Disclaimer: These are not my characters and I make no profit from them.
Author's Note: I got busy, and what was started nine days ago got shelved on Christmas Eve. I contemplated scrapping it, or maybe leaving it on the shelf till next Christmas, but by then I would have forgotten about it. Anyway, it's pretty dark for a holiday story.
A while back I wrote a story called "Contingency Plans" in which an ex-con, Terence Harney, who'd been originally sentenced by Hardcastle, is set up by his former boss. Hardcastle intervenes, intending to install Harney as another member of his rehab and fast gun program. Harney reluctantly accepts the help to trap his ex-boss, but turns down the rest of the deal, slipping off into the night.
Five years have passed . . .
There but for the Grace of God
By L.M. Lewis
In that mostly small-business section of Pico Street, there was already a sense of desertion, with shops closing down and the last of the citizens scurrying for their cars and homes. It only lacked the biting cold to be a true Christmas Eve, in Mark's mind.
But he'd accommodated himself to that, over the years. Chilly Christmases were only a thing of his youth, now, and he didn't miss them a bit. He stood in the reception area of the law clinic, enjoying the rare moment of tranquility, looking out at the late afternoon shadows and in no particular rush. He was contented to know he had somewhere to be, and nothing left to do until the real world resumed on the day after Christmas.
He smiled and slipped on his overcoat. Everyone else had taken the day off. Hardcastle had even tsked at his announcement that he was heading in that morning to take advantage of the quiet to get some paperwork done. His motives were suspect, most certainly, and there had been a last-minute package to be picked up. And he wasn't shirking his holiday responsibilities—they weren't due at the Harper's until later in the evening and had only the eggnog to bring.
Pick up another quart. He made a mental note as he settled the coat on his shoulders. You couldn't trust Hardcastle alone with eggnog, even when he'd been reminded what it was for. Mark was smiling at the wisdom of experience and bending to retrieve his briefcase, when the phone rang.
He briefly considered letting the answering machine handle it; there weren't likely to be any pressing matters needing discussion on the holiday eve. But just as quickly he turned back, reaching for the phone. It might be the judge with some last minute errand request before the stores closed up.
It wasn't, but the voice that answered Mark's inquiring "Hello?" was nearly as familiar.
"Hey, Frank," Mark shot his wrist out from his coat and glanced down at his watch, "What's up?"
"You still there, huh?" The lieutenant's voice sounded weary, and from the background noise, Mark could tell he hadn't made it out of the office yet, either.
"Same as you, Frank, so don't be giving me a hard time about it," Mark said teasingly, but the silence from the other end seemed to indicate that the joke had gone flat. Mark waited only a second before he said, more soberly, "What's wrong?"
There were no preambles from the other end. "Got a body—beat cop found it behind an auto parts shop on Twelfth Street, maybe a mile from your place."
"And?" Mark said tightly.
"No ID, the prints are still being run—holiday and all," Frank sighed, "and, well . . . he had one of your cards in his pocket."
Mark sat down on the edge of Joyce's desk, absolutely convinced that he had heard the news coming even before the words had been spoken.
"Any idea?" Frank said hopefully, mistaking the silence for uncertainty. "Could save the detective a bunch of time if we had a tentative. It's Wilkes, you know Wilkes?"
Mark grimaced, but kept it to himself. "Maybe," he said. "Might be."
"You wrote your home phone on the back of the card."
Mark let out a long breath and finally said, "Yeah. It's probably him. Terence Harney. You remember him?" There was silence from Frank's end, now. "He did two years on a robbery beef—got out in '84. One of Hardcastle's."
He could almost hear Frank frowning in concentration, and then a sudden enlightenment of memory. "The guy whose ex-boss tried to set him up for the Columbians—that one?"
"Yeah."
"He took off. You almost took a bullet for him and he took off."
"Come on, Frank. I just barely got in the way of that one. He's the one who took the bullet—still walks with a limp, too. Said it got infected."
"You two had a regular conversation, huh? You've kept in touch?"
"No . . . really. I hadn't seen him since the night that happened. He walked out before Hardcastle got back to the estate."
"I never got the whole story on that," Frank said dryly.
Mark hedged, and finally said, "Whatever Milt said, that's what happened."
Harper's laugh was short but seemed genuine. "And this time, was Milt there?"
There was another pause from Mark and then he plunged forward, suddenly wanting to get the whole thing over with.
"No, it was yesterday, and I went out to pick up some sandwiches—we were trying to get everything battened down before the holiday, you know? Anyway, I went out, walked maybe half a block . . . he must've been watching for me. He crossed the street, intercepted me. I didn't even recognize him at first."
"What did he want?"
