Disclaimer: The characters of Hardcastle and McCormick do not belong to me and I make no profit from them.
My deepest thanks to L.M. Lewis for doing the beta work. I think I write stories so I can have the pleasure of reading her comments.
A/N: Other than the Lone Ranger, Ritchie Rich and Betty & Veronica, all comics mentioned are purely from my imagination.
Funny Business
By
Storyfan101
"Ju-udge, what are we doing here?" McCormick looked at the black date stamp on the back of his right hand.
Hardcastle glanced down at his own stamped hand then looked up to watch the slow moving mass of people surrounding him. "I already told ya, McCormick. Yesterday's paper listed a booth that was selling the original Lone Ranger comics."
Mark looked at the banner hanging over the entryway to the crowded convention floor. It hadn't changed since he first read it five minutes ago, Comicon '83. It was 9am, and already there were several hundred people walking the convention floor, not to mention the long line up of people at the registration table waiting to pay, get stamped and be allowed in. Many of the people were in costume. The most detailed costumes were also the most gruesome. Since entering the hotel lobby, Mark counted five different Muck Men from Mars, each one oozing skin and appearing to melt before his eyes.
"Let me rephrase the question. What am I doing here?"
"You mean besides slowing me down?" Hardcastle grabbed the younger man by the elbow and propelled him into the main convention hall. "You've got a longer reach than I do. I need you to get me that number three before one of these young whipper snappers grabs it away."
The judge paused just long enough to look over the brochure map he picked up at the registration table. "Over this way."
Sighing, McCormick followed in the judge's wake. Krazy Karl's Komics and Kollectibles was located at the far back of the hall, beside the emergency exits. Most of the crowd was lingering at the booths nearest the entrance to the convention hall so the judge didn't require McCormick's extra reach to seize his prospective book after all.
Hardcastle's eyes lit up as he leafed through Lone Ranger #3. Catching the eye of the platinum haired youth standing behind the table, Hardcastle asked, "Whachya askin' for it?" He put the book back onto the table, not wanting to appear too interested.
The young salesman looked the comic book over and shrugged at the judge. "It's an older one, hard to come by, especially in this condition. A hundred bucks."
"What!" McCormick stepped up to the table. "Are you crazy? Judge, that's more than a weeks worth of work at the estate."
"Yeah, but that's a week's worth of badgering and pestering you to get the work done. While this," Hardcastle took the comic back and rubbed his thumb over the number three in the corner. "This is a collector's item, bound to increase in value over time."
With a look of amazement, McCormick watched as the judge handed over five, twenty dollar bills. As they stepped away from the table, McCormick hissed, "You didn't even try to haggle. You are definitely never coming car part shopping with me."
The grin on the judge's face only grew. "You know nothin' about comics. This book alone is worth three hundred dollars."
Mark stopped walking and looked at the judge. "Three hundred dollars? For that?" He pointed to the old comic book the judge was carefully holding in his hands. "Why? The Lone Ranger figures out kemosabe means donkey?"
"Ha! I told you it's a collector's item." Taking a peak over his shoulder, making sure they were far enough away from Krazy Karl's stand. Hardcastle opened the book to the first page and pointed at a name scrawled across the bottom. "Know who that is?"
McCormick reached to take the book, but Hardcastle pulled the book out of the ex-con's reach. "You can read it from there."
McCormick squinted down at the name. It couldn't be. Yet, there is was in clear, blue ink. Clayton Moore.
"That signature doesn't look thirty years old."
"Some people know how to take care of their things. Not everyone keeps their prized possessions in a heap under their bed." Hardcastle harrumphed. "Besides, Clayton Moore was making guest appearances as the Lone Ranger up until 1975."
McCormick raised his eyebrows, silently questioning the judge's knowledge of the masked man.
"As part of a movie deal in 1975, the Wrather Corporation got a court order stopping Moore from making appearances as the Lone Ranger," the judge nodded sagely. "Up until then, he appeared regularly at public functions."
"You weren't the judge who signed off on that, were you?" McCormick frowned.
"Of course that wasn't me." Hardcastle snapped. "But that leaves more than enough time for Moore to have signed this. Why else would anyone go about signing Clayton Moore's name if they weren't Clayton Moore?"
"I don't know, Judge." McCormick looked skeptically at the comic book. "If your store had this book and it was worth that much money, wouldn't you keep better track of it? How come that kid let it go so cheap?"
"That's just it." Hardcastle's voice was rising in frustration. "He's a kid, more interested in modern comics. Look at all these people dressed as space creatures. Today's big sellers are all about mutants and aliens. That kid probably doesn't even know who Clayton Moore is."
McCormick shrugged his shoulders. "I guess, judge." He didn't sound convinced.
