Disclaimer: These are not my characters and I make no profit from them.
Author's Note: Episode fifteen of the first season, "Mr. Hardcastle Goes to Washington", was first broadcast on Sunday, the 15th of January, 1984. The preceding Friday was, of course, the 13th of the month.
Lucky Day
by L.M. Lewis
The good news had galvanized Hardcastle into action. He'd spent much of the following morning on the phone—a good part of that had been dealing with requests for comments or future interviews. Mark had heard the judge politely but firmly turning a few of the latter down, saying he'd be leaving town shortly.
There'd been a crew from the local station, briefly camped on the lawn, making the most of the panoramic backdrop to film their reporter discussing the surprising turn of events. The emphasis on the 'surprise' had been just a tad annoying to Mark. Not that he hadn't been surprised as hell by Hardcastle ending up on the short list of possible nominees for the Supreme Court vacancy, but the implication was grating.
He leaned on his rake. His services hadn't really been required for the phone answering part of Hardcastle's busy day, and he'd finally gotten the feeling he was underfoot. The judge had heaved an audible sigh of relief when Mark had informed him he was going outside to get a jump on some of the chores.
It made sense. They were heading to Washington, and who knew how long they'd be gone? Mark didn't want to come home to a lawn disaster.
But would they be coming home at all? He frowned and dragged the rake through a patch of grass. Of course they would—for a while, at least. But if Hardcastle really did get the nomination, a lot of things would change.
He wouldn't need a Tonto, that much was certain. He'd have a law clerk, and umpteen secretarial types, Mark supposed. He'd have a staff. Supreme Court justices did important work, but it wasn't anything that required someone to ride shotgun.
Mark had an altogether unsettling notion that he was suddenly a lot less needed. He took a little unworthy comfort in the fact that there was no certainty that Hardcastle would get the nomination. What had the anchorman on the evening news said about Hardcase and his record? "Much less auspicious." That didn't sound all that promising.
He found he'd added a frown to his regret. Maybe it had even superseded it, though why he should take offense on Hardcastle's behalf was an absolute mystery to him. Still, he'd noticed it a few times lately. Criticizing Hardcase was his prerogative, but he didn't much like it when other people did it.
He discovered he'd stopped raking again. Hardcastle had stepped out onto the front porch. He'd glanced in Mark's direction and for a moment the younger man thought he was going to be summoned—some menial task, no doubt.
But the look didn't hold even long enough for Mark to abandon his rake and start toward him. Instead, the judge turned toward the reporter. They were exchanging some words, though it was too far off for Mark to get more than the gist of it. He had a sudden realization that this was the future—immediate if not long-term. His job would consist of staying out of the way.
He went back to his raking, pointedly ignoring what was happening near the front steps. He made up his mind, then and there. Hardcastle might not need him to ride shotgun, but he'd go along and carry the luggage, fetch the cabs, and hold the doors—all menial but necessary tasks.
More importantly, he'd be a friendly face—well, mostly friendly. Mark found a grin had crept into his expression. It was a partly worried one. If Hardcastle was going swimming in the piranha tank that was Washington, D.C., he would need one reliable friend.
00000
The news crew finally departed and Mark, having dealt with the more pressing yard-care tasks, wandered back into the house. Hardcastle was in the den, sitting at his desk, chin propped in the heel of his hand. He seemed startled when Mark peered in and cleared his throat.
Daydreaming—it's the first Monday in October, probably. But first things first, Mark decided, feeling suddenly as if he'd become the practical guy in this operation.
"You packed yet?"
Hardcastle straightened up slightly, chin no longer propped and a guilty expression suddenly subbing for the distracted look.
"Got plenty of time."
"Uh-uh. Tomorrow morning is only eighteen hours away. You oughta start. I've got to pick your stuff up at the dry cleaners." He checked his watch. "Won't be ready for another hour, though. You need help?"
"Nah, I can pack myself," Hardcastle said with a touch of belligerence.
"Okay, well, I can get your suitcases down. I know where I put 'em away last time."
The judge grudged that a grunted "Okay" and Mark headed up the stairs. He'd already asked the man, earlier that morning, how long he thought they'd be gone. Hardcastle had seemed uncomfortable, as if the uncertainty was unsettling for him, too, and Mark had regretted the question. He wasn't going to repeat that mistake. He'd just get down two of the larger pieces.
His own packing wouldn't need to include as many suits. He could manage with his one slightly-battered bag that he kept in the gatehouse closet. He'd given it a hard look the last time he'd taken it out, a month ago, for his reluctant visit to San Rio. There'd been some lengthy periods in his life when he'd lived out of that bag. He'd become an expert at taking only what was necessary and making it fit—something Hardcastle seemed unused to.
A valet, Mark thought reluctantly. He supposed he'd have to make sure the man had his tie on straight. Hardcastle could be notoriously oblivious to such things, when he even bothered to wear a tie at all. Still, it was another useful task to help justify his existence.