Mark sighed again. "I dunno. Amnesty, maybe. Some kinda deal, I suppose. He looked run down. I told you he's got a limp? I took him to the sandwich place, got him a cup of coffee and a ham on rye. He was hungry, Frank."
"They get three squares down at Men's Central. Mark, you're an officer of the court—he's a fugitive. What were you thinking?"
"I . . . dunno." He did, actually, but he didn't much feel like talking about it.
"So, you gave him your card, and you parted ways. That's it?"
"Yeah, pretty much," Mark said. He couldn't help sounding a little sullen.
Frank's sigh of exasperation was audible over the line. "Okay," he finally said, "So you met a guy on the street, who asked for help, and you bought him a sandwich and gave him your card. It's Christmas and you're a good Samaritan. There's no proof you recognized him."
Mark listened to him as he made these calculations with an air of satisfaction. Then, after a sudden halt, Frank added, "You didn't tell Milt about it, huh?"
He felt himself flush and was glad this was still only a telephone conversation. "No," he said and then, "I was gonna . . . eventually." It sounded exceptionally lame, even to him.
"When?"
Mark thought dragging this out wasn't really doing his confession any good. "Tonight," he snapped off, "I thought maybe I wait till after he'd had a few of Claudia's Christmas cookies and some eggnog, get him in a good mood. That's all. It wasn't some kinda big conspiracy to put one over on him. Anyway," he said resignedly, "all that stuff about me not recognizing Harney is going to last about two minutes once they realize there's a connection between him and Hardcastle. And five minutes after they figure out I was lying, they'll wanna run me in as a material witness, at least, and do some serious questioning"
"Maybe." Frank's admission came reluctantly. "You've got a better suggestion?"
"How 'bout the truth. I was his lawyer. No obligation to anybody but him, right? Attorney-client privilege and all. But it's not gonna work unless I come forward right now: an honest citizen doing his duty to identify a victim. You know anything else is gonna look guilty as hell."
He heard Frank's weary sigh followed by, "Think you could come down here and do a preliminary ID? It'll still be faster than retrieving the prints."
"Sure," Mark said, after which the arrangements and goodbyes were tersely efficient.
It was only after they'd hung up that he wondered about what he'd said. There was no question in his mind that he hadn't lied to Frank—he had made himself Harney's de facto lawyer, his legal advocate. He just wondered why he hadn't told Terence right then and there, and if it might have made a difference.
00000
Frank's office was the neutral meeting ground, and Mark had only picked up the first of the official photographs before he was able to nod and say that it was definitely Terence Harney's corpse in the picture. Wilkes didn't look properly grateful. In fact, Mark was fairly certain that if Frank hadn't been there, with umpteen years of seniority and clear, though unofficial authority, he might have already been dragged down to an interview room.
Instead Wilkes kept it relatively polite and Mark told his story again. He kept his tone even and stuck to answering the questions. He could see the disbelief which Wilkes' somehow managed to keep confined to his expression. Since the story sounded hinky as hell, Mark could hardly blame him.
But the facts were few enough that there was finally nothing left for Wilkes to politely inquire about. He asked Mark if he'd be leaving town—also several shades lighter than advising him not to. Mark informed him he'd be with the Harper's for the evening, and then at home.
That pointed remark settled things, it seemed. At least Wilkes seemed to interpret it as a flashing of gang colors. It had taken Mark a while to realize that for something that looked monolithic from the outside, the criminal justice system had all its own cliques and rivalries.
Wilkes picked up his file and departed. Mark didn't feel the tension in the room drop much after the door closed behind him. He had the good grace to say, "Sorry Frank." He wasn't sure exactly what ought to be on the list of things he was apologizing for, but surely bad timing was one of them. Harper looked dog-tired and it was pushing four-thirty.
But Harper waved a hand as he sat back down again. "Couldn't help it. You just told him the truth. All those years with Milt—who'd have guessed he was creating a monster?" There was a weary smile tacked onto that, to soften the delivery.
Mark shrugged and reached over for the rest of the photos. He didn't like looking at this stuff, but he felt a sort of moral obligation to Terry; he had to see it through.
"Let's hope they figure it out fast, or they're gonna want another crack at you. An ex-con lying dead in an alley," Harper muttered, "that's no news, but one who has an ex-con lawyer somehow involved . . ." He shook his head.
Frank might have been speaking almost to himself. Mark's silent stare went unnoticed at first. He wasn't looking at the photos anymore. He finally said, "Yeah, no news." He bit off the addition of 'just another con', but Frank was pretty good at hearing the unspoken.
The lieutenant looked stern, not abashed. "Listen, Mark, I'm letting you float this your way, but I know cops like Wilkes. They look for the obvious and when two ex-cons meet up and then one is dead, well, nobody's going to look much further. At the very least they're gonna peg you for a material witness."