Hardcastle started moving towards the convention entrance. "Come on. There's still plenty of hedges at home that can help you earn a comic book of your own."
After attempting to follow in Hardcastle's footsteps, McCormick decided he'd better lead. He grabbed the judge by the arm and steered him through the crowd. The older man was totally engrossed in his new purchase. McCormick kept all his comments to himself, realizing it would be a wasted effort,
They were within five feet of the convention doors with McCormick muttering, "Freedom," when two men in tan raincoats approached them. The taller man flashed a badge and introduced himself.
"I'm detective Watson and this is my partner detective Hastings." McCormick broke into a grin, only Watson's steely glare stopped him from making any comments on their names.
Judge Hardcastle maintained a more respectable demeanor, "How can I help you, detective?"
Detective Hastings pointed towards the book in the judge's hands. "We'd like a closer look at your book there."
"Any particular reason why?" Hardcastle asked.
"Why don't we move out of the way and talk about it?" Detective Watson led the way over towards the wall.
McCormick took a deep breath, resigned to an early morning with law enforcement and conversations of collecting the Lone Ranger. He started towards the three men when he noticed a costumed woman enter the hall. She was stunning as Celestia, Star Chaser. Her long blonde hair flowed halfway down her back. The tight fit of her gold body suit showed off her curves and well toned muscles. McCormick stopped moving and watched her pass by. He overheard another stunned man comment, "Why is it with creatures like that in the costume contest, a brain sucking beast from Betelgeuse still wins?"
McCormick rubbed his eyes, and the vision was still walking before him. He took one step in the direction of the goddess, thinking about ways to get her phone number, when a harsh voice brought him back to reality.
"McCormick!"
He turned to look at the angry, red-faced judge who had called his name. Then he quickly glanced back over his shoulder just in time to see the blonde hair and gold body suit disappear as the crowd closed around her. McCormick's mind raced – maybe this encounter with the detectives wasn't such a bad thing after all. Maybe they had made the judge a sweet offer and now he needed to go back to Krazy Karl's to see if there was another number three. Maybe they would have to spend a good part of the day at the convention, tracking down more old comics. That would be worth it, if it meant a chance to track down this celestial beauty!
With considerably more enthusiasm than just a few moments before, McCormick exclaimed, "Hurry, judge. I'm sure we could beat a good part of the crowd to the back of the hall." He reached out to grab the judge's arm. He stopped short when he noticed the handcuffs. "What's going on here?"
"I'm being arrested. Haven't you been paying attention?" the judge fumed.
Obviously he hadn't been. Exactly how long had he been distracted by Celestia, Star Chaser? "Arrested? For what?"
Detective Watson spoke up, "Forgery, with intent to pass."
McCormick laughed. "This has to be some kind of joke."
"Does this look like a joke to you?" Hardcastle growled and wiggled his cuffed hands behind his back. "They've already read me my rights."
McCormick couldn't help but ask, "From the card?"
"I've already apologized on behalf of the department Milt." Lieutenant Giles leaned back into his chair. "Short of putting it in tomorrow's paper, I don't know what you want from me."
"I want an explanation!" Hardcastle growled. "Why are those two bozos going around arresting completely innocent people? If anything they should have been taking down my statement. Those guys at the convention ripped me off. I'm outta hundred bucks."
"I'll take your statement, Milt," Giles smiled. "After your time in the squad car on the way over here, I don't think Watson and Hastings are looking forward to seeing much more of you."
McCormick snorted. "Holmes and Poirot probably wouldn't want to be in the same room with him, either."
Hardcastle turned on his friend. "Your smart mouth comments haven't been much help."
"Honestly, Judge, I couldn't help myself. They made it so easy." McCormick noticed Hardcastle grimace.
Hardcastle turned back to his friend, the police lieutenant. "My report is as straight as they come. Those creeps at Karl's Komics sold me an illegal copy of Lone Ranger number three for a hundred bucks! If you aren't going to go down there and do something about it, I will."
Giles held up his hands to slow things down. "Hold on a minute there, Milt. You know how these things work. The officers down at the convention will keep a close eye on Karl's Komics, but we have no proof that they sold you that book. It was a cash sale, you didn't get a receipt. It's your word against theirs."
"McCormick was there too!" the judge yelled. "He's my witness."
Giles shook his head. "And how many witnesses do you think those guys down at the booth can drum up to say they've never seen you or that book?"
Hardcastle leaned back in his chair and sighed. "I don't believe those guys would try to snooker only one customer. I guess we'll just have to go back to the convention and see who else they try to cheat."
"Without you there to mess things up, maybe I can find Celestia, Star Chaser and get a date for next Saturday," McCormick looked thoughtful.
