snapped and, moving slowly, edged his hand to open his jacket and demonstrate that he was, for once, unarmed. "ID," he announced, producing it, "and you need to use this phone right here to call Detective Delario."

By now the cop's partner had joined him. The tension hadn't eased much, but with two guns pointed, and Hardcastle's request, though bizarre, being near enough to what the officer needed to do anyway, the call was put through.

The judge was aware that Sonny was studying him with a jaundiced expression, which was not completely displaced by the gradual dawning of hope when he eventually realized he wasn't about to be locked up for twenty years.

"The fix was in," Daye finally muttered, as the two confused young cops made additional phone calls, including to the judge whose chambers they were standing in.

Yes, they were assured. Just a security check. They'd done very well and a favorable rating would soon be appearing in their jackets. The security drill team was to be allowed to egress the facility in the same manner in which they entered. Absolutely no escort. No backup was needed and the officers should complete their search of the structure, per protocol, and then depart.

Sonny egressed with enthusiasm. Hardcastle frowned worriedly.

"Will ya at least try and make it look like you're being evasive," he hissed to his companion, but given the sudden decline in Sonny's performance he was glad they'd at least started this pantomime on a more sincere note. He could only hope the gaff wasn't blown.

00000

"He's got 'em, Mr. Sales." The goon had arrived breathless, and looking relieved to be the bearer of good tidings for once. "They maybe tripped a security system because a squad came peeling up, but Sonny and that Hardcastle guy got out the back clean while the cops were inside searching."

"So he even went along, huh?" Sales cast a suspicious eye at Mark, who was sitting in the chair looking honestly baffled, though not for the reason Sales might have thought.

"Yeah, the two of them," the goon reported. "And Sonny ain't lost his touch; he must've covered his tracks good—the cops came out later, all clear, like they thought it was a false alarm or something."

Mark was only half-listening to this tale of police inefficiency. He was still stuck back on the notion of Sonny and Hardcastle doing a B&E that they'd already warned the cops about. He'd frankly thought the jig was up when Sales had sicced those guys to watch the proceedings. He'd really only hoped he'd bought the judge enough time and warning to get Sonny into protective custody.

They went ahead and did it anyway. Sonny did it. He realized he was smiling and he quickly wiped that off his face. Anyway, it brought him back round to the puzzle—how the hell had Sonny persuaded Hardcastle to participate in this folly?

00000

They took another cab, this time back to the Chancellor where Delario and his support team had already come in: unmarked cars and the kitchen entrance. It was risky, but they had to be aware of the final arrangements.

Sonny made the call, and, with a room full of back-up, managed to sound determined. Sales agreed to a local drive-in for the exchange.

00000

The smile was completely gone from Mark's face, replaced by a dead certainty. All Sales' loose security measures regarding his hostage had pointed from the start to only one thing, and now he'd confirmed it. His intention was to get the tapes and kill his witnesses. It was a casually-made announcement, not unlike the landing procedures coming into Philly, and the man's confidence seemed ominously secure. Sonny and the judge were showing up for a trap.

In the back seat of Sales' car, with Sales on one side and his goon on the other, Mark had a sudden notion of how Father Atia must've felt a year ago . . . only maybe not as holy. Not that Mark hadn't done his share of praying along the way, including at this very moment as he watched another sedan drive up, looking dismally alone and driven by Hardcastle.

Yet he was strangely heartened to see Sonny emerge, too. Yeah, they were probably all going to die, but it was actual confirmation of the tale the goon had told in the predawn hours—Sonny really had put it all on the line.

The final negotiations moved forward inexorably, with no time for him to shout a warning that Hardcastle definitely didn't need. Instead he was being shouted at, and running frantically for the car, as though bullets could be outpaced. He got lucky, though, and as he clambered in behind the wheel, he heard the first whoop-whoop of sirens—many sirens. Hardcastle somehow had brought both the tapes and reinforcements.

He didn't have time to ponder it as Sales' car tore off, one goon abandoned to the fray. And from then on driving instincts took over, though one tiny portion of thought was still pecking away at the notion that something here really didn't make sense.

00000

In the end, which had included Sales' car crashing and burning, but only after he and his driver had managed to escape, there wasn't a chance to ask Hardcastle straight-out what had happened during the night. The scene was crawling with cops, and according to the version Mark had heard hours earlier, the perpetrators of the courthouse break-in had gotten away clean, with no one even realizing yet that anything was missing.

The judge whose chambers had been burgled would presumably catch on, though in the flurry of new evidence against Sales, the ruling would probably be shelved and the tapes languish unlistened to—the whole issue having become moot. It was a remarkable bit of good fortune.

Mark was sitting on the hood of the banged-up sedan—the one that Hardcastle and Sonny had arrived in. He was feeling a little banged-up himself. Muddled, exhausted, and strangely exhilarated. Hardcastle had his hands full, helping sort things out and making sure Miranda cards were out and being used.

It was Sonny who finally wandered over, looking as lost and out of place as Mark usually felt as such gatherings. He leaned against the fender alongside the spot where the younger man sat, both men gazing on at the proceedings with matching expressions of bemusement.

It was Mark who finally spoke, and the one word was, "Thanks."

Sonny shrugged and Mark already recognized it as uncharacteristic when he replied, "It was nothin'." He hadn't added, "that any father wouldn't do," but the implication was there and it warmed Mark as if he were basking.

He was smiling. Grinning actually.

"You know," he said, "Jersey's not so bad. I used to hate it, ya'know. I left as soon as I could. Went to Florida. Never wanted to be cold again. But it's not as bad as I remember." He turned his face up toward the early October sky. "I could like it here."

Sonny hadn't said anything further. Maybe he was tired, too. It had been a long night. He got Hardcastle to go along with it—stealing from a judge's chambers. Mark shook his head, still smiling.

"You two done gawking?" The man himself said as he lumbered up stiffly.

They were. And, miracle of miracles, they still had a vehicle that was mostly roadworthy. A guy who looked like a plainclothes detective strolled up as they were climbing into the car. "Tomorrow, nine-sharp, Mr. Daye, and the FBI wants to hear all the details, too."

Sonny swallowed and smiled wanly. Mark had to agree, most cops had that effect on him, too. "We'll be there, officer," the judge said fairly cheerfully, patting Sonny on the shoulder. They're even getting along. Mark's smile broadened further. It's friendship born of shared adversity. He nodded his approval.

"We oughta get you home," he said to Sonny Daye, his father. "You've got a show tonight, don'tcha?"

Sonny shrugged again wearily.

"Well, you need some rest," Mark decided. "Can't disappoint your public now, can ya? The show must go on. Heck, I never got to see the whole thing. I'd really like to come and see you tonight, if you're going to be up to it. The judge would too, I'll bet, wouldn't ya, Judge?"

Hardcastle looked dog-tired, otherwise his response probably would have been more at the ready. It was a nod, though, and had only taken a moment to kick in.

And with their plans settled, at least for the immediate future, Mark happily put the car into gear.

"Home," he said, to nobody but himself.