There was another, briefer silence, and then Mark said, "We talked—while he was eating the sandwich. It was only a half-hour or so, I had to get back to the office, but we talked."
"He say anything useful?"
He had a girlfriend . . . Yolanda Melons," Mark winced.
Frank's expression revealed not one iota of surprise. "Dancer?" he inquired politely, as he jotted the name down on his notepad.
"Used to be," Mark said quietly. "Alcoholic," he added. "No drugs, he said, but she used to dance at a place called 'An Ace in the Hole'. After Terry took off she started drinking heavier, lost her spot there, started turning tricks."
"So, his ex-girlfriend is a prostitute." Frank made a few more jottings.
"Not just 'ex'. Not since he's been back in town. A month or so. He was looking for her. He did a lot of looking, even got beat up a couple of times asking the wrong people the wrong questions. He'd finally found her. Look, Frank, I know this sounds weird, but that's how it is sometimes when you don't have anything left. What you had before starts to look pretty good. Or maybe he felt responsible for her, I dunno."
"Very noble." Frank frowned. "But from where I see it, he had a chance and he threw it away. You of all people oughta realize that."
Mark felt it—the gulf. It used to loom so wide between him and nearly everybody in authority, even Frank. It hadn't been there in a while, or maybe he'd learned to reach across it. All he knew now was that it was back.
"I don't think any of you realize" –he heard it again, that calm tone he'd used with Wilkes—"how much he asked for."
"You regret it?" Frank asked sharply.
"No . . . no, it's just . . ." He paused. He wasn't sure if he could explain, even to Frank, even if the gulf hadn't just materialized out of some other dimension—his former life, maybe. He shook his head and smiled unexpectedly. "If Flip hadn't died. If I hadn't needed to get his killers so badly, I would have told Hardcastle to pound sand. So Terry wasn't so much different from me."
They probably both heard it at the same instant, as if naming the man had caused him to be manifested. It was Hardcastle's particular pitch, wishing the folks stuck working the second shift a Merry Christmas.
Mark froze and then cast a sharp look at Frank, who looked only slightly less taken aback but scrambled to gather up the pictures and stuff them back in his own file folder. He'd barely closed that before the door was opening and Hardcastle himself appeared. He took in Frank's company with a sweeping glance and a grunted laugh that seemed to presage thoughts of a lighter conspiracy.
"Getting caught up at the office, huh?" he said cheerily. "I shoulda figured."
Mark looked back at Frank, like a man asking for some back-up. It might have been the combined sobriety of their expressions. The judge's own smile hung suspended and then faded.
"What's up?" he said, all his holiday good cheer set aside.
Frank let out a long sigh and gestured toward a chair. "Terence Harney, remember him?"
Of course Hardcastle did, and the reopening of the file folder served in place of many words. "Found today," Frank said, and when he gave the address the judge looked up from the photos and then glanced toward Mark.
"Coming to see us?" he asked.
Mark squirmed slightly and then said, "Maybe." A sigh of his own escaped and then he trudged through his own part of the story, including the parts about Terry's unrequited affection for his former girlfriend.
"Lani Melons," Hardcastle shook his head, "I tried to get her into a rehab program back five years ago. She did the twenty-eight days but she fell off the wagon a couple months later. I heard she lost her job at the strip club, fell in with a guy named Kelser—Nicky Kelser."
"Oh, heard of him," Frank scratched his nose, "something recent." He got to his feet and skirted between his visitors and the desk, heading for the door.
Somehow it didn't surprise Mark that Hardcastle had kept tabs on a chance acquaintance from a case five years earlier. It was the nature of the man, the Godfather of criminal justice in LA, or a particularly well-intentioned troll sitting on a treasure trove of hard won and cross-referenced information about the netherworld. But now that Frank had stepped out and the judge was not distracted by the need to access his data bank, his gaze turned back to McCormick, with a rather reserved expression on his face.
This was a countenance Mark disliked more than any other. He'd only started noticing it the past year and he had the impression that it was a substitute for the bouts of yelling that had been Hardcastle's previous response to being aggravated with his sidekick.
But he wasn't a sidekick anymore. He'd graduated from that to partner sometime back—even de facto director of a law clinic, if you believed the words on the letterhead. Mark sighed. There were days when he missed being a sidekick. A few well-placed hollers and a sharp remark or two, and then the burden of leadership almost automatically kicked in.
"Sorry," he said. And then, "I was going to tell you . . . about him coming to me, I mean."
"When?"
"Tonight . . . probably after some eggnog."
Hardcastle pursed his lips. "Easier to put it over on me after I got snookered, or Dutch courage for you?"