"What are you talking about? Where do you think I'm gonna be?" Hardcastle grumbled.
Mark shook his head with mock sorrow. "When you were arrested for forgery, you were banned from ever getting into another comic convention in Los Angeles."
"Those charges have been dropped!" Hardcastle shouted.
"The lady at the front desk said we could find the convention organizer up on the third floor," Hardcastle said as he headed towards the elevators.
McCormick followed in the judge's wake. "What does a comic convention need with hotel rooms?"
"How should I know, McCormick? There's enough booths in that convention, some of those people probably came from out of town." Hardcastle thumbed the elevator call button impatiently. "I'm just tellin' ya what I was told."
McCormick thought a moment. "Maybe they use a room to hold their books waiting to go on the floor for sale. Would the police have gone through comics still in storage?"
"Not a bad idea, kiddo." Hardcastle nodded approvingly at the younger man's idea. "I'll call and ask Giles after we've met with this Peterson guy."
The elevator binged open and the two men joined the crowd entering the conveyance. When they stepped off the elevator at the third floor, McCormick asked the judge, "What's the room number?"
"I don't know. The desk clerk just said I'd find Peterson on the third floor." Hardcastle looked up and down the hallway.
McCormick couldn't hide his annoyance. "Did you get a description, or are we just gonna knock on every door hoping some guy answers wearing a badge saying convention organizer?"
Hardcastle shrugged. "I got the feeling that we couldn't miss him."
Under his breath, McCormick muttered, "Great. Just great. Maybe we could find D.B. Cooper while we're at it."
Choosing to ignore the ex-con's comments, Hardcastle started walking down the hallway from which voices could be heard. He didn't have far to go before coming across a room with its door wide open. A stack of three boxes was piled near the door and a brute of a man was moving the stack onto a luggage cart.
"Hey, Mike," the man called to someone else in the room. "Is this all of the Clan's boxes?"
"Yeah, that's the end of their boxes, Bruce. You'll have to get them delivered in the next 10 minutes or there'll be hell to pay."
Bruce started moving the cart out the door but stopped when he saw Hardcastle watching him. "Can I help you with something, grandpa?"
"I ain't your grandpa," Hardcastle answered, looking the large man over. "I'm looking for Mr. Peterson, the comic convention organizer."
Bruce leered at the judge. After short consideration, he pointed with his thumb over his beefy shoulder and then continued pushing the loaded trolley out the hotel room door. McCormick had to jump out of the cart's way to avoid getting his toes run over. Once Bruce was out of ear shot, McCormick tapped the judge on the shoulder and pointed in the large man's direction. "He'd make a great goon."
"Spend a lot of time with goons, McCormick?" Hardcastle grinned.
Shrugging, McCormick acknowledged, "More than I'd care to remember."
A tall man with bright red hair appeared from around the corner of the hotel room. He smiled congenially. "Are you gentlemen with the convention?"
Hardcastle answered, "No, but we are looking for the organizer, Mike Peterson."
The friendly man stuck out his right hand. "You've found him. What can I do for you?"
"I'm Judge Hardcastle and this is my associate, Mr. McCormick." Peterson and McCormick nodded their greetings to each other. Hardcastle continued, "We've been asked by L.A.P.D. to look over some of the booths at the convention."
Peterson nodded his head again. "I received notice that extra men would be put on the floor."
McCormick guessed the judge and Lieutenant Giles had a better understanding of each other than he had realized.
"What are you looking for?" the organizer asked. "The police have already searched every box and crate that entered the convention. I've submitted a list with every booth registrant to some detective in a tan overcoat."
"We're just extra eyes. We only wanted to meet you and introduce ourselves." Hardcastle smiled.
Under his breath, McCormick whispered, "And make sure we don't get arrested for loitering." Hardcastle's glare quieted him from saying anything more.
"I was wondering if you know many of the dealers?" Hardcastle continued questioning the organizer.
Peterson shrugged. "Some. Many of these guys are just store owners from out of town. They come to check out what's hot and make sure their shelves back home get properly stocked."
"You said everything that went into the hall was searched by police." McCormick pointed to the large number of boxes stacked around the room, "Have all these boxes been inspected?"
"The police have been very thorough."
Before McCormick could restate his question, Hardcastle was shaking Peterson's hand, thanking him for his time. The next thing McCormick knew he was being dragged back down the hallway towards the elevator.
"Why the bum's rush?" McCormick asked.
"You practically accused the man of hiding goods in that hotel room," Hardcastle whispered hoarsely. "I got a funny feeling about that guy and I don't want him moving anything until the police have had a chance to get a search warrant and look first,".