He climbed up into the attic and found the suitcases, seldom used and in far better condition than his own. He'd gathered, from things Hardcastle had said, that the man had rarely had time to travel except to the occasional judges' convention. He was a creature of habits, no doubt, and most of those were about to be upended.
It's a good thing he'll have you—part of the routine. Not that Mark thought he had much right to consider himself that, after only four months. Four months? It couldn't be. Time had been hammered out much longer than that, in the forge of adversity, tempered with occasional victories. Calendar months had nothing to do with it.
He smiled and pulled down the first case, then reached for the second, balancing them, light and empty, as he edged back down the narrow steps. He paused in the hallway outside Hardcastle's room. He could leave them right there, but on quick reconsideration he decided that depositing them, open, on the man's bed would be a better reminder to him that he shouldn't put it off.
He had a notion that no matter what he did with them, he'd be the one who got saddled with the task of filling them. That's what had happened last time, with Hardcastle working the phones and making last minute plans and Mark relegated to sorting through parrot shirts and matching up socks. That's teamwork for you, he supposed. At least the man hadn't gone to the Caribbean with a suitcase full of crew length black socks.
But Washington—
Black socks, black ties. He'd gathered up all of the man's seldom-worn suits and sport coats and carted them off to the dry cleaners early this morning. Even the plaid ones—there'd been no reasoning with him on that issue and, Mark supposed, if the guy had made it this far undetered by sartorial roadblocks, who was he to start informing him of the rules now?
He swung the larger of the two bags onto the bed and popped the catches, flipping it open. As long as he was here, he figured he might as well get a start on it.
00000
Three hours later he was back from the dry cleaners and adding the sport coats, still in their plastic, to the contents of the nearly-full suitcase. He closed it with satisfaction. The other was coming along as well. He'd heard Hardcastle finishing up a conversation with the airline ticketing agent as he'd hustled through the front door, from which he gathered it was a ten o'clock flight tomorrow morning.
He frowned slightly. Not that he was a nervous guy, but today was Thursday. Somewhere along the way he'd encountered a prejudice against starting trips on Friday. It had been usually thinly disguised as a desire to be at the track a day early for a weekend race "to get the lay of the land". Ordinarily he would have discounted such superstitious nonsense, but the date stamped on the dry-cleaning receipt had informed him that this was Thursday the twelfth.
His frown deepened. He wasn't sure how he felt, having discovered this double whammy of ill-fortune, all he knew for certain was that he wasn't going to share his misgivings with Hardcastle. The man already had enough to worry about.
Instead he strolled down the stairs, the very image of a calm and reliable factotum for whom Friday the thirteenth was just another date on the calendar. Hardcastle was on the phone again. This time it was with one of the Jazzmasters, Mark gathered. Tonight's practice had been canceled, of course—yet another harbinger of change. Everyone he'd reached straight-off had agreed, and the ones he left messages for were undoubtedly just as amenable.
Mark supposed they'd have to find another trombonist—as well as a practice venue with tolerant neighbors—if Hardcastle got the bid. He twitched again, just slightly. The idea that it might actually come to pass was becoming more and more imaginable. Wasn't "law and order" the catch phrase of the hour? And wasn't Hardcase the very embodiment of that ideal?
"Dinner," he said flatly to the man as he hung up the phone. "There's some burgers we ought to use up. I was going to make them."
Hardcastle raised an eyebrow in question. "It's my turn, isn't it?"
"Yeah, but you've got stuff to do." Mark gestured casually to phone and desk. "I've got you mostly packed; you might want to go up there and see if I missed anything important."
Hardcastle's eyebrow had stayed up, maybe even risen a bit further.
"Well, you never would've gotten to it. I'd've been standing out there tomorrow morning and you upstairs stuffing ties in, helter-skelter."
Hardcastle looked slightly embarrassed but there was no argument. Instead he cleared his throat with a hint of nervousness. "About tomorrow—"
"I know, the flight's at ten. Don't forget to put in a call for a cab—or I suppose we could take the truck. That'd give some real 'down home' visuals for the eleven o'clock news, huh? I'd say it's a cab or a limo."
"No," Hardcastle said abruptly. "A cab. I'll call."
"Okay, you finish all that up and I'll burn the burgers." He nodded once, to show it was settled, and turned back to the hallway.
00000
Burgers topped with a slabs of melted cheddar, along with ketchup and pickle slices and white bread buns—a stark and lovely contrast to the preceding evening's adventure in macrobiotics. And tomorrow, who knew? Some hotel eatery or maybe he'd be ordering a room service sandwich while Hardcastle did the interview circuit. He figured there was a good chance the guy wouldn't want him tagging along like some half-grown, barely house-broken puppy.
Pet con. He detested it. He'd heard it a few times, never from Hardcastle himself, but from enough different sources that he had to assume it was a commonplace term for him. He wondered how long it would be before the moniker followed him to the East Coast.
Didn't matter. He brushed the thought off with another shrug of his shoulders as he deposited the few dishes in the sink. He wasn't the person any of Them would be interested in. With a little luck—if he behaved himself—he could stay in the background.