Mark gave that some thought.
"Both," he finally said.
Hardcastle shook his head slowly and dropped his chin to his chest for a moment. Mark thought he still recognized stern disapproval even in this attenuated response, but what the judge said next took him completely by surprise.
"I suppose he figured he couldn't come to me—me being the guy who screwed things up for him in the first place."
Mark's jaw went slack. In all of his calculations, he'd never gone all the way back to Harney's first conviction—Hardcastle handing him a two year sentence for his role as a possibly impromptu get-away driver for his cousin's attempted bank robbery.
His mouth finally snapped shut. This had to be some kind of weird Christmas spirit haunting Hardcase. He never would have second-guessed himself on a conviction under ordinary circumstances.
"You're not responsible for all this other crap," he said firmly, with the certainty of belief. "Hell, you offered him a hand five years ago, and Lani was never your responsibility."
"Hmmph," Hardcastle grunted. "It's funny though," and it was evident from his tone that it was in no way funny at all, "you hear about things, once in a while, the stuff that spins off from someone going to prison—wives sometimes sent me letters, asking if I could get their husbands moved closer to home—they didn't have anyway to visit, way up at Quentin or Folsom . . . or a guy's mom was dying, and could he get a pass to say good-bye to her." He shook his head again. "Doesn't work like that. Much as anybody says it's rehabilitation, it's punishment, too. Only I think sometimes the people getting punished the most aren't the ones who did the crime."
"Well, that's not how it was with Lani," Mark pointed out. "Terry only met her after he got out, and it was his decision to go on the run and leave her behind."
There was another grunt from Hardcastle, and then Frank was bustling back in, a sheaf of printouts in one hand, which, if it was Kelser's rap sheet, showed persistence if nothing else.
"He's been a busy guy lately. Vice sent out a bulletin a few weeks back—thought there was a turf war heating up down around Western avenue—drugs, prostitution. Kelser might be one of the guys looking to increase his territory. One of the other players turned up dead Thanksgiving weekend."
"In an alley?" Hardcastle leaned forward, looking much like a hound on the scent.
"Yeah, nowhere near Twelfth Street, though." He glanced down at the papers. "It was off Courtney. And now Kelser's gone to ground. Vice was rousting out some of his girls, trying to get the lie on him. Lani was picked up a week ago, over on Sunset. That's her usual stomping grounds, looks like. She was questioned but clammed up. They processed her out, the routine."
Hardcastle looked like he didn't have to give it all much thought. He was already glancing down at his watch. He looked up again sharply. "We've got a couple hours. I already bought the eggnog. How 'bout we take a drive down Sunset? It's practically on the way."
It wasn't, but no one wanted to argue about it. Frank stepped over to his desk and pulled his holster and service piece from the bottom drawer. Hardcastle was smiling grimly. Mark was already on his feet, slipping his coat on, before he realized he was doing it. It had a weird feel of déjà vu to it, this saddling up and riding out on a moment's notice. He hadn't realized how much he'd missed these simple plans that didn't involve a lot of paperwork.
00000
Sunset had come and gone, down on the boulevard. The last of the daytime people had gone home, and the evening revelers weren't yet afoot. Harper stowed his sedan in the nearly empty parking lot of a shopping area that lay near the heart of the street-trade red light district.
The three had conferred before he parked. It was obvious that together they'd spell trouble to anyone working the corner—cops at least, and possibly worse. Splitting up would be more promising. Harper had booking photos of both Kelser and Melons, for their own information and for the last desperate measure of showing to others, though that would surely send their quarry scurrying.
"One hour," Frank said sternly. "We meet back here. Claudia didn't put the ham in the oven yet, but she says if we're not home by nine she'll feed it to the neighbor's dogs."
Both the other men nodded. Mark even looked like he was actually listening. Frank was the only one with anything more than amateur status, also the only one with a gun and a pair of handcuffs, so he had the moral authority in this mission. They parted and went their own ways.
It might be the eve of a holiday, but it was obvious that some people weren't going to be celebrating in church. He saw them, now that he was looking, as he trudged into the area where the trade congregated. It wasn't so much a uniform as an attitude, somewhere between brash and desperate, too close to the street to be merely out for a stroll, women in ones and twos, looking ready to dart away at the first sign of trouble.
Scanning faces—some flat, some still wearing a hard veneer of willingness for a price—he gradually became convinced that he was looking for a needle in a crackhouse. He checked his watch—twenty minutes and two blocks covered. Who could tell, maybe Lani already had a john, off somewhere in the backseat of a car on this cool night. He might have already walked right by her and seen nothing but steamed up windows.