"Move anything? Were you asleep when that Goliath was taking boxes out on the luggage cart?" McCormick paused as the elevator doors opened. The car was empty so he continued his tirade. "There's not going to be anything left for the police to search. If Peterson's guilty, we should be pushing him into making a mistake."
Hardcastle eyed the ex-con warily. "Aren't you usually the guy begging to go slow? Why the sudden turn around?"
"If I'm going to have to chase someone and take 'em down, my chances are better with this Peterson fellow than his goon."
Hardcastle was still grinning when the doors opened to the lobby. "You go find a place to watch Krazy Karl's. I'll join you after I've called Giles."
McCormick took five steps towards the convention hall when he saw the blonde beauty from earlier that morning. She was heading to the elevator. Mark was about to turn to retrace his steps when he felt a steel grip on his arm.
"Go on," Hardcastle pushed McCormick the opposite direction, towards the convention hall. "I can make the call by myself."
McCormick only managed some incoherent stuttering in reply as he watched the elevator doors close behind the girl of his dreams.
McCormick sucked his Coke through the straw as he watched the booth of Krazy Karl's Komics and Kollectibles. He had picked up the latest edition of Celestia, Star Chaser at a stand near the entrance and was pretending to read it as he leaned against the back wall. McCormick figured he could also use the book as a means of introducing himself to the costumed girl. The next time he saw her, he was going to get her to autograph his comic book.
"So, you see anything yet?" Hardcastle asked as he joined McCormick at the wall.
McCormick rolled up the comic book and put it in his jeans back pocket. "Yeah, lots of guys at Karl's selling comic books and lots of people buying 'em." He turned to look the judge in the eye. "What am I looking for, Judge? In the fifteen minutes I've been here, a couple dozen people have come by the booth and maybe about a quarter of them buy something. I can't tell if the books are fake or not."
"It wouldn't be profitable to run off just one book, they would have made a batch. We know that Lone Ranger number three has definitely been faked, and probably others in that series. Watch for anyone buying and selling those."
McCormick pointed towards an older man at the booth. "I can't tell what that guys dealing."
A thin, balding man was standing at the counter of Karl's Komics with a cardboard box full of comics. His face was turning red with anger. "Davenport promised me twenty copies of each. I've already got buyers lined up with the understanding that they were gonna get a set!"
The long haired youth behind the counter shrugged. "Like I told you already – they're not here! I'm only passing on the message I was given. It probably has something to do with the cops being all over the place, asking a lot of questions. "
The angry customer closed up his box. "Can you at least tell me where Davenport is? I'm sure we can work out another time. I need those books."
"He's one of the judges for the costume contest. It's being held out by the pool."
Hardcastle took a step to follow the balding man, "You stay here," Hardcastle dug his finger into McCormick's shoulder. "Keep watching that stall. I just want to see who Davenport is."
The judge didn't have to worry about losing the guy in the crowd. He just had to follow the trail of people who had been roughly shoved aside by the angry man and the box that he wielded like a bulldozer blade.
McCormick continued watching the booth for two more minutes. He began to wonder about the books that the angry bald man had meant to pick up. He could only come up with one place that they might be stashed. McCormick didn't believe there was time for a search warrant. He rubbed his shoulder as he walked past Krazy Karl's table.
After a quick stop at the gift shop to pick up an inexpensive manicure set, McCormick headed to the convention registration desk to ask if anyone knew if Mike Peterson was still up in his room. A pimply faced teenager paused long enough from stamping hands to give McCormick a convention itinerary. Reading down the list, the ex-con saw Peterson's name as one of the judges for the costume contest. McCormick smiled his thanks and whistled merrily as he headed to the elevator.
There was no reply to McCormick's knock on the door to room 318. There was the same itinerary taped to the door as McCormick had received at the registration desk. Taking a quick look down both sides of the hallway, he spied no one. McCormick quickly pulled the nail file from the kit he had purchased. If he had brought along the little, black leather case that he kept secret from the judge, he'd be through the door in about twelve seconds. It took twenty six seconds to pop the lock open with the file. Taking a second look down the hallway, he quickly stepped into the room.
There were several stacks of boxes about the room. McCormick decided to start with the stack nearest the door. The name Comic Corner was written in black marker on the top two boxes. The boxes were sealed with packing tape. Using the nail file, McCormick slit open the tape. He leafed through the comics, Ritchie Rich, Betty & Veronica, The Amazing Zucchini Brothers and many others that he had never heard of before, but most importantly, no Lone Ranger. Comic Corner's second box was similar in content. The bottom box was also taped shut, but there was a contents list taped over the top slat. A quick read down proved there was no Lone Ranger books within. Hoping to hide his snooping, McCormick placed this last box on top of the two he had cut open.