He stared at the pile of dirty dishes, slowly submerging in the deepening water. Of course there'd be hearings if Hardcastle made the final cut and was nominated. They'd sit him down in front of a bunch of senators and ask him whatever they wanted.
The felon—what's that all about?
I'm rehabilitating him.
Mark winced. A rehabilitation project. It was a polite way of saying "pet ex-con".
He turned the faucet off with a sharp jerk, then took a deep breath. That wasn't true. Hardcase never treated him like that. Hell, if they asked him what he was doing with a parolee in his gatehouse, the answer would probably involve a Lone Ranger metaphor. The reporters assigned to the congressional beat would have a field day with the headlines. It might be worse but they'd go down together—The Lone Ranger and his Indian companion, faithful to the end.
He smiled, but there was a little bitterness to it. No matter how he looked at this thing, he only saw disaster looming.
"You almost done in there? The movie's starting."
Mark looked over his shoulder and wondered how much of the tension was still in his face. Hardcastle was studying him pretty closely from the doorway.
"Figured we might not get another chance for a while," the older man added, "We've been at it all day—"
"This wasn't like chasing bad guys."
"No," the judge agreed, with a hint of wistfulness to the single word.
"Well, I'll catch up with you. It's just a few dishes and the one frying pan."
Hardcastle didn't argue with him. He turned and departed, looking a little slump-shouldered, as though the responsibilities of high office where already weighing on him.
He'd be good at it, though. Mark found himself half-hoping, no matter how long the odds, that the powers that be would give him the nod.
He's cantankerous. He's unreasonable. He put you in prison.
He was deeply, deeply interested in justice: Cyler Johnson, Kenny Longren . . . Mark McCormick.
He shook his head as though to clear it. His name did not belong in that list of examples. Except that if he'd pulled any judge except Hardcase Hardcastle the last time around, he'd be back looking out of a barred cell door in Q, and Martin Cody would be walking the streets, a murderer and a free man.
The last of the dishes had found its way into the draining rack without his conscious attention. Mark didn't feel as though he could sit in a chair next to Hardcastle's and cheer on whichever manifestation of the Duke was fighting for the good and the right this evening.
He hung the dishrag over the sink divider and let the water drain away. Then he dried his hands on a towel and slipped out the back door, as stealthily as possible. It wasn't as though he spent every night sharing a bowl of popcorn and some pointed comments on the Western oeuvre with the judge. Just most.
He let his eyes adjust, out past the puddle of warm yellow light that spilled from the kitchen window. He didn't head directly for the gatehouse, though he still had his own packing to do. Instead he made his way over toward the low wall, off to the right of the pool. There the drop-off led down to the darkened beach and the view took in the encircling coast that ended in the city, far off to the east. He liked this place a lot, and not just for the magnificence of its views.
It was peaceful, serene even, for a spot that was the epicenter of a really amazing amount of mayhem—kidnapping, robbery, even a couple of home invasions. He smiled wryly to himself. He would miss it, even if the trip to Washington was a short one. And if somehow those guys out there really did have the good sense to pick Hardcastle—then that would be his new home . . . indefinitely.
The smile slipped away, into an expression of regret, and he turned and trudged slowly across the yard and toward the gatehouse.
00000
He'd gotten his packing done, everything tucked into the one battered suitcase. He could limp through a week, and if it took longer than that, there was always the hotel sink and the towel rod in the shower to hang things on.
He was up early the next morning, not having slept much, really. He'd seen Hardcastle's bedroom light on, as well, but the man seemed unnaturally buoyant in the morning. Neither one of them had much appetite for breakfast, though Mark insisted that the judge have something.
"How can you face that swarm of reporters," he nodded in the general direction of the front yard, "on an empty stomach?"
And eventually he shepherded him into the den, tie straightened, sport jacket buttons properly aligned, suitcases standing by the door. He was left fiddling with the stuff on Hardcastle's desk, giving the guy a pep talk, killing the last few moments before the cab was due to arrive.
The judge must've realized he was running out of time, too, because that was when he dropped the bomb.
A list of chores. Things to be done while Hardcastle was away in Washington, by himself. "I really don't need you out there."
Mark had known that all along, hadn't he? Yet hearing the words from Hardcastle had been unexpectedly painful.
The judge wasn't going to be hauling out that Lone Ranger and Tonto metaphor for the senators after all. That was probably the wiser choice, Mark realized. Still, it stung. He thought he should have seen it coming. Being blindsided had put him off his game.
It took him a minute to get his act together and say what he was supposed to say. Good-bye and good luck was what it amounted to. The part where he told the guy to keep his feet on the ground and not do anything stupid would probably go unheeded.
Then he was gone—out the door and down the steps, hauling his own luggage and heading straight into the swarm of reporters that stood between him and the safety of the cab. The judge hadn't gone twenty feet before Mark realized there was a whole lot of truth to the notion that some trips started out unlucky.
And the cab had barely cleared the curving drive, heading for the gate, before McCormick had made up his mind. The only thing unluckier than starting a trip on Friday the thirteenth was letting someone else make the journey alone.