He hiked along, trying to look non-threatening and disinterested but still managed to attract a couple of insistent hangers-on. The first one he shook off. The second was a wraith of a thing, maybe eighteen, maybe not, but well beyond that in street years.
The veneer had already worn thin on her and the only color on her face was the tint from the neon sign in the guitar shop doorway she'd reached out from, a quick grab for his jacket sleeve. She mentioned a good time—the usual drill.
Mark hesitated a moment and then reached into his pocket for Lani's mug shot. It was obviously that: a sullen straight-ahead picture of a woman whose makeup had been smudged with a hasty removal. Even the gesture of reaching into his pocket sent his would be companion edging back into the little alcove.
"Don't worry," he heard himself say, softly, the way you talk to a stray cat. "Just a picture. Someone I need to find." He thought that sounded less threatening than Harper's usual 'Have you seen . . .?'
"She's a friend," he said, knowing that lie would be seen through quickly. "A friend of a friend, really," he amended. He was holding the picture out, tentatively.
The woman leaned forward, then reached for it, to turn it toward what little light there was from the streetlamp. She smiled slyly, and said "Her." Then she gave Mark a penetrating stare. "How much it worth?"
"No Christmas kindness, huh?" Mark sighed. He reached into his hip pocket, while stepping back cautiously. This one was wearing flats and looked pretty slippery. The last thing he wanted to have to explain to Hardcase and Harper was how he got stiffed by a street walker.
"Twenty," he said, and at the woman's look of disbelief he added, "but I'll throw in another twenty if you can take me to her right now." Then he looked at her sternly. "But try and pull one on me and I'll whistle up a cop and tell 'em you propositioned me. A shocking thing around here, I'm sure, but it'll be a hassle."
She was half smiling, now that she thought she had the lay of things. "She used to be on your string, huh? I better warn you, she's Kelser's girl now and he's a mean sonuvabitch." But she held out her hand for the twenty.
It was forked over, and from then on Mark took her arm, trying to look like a man who'd just settled a business proposition. In this relatively commonplace fashion, she led him up the street about a block and a half. They encountered a few of her competitors, one of whom let out a low whistle and a brief word of congratulation. Several others made more pointed comments, none in the spirit of the holiday.
It didn't last, though. She pulled him into an alley, and from there into the deeper shadows. He had nearly a foot and at least seventy pounds on her, but there was always the possibility that she might have help waiting for her. He pulled back slightly.
"You want to find her?" the woman whispered practically. "This is where you gotta go. She was here a couple hours ago and I don't think she was going anywhere."
He looked at her in puzzlement but stopped resisting her impatient tug. The woman stepped carefully; her eyes were obviously more dark-adapted than his and the way was strewn with garbage. There was a narrow access-way at the back of the buildings, a dead-end.
"Here," his guide said, as they stepped out past a dumpster.
He saw nothing at first and then, by the dim light of the lone street lamp, he made out an irregular shape, slumped against a concrete loading ramp. He hung onto his guide's arm, not intending to forfeit the twenty he'd already invested until he'd made a positive ID.
The woman beside him offered impatient assurances. "It's her. She's been back here for a couple hours now."
"Drunk?"
The woman shrugged. "Nah . . . least no more than usual. I told her, Kelser's gonna be lookin' for his share and if he finds her back here . . ." Her voice had trailed off, the idea of a beating conveyed by another casual shrug. And then, as if her current prospect might lose interest in his quarry and not pay up, she added, "She said she was waiting for somebody—not Kelser—maybe you, huh?"
"Not me," Mark said softly.
The woman didn't lift her head at their approach. If this was merely an ordinary day, Mark wondered that she could work at all. On closer inspection, though, she was reasonably clean and sitting on a small suitcase, chin down on her chest in what might be no more than a nap.
"Lani?" he asked. She jerked slightly—again more like from a doze than a crippling round of drink. The woman beside him unlatched herself and tugged at his sleeve insistently.
He impatiently liberated his wallet and handed over the other twenty. It was taken, inspected hurriedly by the dim light and secreted away.
His guide sighed once, as if she foresaw things coming to a bad end. "Toldja Lani," she said, more to herself than to the woman before her, "you sit back here on your ass and they'd come lookin' for you. I hope this one's not as mean as Nicky." Then she turned and was slipping through the shadows, back to her post.
Lani Melon's chin had lifted further on those words. Her eyes opened, blinking blearily, then opened wider in surprise.
"Who're you?"
"A friend of Terry's," he said. "I need to talk to you."
"Terry sent you?" she asked, suddenly more awake and more interested.
"No," Mark replied cautiously. "Not exactly."
The woman had been gathering herself, as if to stand. Now she sank back down, her expression caught between puzzlement and fear.
"He said he'd come," she mumbled softly. "Tonight, he said." She frowned.