Looking around the room, McCormick noticed that many of the boxes had store names written in marker on the sides. He searched for Krazy Karl's but couldn't see any boxes with that name. Over by the balcony door, there was one box with the name The Clan written on it. McCormick remembered Mike Peterson telling Bruce to deliver all of their boxes earlier. So why was one still here?
The corner flaps of the box were folded under each other, holding it closed. Easily pulling the box open, McCormick saw the Lone Ranger staring back at him. He pulled out a handful of books. Each one was identical to the copy Hardcastle had bought that morning, right down to the forged autograph of Clayton Moore. Putting all but one book back in the box, McCormick refolded the corners and closed the box. The copy he kept, he placed in the center of his Celestia, Star Chaser comic and returned it to his back pocket.
He turned to leave when he heard cheering from below through the balcony door. Taking a peek through the curtains, McCormick could see the parade of costumed people progressing around the pool. One of the Muck Men from Mars was before the judges and his costume must have had some electrical components as McCormick could see the ooze moving about. He looked around the pool and spotted Celestia easily. She hadn't made her way to the judges' table yet. Thinking that everyone would be too preoccupied with the contest to notice, Mark slid the glass door open. He stayed to the side in hopes he would hear Celestia, Star Chaser's true name when it was her turn in front of the judges.
McCormick watched as Mike Peterson joined in the applause for the Muck Man. There was one empty seat at the judges table. Looking past the pool to the outdoor cafe, McCormick found the angry man who had been to Krazy Karl's, now sitting at a table with a middle aged man in glasses, the box of comics between them. That must be Davenport. Not too far away, pretending to be engrossed in a menu, Hardcastle watched the two men. No matter how hard McCormick tried to stay focused on them, his gaze kept returning to the beautiful Celestia. He sighed deep from his chest.
He suddenly stood straight, remembering where he was. "What am I doing?" he muttered.
He felt, more than heard, a person behind him as he turned away from the balcony. A large and very solid fist crashed into the side of McCormick's chin. He stumbled backwards and slid through the open balcony door. McCormick pulled himself up with the help of the balcony railing. He was shaking the stars out of his eyes, when a second blow knocked him off balance and sent him tumbling over the railing. McCormick made a mad grab for the edge of the railing. He felt his fingertips slide over the metal, failing to grasp hold. McCormick heard the wind rush past him as he plummeted to his doom. He twisted in the air, hoping to align himself with the deep end of the pool, his only chance of surviving. It wouldn't win him an Olympic medal, but he splashed down into the cool water and came up spluttering.
A long metal pole smacked into the water beside McCormick. He grabbed on and paddled with his free arm as he was pulled to the edge. When McCormick reached the side of the pool he let two strong arms pull him out of the water and he lay on the firm ground, breathing hard.
As he lay with his eyes closed, a very feminine harrumph caught his attention. He brushed the wet curls from his eyes and watched as a soggy Celestia, Star Chaser stormed away in search of a towel. He closed his eyes again in resignation.
"What did you think you were doing, kiddo?"
McCormick turned his head in search of the voice, only to see the concerned face of Judge Milton C. Hardcastle looking back at him. Just his luck, the girl runs off and the crazy judge stays.
"We've gotta talk, Judge." McCormick pulled himself up and tried to wring out some of the water from his shirt.
The hotel manager pushed his way through the crowd surrounding the dripping McCormick. Giving a quick, disdainful look at the young man, he turned to Hardcastle. "What's the meaning of this? I was told you were working with the police, but it seems the circus is missing one of its clowns!"
McCormick's hands balled into fists as he took a step towards the rotund man. Hardcastle put a hand on the younger man's shoulder. "You'll be lucky if we don't sue. My associate steps onto a friend's balcony to watch the contest and a sneeze sends him flying over the railing. You'd better have a word with your maintenance manager about safety code requirements."
Thinking quickly, the manager back pedaled on his accusation. "It appears that no one was hurt. Why don't you and your friend use one of our V.I.P. suites to dry off, compliments of the hotel, of course."
Someone from the crowd handed a towel to McCormick as he and the judge headed back into the hotel. Mike Peterson watched them go and looked up to watch the breeze blow through the balcony curtains to his hotel room.
"What on earth did you think you were doing, McCormick?" Hardcastle bellowed at the still dripping man.
McCormick held up his left hand as he continued to dry his hair with his right. "Judge, I'm right here. Please stop yelling. My head is killing me. It had to be the goon who knocked me off that balcony."
Still not able to stop his yelling, "You mean you didn't even get a look at the guy? Why break the law busting into rooms, if you can't even keep your eyes open?"
McCormick pulled the towel off his head. "Who says I broke into anyone's room?" Seeing the judge glare at him, McCormick decided if he was in for a penny, might as well go for the pound. "This flew off of someone's balcony as I was falling past. Recognize it?" He plucked the comic books from his back pocket and tossed them onto the coffee table. The outer edge of the Lone Ranger comic peeked from its hiding place in the middle of the Celestia, Star Chaser book.