It might have been Mark's own expression, which he'd tried to school to neutrality.
"He ain't comin'," she said with the dull finality of a thousand previous disappointments, and then, "The hell with him. Don' need him. Doin' jus' fine." She sniffed once, then wiped her nose on her sleeve.
"He couldn't come," Mark said, working his way up to the bad news.
"He said to wait for him," Lani murmured. "He'd come . . . they never come."
It was the story of her life, writ small.
There was no avoiding it, Mark decided. He glanced back toward the alley nervously. Kelser might be out there looking already, and if he ran into the nameless wraith who'd led him here, it would only be a matter of time before they were cornered.
"He's dead."
He'd said it with cold, calculated abruptness and a half-second passed in silent shock before Lani let out a low-pitched moan. It might have been more self-pity but it contained the knife's edge of a deeper sorrow.
"I'm sorry," Mark said.
"Nicky," she mumbled, still lost in the miasma of grief. "Nicky done for him . . . jus' like that other guy."
Mark, in the act of bending down to help her up, froze and stared at her intensely.
"What other guy?"
"The other one Nicky killed. A pimp . . . name's Reese. Was 'bout," she frowned, "maybe a month back."
"You knew about that?"
"I saw it." She nodded sagely. "Told Terry 'bout it. Told him Nicky's dangerous."
"When'd ya tell him?" Mark asked quietly. The seriousness of his tone seemed to convey itself to the woman.
She had to think about that one. It was a long moment before she finally whispered, "A couple days ago." She was frowning, her mind apparently not as far gone as he'd first thought. "Terry said everything'd be alright." Another briefer pause followed and then the realization seemed to hit her, all at once. "Oh, God, he said he'd get some money and we'd leave . . . I told him not to mess with Nicky." She rocked forward and was back on her knees, despite Mark's best efforts to get her upright.
"We've gotta go," he said, grasping her arm and trying to propel her upward. "We need to get you somewhere safe."
00000
Hardcastle had left Sunset to the other two. Finding Lani was a worthy endeavor, but he had half a notion where Nicky Kelser might be. It wasn't a notion he wanted to share with anyone. The usual lowlife's who hung out at Benny's Bar could spot a cop like Frank a mile off. There'd most likely be somebody there who'd recognize him as well, but he didn't intend to go in.
He took up his post across the street and a few doors down, brushing off a few approaches but in a not unfriendly way—more as though he were merely shopping around. He kept one eye steadily on the front door of the drinking establishment and was rewarded when a man matching Kelser's description strode down the sidewalk on that side, and ducked in.
A problem, of course. Too far away to make a definitive ID, and now gone to ground inside. He was still pondering his next move when the same guy emerged, this time head on and with his face briefly illuminated by a street light as he cautiously checked his surroundings. He apparently took no alarm from the aged and lonely guy across from him, chatting up one of the girls.
The man who might be Kelser was seeming more a sure bet with every passing moment. He turned on his heel and was striding again. The stop in the bar had been so brief as to almost certainly have been merely a quick inspection. The guy was looking for someone.
Hardcastle smiled grimly at the notion of letting Kelser do their work for them. Even if Lani wasn't the object of his search, he probably knew where to find her, and she was likely to be one of his stops tonight.
He let the man get a decent head start, then started his own stroll back toward Sunset, only looking at him from the side of one eye. Once he'd turned the corner the man made occasional stops, directing a few words to some of the women in the doorways or out by the curb. One got a sharp cuff. There was a half-smothered yelp and a quick shake of the head from the otherwise unprotesting victim, who then pointed further down the street.
The next one was warier, edging away from the increasingly agitated man, but not foolhardy enough to try and run. She seemed to be offering appeasement. He reached out—snake-swift—and grabbed her arm. She drew up tight but offered no useful resistance. He looked on the verge of backhanding this one. Hardcastle wondered how much he could watch before his gut instincts kicked in. This might be normal employer-employee relations down on the strip, but a guy could only stomach so much.
The woman—a girl really, and skinny as a rail—must have said something useful. He shook her once but didn't strike her. He didn't let go of her arm, either, and a moment later they were moving up the street together.
They went on for a block like that, Hardcastle trying to casually close the gap. The man wasn't looking around anymore; he seemed very intent on his business. The judge was taking a gander, partly to embellish his impression of being a hard-to-please window shopper, and partly in hopes of seeing Frank somewhere.
No luck. His quarry and the man's unwilling companion ducked down into an alley. Hardcastle hung back, not certain if this was merely a subterfuge. After a moment had passed, he strolled up casually and glanced down the passage in an unconcerned way.
No one in sight, but voices, far off and unintelligible except by tone. The tone was angry.
00000
Mark's progress had ground to a halt. Lani was huddled on the ground, sobbing. Nothing short of hefting her into a fireman's carry was going to get them moving anytime soon. He'd almost reconciled himself to that when he heard footsteps on the pavement and jerked his head up suddenly and saw them.
The woman was his former guide. The man had her firmly by the arm and seemed almost as startled as Mark at the tableau before him. That didn't last long. He let go of the woman, who skittered off a few feet and then hovered there a moment, as if she weren't sure what she should do next.
The man smiled in an utterly unfriendly way, then dove his right hand into his coat pocket, leaving little doubt that it contained reinforcement. It was obvious that this wasn't the usual business transaction going on back in the shadows.
"You're a mess," the man said causally to the woman huddled at Mark's feet. She raised her head, suddenly silent. There was one half-hiccuped sob and then, "Nicky, I was jes' workin'. Been a good night. Look," she gestured unconvincingly up at Mark.
"Oh, yeah, Lani. I see you got your suitcase and everything." Kelser shook his head in solemn disbelief. "Don't shit me. Who's he?" –a quick jerk of his chin toward McCormick.
Lani looked up as if this was the first she'd seen of him and then back at Kelser.. "Just a john, Nicky . . . that's all."
"Don't matter, anyhow," Kelser sneered. His voice had lost all hint of civility—the black velvet curtain parting to reveal something far deeper and darker. "I told you if you crossed me I'd kill you."
The skinny woman was behind him, now, and had been steadily backing away. She'd almost made it to the alley when she stumbled over something and there was a clattering noise. Kelser half-turned, ordering her to halt. Mark made his move, dully aware that the distance was too great.
Everything slowed down. He was completely focused on Kelser—and closing the distance between them before the man could turn and clear the gun from his pocket, knowing full well he wasn't going to make it in time.
Except that another shape had dislodged itself from the gloom back there, and this one told Kelser to freeze in a tone that was fairly commanding even to Mark, who knew Hardcastle hadn't gone out on Christmas Eve packing heat.
Kelser froze, but only for the half second that it took for him to register the new threat as the old gent he seen chatting up his girls a few moments earlier. Even in the gloom it was evident that the command wasn't backed up by a gun and now Kelser had his out—just a fraction of a second before Mark slammed into his right side.
The shot rang out, thunderously loud in the narrow, brick-walled space and, though they were both down on the ground, the guy was still flailing, his right hand free and Mark lunging for that wrist. There was shouting--a second voice. He could hear it now, over the ringing in his ears. Kelser must have heard it, too, but it didn't deter him. He was driven by pure anger—no rational motivation at all, it seemed—and he was crazy strong.
"Dammit," the second voice was closer, right above them, "put it down, now." It was Frank, and he was staying prudently just far enough off to avoid being dragged into the tussle. His voice, icily determined, finally must have penetrated past Kelser's rage. The pimp's gun hand wavered. Frank leaned in so the man could see his service revolver, steadily aimed at his head.
Kelser released his piece. It clattered onto the pavement. Mark pinned the man's wrist with his left hand and snatched the 9mm up with his right, then backed off, not taking his eyes from him . . . until he realized Hardcastle hadn't lumbered over to take a look at their catch.
"Where's—"
"Over here." The judge sounded aggravated, and Mark felt a sudden flush of relief. Aggravation required a person to be conscious and in fairly good shape. He stood there, gun trained on Kelser for the moment it took Frank to quickly pat him down and apply the cuffs. Then Mark handed Kelser's gun to Harper and loped back to the alley.
The judge was sitting, back against the wall and one hand plastered over his left eye. He was muttering and resisted when Mark tried to pry it loose.
"Dammit, lemme take a look. You're shot." He could see the glistening trickle between Hardcastle's fingers.
"Not shot, for cryin' out loud. The bullet hit the wall."
"A ricochet?" Mark was still trying to get between Hardcastle's hand and the man's forehead.
"Nah," the judge said with disgust, "musta knocked a piece of brick off."
"Just as bad," Mark said. "You mighta put your eye out." He'd finally managed to get Hardcastle's hand down, and the blood seemed to be coming from just below his left eyebrow.
Mark had a handkerchief out but the judge snatched it out of his hand before he could address the problem himself. "Go get Frank some help," he barked sharply and, since that would mean summoning an ambulance, too, Mark went almost willingly.
00000
It was well after nine by the time they were done at the local emergency room. Frank had gone and come back.
"We've got Lani parked in a detox program . . . again," the lieutenant said philosophically. "She was willing. I think between Terry dying and Nicky trying to put a bullet in her this evening, she's seen the light." He pursed his lips and added, "We'll see how she does in a few months when it's time to testify. I guess we're lucky Kelser pulled a gun on you two—those might be the only charges we end up with." He suddenly looked abashed. "Not that I'm saying it was a good thing he took a shot at you, Milt."