"How am I supposed to recognize anything?" Hardcastle snarled. "If I try to open any of those wet pages, they'll rip in half."
McCormick picked up the books and walked into the bathroom. Soon the hairdryer could be heard blowing at low speed. Hardcastle followed the sounds and stared in amazement as McCormick was taking it in turns to dry the books and his hair. The judge sent McCormick out of the small room. "You're still dripping, I'll finish this. You go use the towel."
"Ju-udge. A towel will leave my hair all frizzy." McCormick whined, knowing his plea was falling on deaf ears.
"And get out of those clothes." Hardcastle reached behind the bathroom door and passed out a thick, white bathrobe. "This suite has everything. I saw a laundry set up in the hall closet. Shouldn't take too long to get your clothes dry."
McCormick sighed and then realized he was doing a lot of that lately. He took the robe and put it on after stripping out of his wet garments. The washer and dryer were the small apartment size, but would be more than enough to get the job done. McCormick returned to the bathroom to ask what Hardcastle found out about the angry customer and Davenport.
"It's Stuart Davenport. He's in my files." Hardcastle spoke above the noise of the hair dryer. "He went through my courtroom on counterfeiting charges. He got off because the D.A. spelled Stuart's name wrong on an affidavit."
"If the guy is into counterfeiting money, what's he doing with comics?" McCormick wanted to know.
Hardcastle shrugged. "Right after the trial he disappeared. Maybe this is his way of testing the waters, starting back up slowly. I doubt Stuart Davenport has given up his hopes of making his first million."
"Yeah, literally."
"You take over here. I'm gonna call Giles with this latest bit of information. I'm sure it will help get us that search warrant. That is, if it's not a waste of time to look for more evidence?" Hardcastle squinted his eyes at McCormick, silently questioning him.
McCormick took the hairdryer from the judge, "You might want to mention the store name of The Clan. I think it's a code name for Krazy Karl's Komics."
"Giles sent more backup, they should be here any minute. Hopefully, there won't be a long wait for the judge to sign off on the search warrant and Giles can get here with that too." Hardcastle said as they waited for the elevator to stop at the third floor. When the doors opened, Hardcastle stepped out. "Just make sure Davenport doesn't leave the convention. I don't want to give him the opportunity to disappear again."
"I'll watch him, you watch out for Bruce. He seems to hang around that hotel room." McCormick warned the judge as the elevator doors closed.
Hardcastle quietly padded down the hallway to towards room 318. He noticed a little nook with two reading chairs just a bit further down the hall; it seemed a good a place as any, and more comfortable than most, to keep on eye out for the convention organizer.
The retired jurist didn't have to wait long before the door to room 318 opened and out stepped the red headed Peterson. A light brown briefcase was tightly clenched in his right hand. He quickly walked to the elevator and nervously repeated pushing the call button.
"Thinkin' about taking that Hawaiian holiday you've always wanted?" Hardcastle whispered into the organizer's right ear.
The man jumped at the voice. Peterson turned his head enough to recognize Hardcastle. He tried to swing the briefcase into the judge's midsection, but the blow was at an awkward angle and had no power behind it. Hardcastle grabbed Peterson's wrist and pulled him around. The convention organizer was taken by surprise and unable to react to Hardcastle's hard, right handed jab. Peterson's head snapped back and he stumbled across the hall. The back of his head made a loud thud as it connected with the wall and Peterson slid heavily down to the thick carpeted floor. The briefcase had sailed through the air and hit the wall with such force that the locks snapped open, and the case spilled its contents to the floor.
Seeing that Peterson was truly unconscious, Hardcastle bent down to check the briefcase. It was lying wide open, but overturned. He lifted a corner of the case and glimpsed a rectangular metal bar lying on the floor. Hardcastle clicked his tongue as he recognized a printing plate.
The elevator doors opened behind Hardcastle. The group of people standing inside went quiet, staring at the retired jurist. Not wanting to cause a panic, Hardcastle simply stood and said, "He tried to leave without paying his hotel bill." The elevator doors closed as the people inside began to murmur their concerns.
McCormick pushed his way through the crowd towards the back of the convention hall. He was almost to Krazy Karl's booth when he noticed the large form of Bruce leaning over the counter, handing a box to Stuart Davenport. McCormick stopped in his tracks, debating whether he should hide to watch the pair or go back to the entrance to wait for the police. McCormick's decision was made for him when Bruce stood and saw him standing there. The giant smiled wickedly. Where were the police when you needed them, wondered McCormick.