Hardcastle grunted and adjusted the patch over his left eye. There was an abrasion on his cornea and a small but persistently bleeding laceration to his eyelid—it had required three stitches. He had not, as Mark had direly predicted several times, managed to put his eye out.
"Ready to go?" Frank asked.
Mark looked up from his reading of the discharge instructions and nodded glumly. "He's not supposed to drive until the patch comes off. Can we leave the Coyote at the station overnight?"
"We shoulda given you your own parking space a few years ago." Frank shook his head. "Anyway, we better hustle. Claudia says she put the ham in."
Mark looked up at the clock in sudden recollection, followed by disbelief. "Oh, man, we are in trouble . . . I thought she said she was gonna feed it to the neighbors' dogs."
"That?" Frank laughed. "If she hadn't learned how to hold dinner, I woulda starved years ago."
"She understands," Hardcastle nodded, "she's a cop's wife."
"Easy for you to say," Mark stood hastily, stuffing the papers in his coat pocket and turning to lend the judge an arm, "you've got that pirate thing going. You'll get sympathy."
"Arrg." Hardcastle got up slowly, but the proffered arm was ignored and he even led the way out of the room.
00000
It was well after midnight—and a ham dinner with all the fixings, which had been held in miraculous stasis by the wonder-working and experienced wife of a cop. The festivities had been low key and Frank had apparently clued Claudia in on the main points of the day's happenings during one of his calls home. Nothing was rehashed over the meal.
So it wasn't until the two of them were riding home in the truck, in the very light traffic of mid-Christmas night, that the subject arose again. Mark's opening gambit was straightforward.
"I let myself get cornered tonight; what's your excuse?"
"Huh?" The judge half-startled out of a post-ham stupor that had been easing into a doze.
"That alley. You come tromping down there and issuing orders to a guy who had a gun." Mark shook his head. "Not smart, Kemosabe. You're supposed to run for help in a situation like that."
"I wasn't sure he had a gun," Hardcastle said stubbornly.
"Even maybe having a gun ought to be enough."
"Hmmph," the man grunted, and then fell back to a more defensible position. "You let yourself get cornered, Tonto. Like you said."
"She was crying and drunk, Hardcase. What was I supposed to do?"
Nothing, it seemed. At least Hardcastle had no immediate suggestions. That, of course, brought them back round to why the woman had been crying. Mark suspected they were both contemplating the same thing.
"Terry," he paused and flicked a glance toward his passenger. Only the patched eye was visible from his vantage, for all he knew, the man had finally dozed off . . . no, there was a slight acknowledging nod. Mark looked forward again and sighed. "I just keep thinking—"
"It all turns on a moment. One decision," Hardcastle muttered. "It's like that all the time; we just don't always get to see the end results."
"Yeah," Mark said slowly. "If I had known, though, I would have tried harder."
Hardcastle twitched and turned his head abruptly, then winced at the discomfort of the movement. He finally said, "That was his decision, you know. He coulda come to me with that information. He must've been thinking about it—maybe trading Kelser for a deal with the parole board. But he must've decided to blackmail Nicky instead. Bad choice."
Mark took his eyes off the road for a long moment, staring at the judge, then jerked them back frontward. His surprise had been noted. Hardcastle said, "Well, that's how it looks to me."
"Oh, yeah," Mark nodded, "that sounds about right, from what Lani said. It's just that it wasn't the moment—the decision—I was thinking about."
He glanced back again. The judge was frowning in thought.
"Five years ago," Mark prodded nervously, "when we came back from that sting and Terry and I were sitting in the gatehouse. He decided to leave and I let him go. Then I talked you out of having him hauled back in that night."
"So this is your fault?" Hardcastle asked, the disbelief sharpening his tone. "How 'bout me, sitting on the bench two and a half years before that? A kid with only a minor record gets sentenced for a felony—just an accessory, really. Maybe it should have been probation—community service."
"You don't believe that. Not even on Christmas, Kemosabe, with a dose of ham and some painkillers on board. Nobody lands in prison without getting themselves to court first, right? His cousin said 'drive' and he drove. That was the moment."
"So we're both off the hook?" Hardcastle said, with less than his usual certainty.
"I think so." Mark had hesitated. It ruined the effect.
"There might be room for improvement, though, huh?"
"Maybe," Mark said quietly, "but not for Terry."
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Author's postscript: Somewhere in the middle of this, my 140th story, is my one millionth word of H&McC fic. Since the betas are busy proofreading something else, it's probably misspelled.