The crowd sensed the electricity between Bruce and McCormick and parted to make a clear path between the two.
"You're accident was most unfortunate, but I see you've had a chance to dry off." Bruce laughed with cruel humor.
"Let me guess," McCormick said, "you forgot the pool was below that balcony."
"I'm glad to see you know where this is going." Bruce stepped towards the smaller man, rubbing his fist in his left hand.
"Now let's talk about this." McCormick tried to back away, but the crowd was thick behind him. "I'm sure we can settle this like…"
No one would know what McCormick thought the two could settle their differences like. The beefy giant had stepped up to McCormick and swung with his right arm. The ex-con flew backwards into the crowd. The people parted again to let the giant through. McCormick was helped up by strangers who quickly slipped away as Bruce approached. The large man swung again, and sent McCormick stumbling before he hit a booth's display table and rolled over it. He lay sprawled on the ground trying to catch his breath. McCormick could hear the goon's throaty laughter as he approached the table. McCormick pulled himself up using the display shelves at the back of the booth. Bruce leaned across the table, beckoning McCormick back to the fight with his finger.
Knowing he had to end this soon, McCormick felt along the shelf with his hands, only partly pretending to be struggling to stay upright. He felt comic books then something cold and metal below his fingertips. Taking a deep breath, he turned and quickly fired the comics into the behemoth's face, then grabbed at the metal object and smashed it to the side of Bruce's head. Bruce's side crashed onto the table top before his body sank the rest of the way to the floor. McCormick heaved a great sigh of relief as he came out from the nearly destroyed booth.
The crowd parted again as two men in tan overcoats approached. One of the men held out a badge and kept repeating, "Police, let us pass." McCormick couldn't remember any more which one was Watson and which was Hastings.
"Glad to see you two keeping to your perfect timing," McCormick rubbed his jaw.
"What are you doing here?" Watson asked, or was it Hastings?
"Your dirty work," McCormick pointed to the giant on the floor. "This guy is part of the forgery ring."
McCormick was sure it was Hastings that asked, "What did you hit him with?"
The booth attendant had returned, now that the danger had passed. He picked up a die cast, metal space ship. "It's Celestia, Star Chaser's cruiser. I think he bent it!"
Suddenly, a loud siren went off within the convention hall. The booth attendant had to shout to be heard, "Some idiot's opening the fire doors."
McCormick turned to see Davenport attempting to sneak through the fire exit with the cardboard box in his arms. Watson yelled to an approaching officer and pointed to the downed Bruce and then he chased McCormick and Hastings out the fire exit.
Davenport had stopped a car from leaving the parking lot and pulled the lady driver out from behind the wheel. He now had the Buick LeSabre racing towards the exit. Hastings had run to help the woman and McCormick was climbing into his red sports car. Seeing that Hastings had his situation under control, Watson ran to join McCormick.
Once McCormick recognized who was in the Coyote with him, he was tempted to stop the car and order Watson out, but there wasn't any time. The V6-powered LeSabre was no hot rod, but Davenport had a head start and there was traffic to consider.
McCormick pressed the gas pedal to the floor to take advantage of the short break in traffic in front of the hotel. As the Coyote made the right hand turn, its back end slid into the oncoming lane of traffic. McCormick quickly got his car under control and raced after Davenport. It took every ounce of McCormick's concentration to block out Watson's screamed directions and squeeze his car through heavy traffic.
"It was your decision to get in my car, now shut up and let me drive," McCormick demanded.
Watson fell silent, but he continued to point through the windshield at things he felt important. What McCormick was supposed to notice about the semi truck as he passed underneath the trailer and into the empty lane beside, he wasn't sure. Now with a clear path, McCormick shifted into fourth gear and raced his car forward. McCormick roared through the intersection with the yellow light to catch up to Davenport who was stopped in traffic at the next red light.
Davenport must have seen them coming. He bounced his car up onto the sidewalk and drove around the stopped cars, then continued through the intersection. A compact car headed through on a green light, smacked into the back end of the LeSabre. The compact spun around 180 degrees, its engine spewing smoke and steam, before coming to a complete halt in the center of the intersection. McCormick followed Davenport's detour onto the sidewalk, but was able to take advantage of the traffic confusion and make it through the intersection, unscathed.
The collision with the compact had seriously damaged the LeSabre, and with one rear wheel wobbling at a crazy angle, it was nearly impossible to control. McCormick brought the Coyote along side the damaged vehicle. In desperate hopes of escape, Davenport tried to steer around a parked car and use the sidewalk again as a roadway. The Buick lurched crazily and missed the parked car by a hair. The whole car shuddered as the front wheels jumped the curb, and the tires chirped over the sidewalk as Davenport gunned the engine. A fraction of a second later, the rear wheels hit the curb, and the one damaged in the collision broke free with a bang and bounced away. The rear corner of the car dropped, and sprayed sparks as it fishtailed down the sidewalk. Davenport desperately wrestled the steering wheel, as the car raced crazily along the sidewalk. Garbage cans, benches, and a mailbox flew into the street, before Davenport over corrected his steering, and the car scraped along the side of a city bus. This last collision proved too much for the remaining rear wheel, which remained jammed under the bus. Unbelievably, the car kept going, with Davenport's foot pressed to the floor, and the entire rear end of the car dragging on the ground, leaving a trail of sparks and small parts behind. Davenport saw an opening and swung back onto the street. He gunned the engine again, but the rear of the car slid sideways across the asphalt with a metallic screech, and clipped a garbage truck stopped beside the curb. The blow spun the car hard, and Davenport was helpless to prevent it plowing into a light standard with a sickening crunch.
McCormick brought the Coyote to a screeching stop a few car lengths ahead of the Buick. McCormick and Watson pulled themselves out of the sports car and ran back to help Davenport. The counterfeiter had a thin trickle of blood running from his forehead where it had connected with the steering wheel. Davenport groaned as he slowly returned to consciousness.
Hearing sirens in the distance, Watson turned to McCormick, "I am going to strongly recommend that you take a police approved, defensive driving course."
"What are you talking about?" McCormick asked. "I'm not the one who crashed."
"Thanks, Milt. With your help, we've rounded up the whole ring." Lieutenant Giles was smiling as he walked up to Hardcastle and McCormick sitting in a corner of the hotel lobby. "That big guy, Bruce, is talking faster than two officers with pens can keep up. He claims the forged comics were a test for some new equipment and printing methods. They had several buyers lined up to pass on the faked books. Bruce says he and Peterson were timing their deliveries between police checks. As it was Peterson who was giving the officers the schedule, it was easy enough to work out the timing for the forged deliveries. "
"Speaking of Bruce, I hope you've got him bolted to a steel post somewhere," McCormick said.
Giles laughed. "He's still pretty dazed. Seems some guy smashed a metal spaceship upside his head. The owner of the booth is still yelling for someone to pay for damages."
McCormick grinned sheepishly, "You don't say."
"What about those plates?" Hardcastle asked. "They still looked new. Had they made any counterfeit bills?"
Giles shook his head. "Mike Peterson, also known as Mike Prewalski or the Xerox Man, claims they hadn't reset the machine for the bills yet. The guy's got a rap sheet as long as your arm and a couple of outstanding warrants from Nevada, but he's trying to work out a deal by talking. When he gave Watson the list of convention attendees, seems, he conveniently left off his own name. Krazy Karl's was registered to a Louis Davis. Must be a new alias for Davenport as it didn't bring up anything in the search. We suspect that Peterson and Davenport have been using conventions like this one to pass forged goods to unsuspecting victims, but Peterson's smart, he's only willing to talk about the information we already know. Still, he'll be going away for quite some time. Davenport will be transferred to police care as soon as he's cleared by the doctors at Mercy hospital."
"Just make sure you spell all of those names right when you file charges," Hardcastle requested.
"Don't you worry about that. I'll personally be double checking all the forms." Giles sat down beside Judge Hardcastle. "Seems that you guys also made up with Watson and Hastings."
"We did?" Hardcastle looked over to McCormick, who looked just as surprised as he was.
"Sure, Watson has been going on and on about McCormick. Comparing him to Mario Andretti and everything."
McCormick smiled, "That's not as good a thing as it sounds. What about Hastings. I haven't seen him since Davenport tossed that lady driver out of her car."
"Now that's a story that will have the whole force talking." Giles sighed. "Seems the girl was attending the convention, dressed as some superhero. She's quite stunning. Even the paramedic who checked her over seemed taken by her, but she's only got eyes for Hastings. Claims he's her knight in shining armor. Hastings, of course told her he was just doing his job. This seems to be a major turn on for this girl, apparently men fall over themselves trying to talk to her and get her phone number. Then along comes Hastings who's so blinded by duty, he didn't notice this girl is gorgeous."
McCormick groaned. It couldn't be. It just wouldn't be fair. Then he saw with his own two eyes. The drab detective Hastings walking beside the beautiful Celestia, Star Chaser across the lobby.
"Sure, I'd love to meet you for dinner one night," Hastings was saying. "I'm off next Saturday."
McCormick didn't hear the girl's reply, but he was sure she had agreed as she hugged the officer in the tan overcoat.
"Why don't you give Hastings that comic book you bought this morning?" Hardcastle laughed. "Maybe he could get her to autograph it for you."
No, life sure wasn't fair, McCormick thought.