Disclaimer: These are not my characters and I make no profit from them—not a ghost of a chance. Jake Brake is a trademark of Jacobs Vehicle Systems, a wholly owned subsidiary of the Danaher Corporation.
Author's Note: In the tradition which produced "Phantasmagoria" ('05) "War of the Words" ('06), "Two Men in a Cemetery" ('07), and "Hauntings" ('08), here's yet another seasonal offering of the alternate reality variety. :-o
"Once More with Vigorish" first broadcast on Sunday, October 30th, 1983. In the canon version, Hardcastle sends Mark undercover as an ex-con looking for a loan from juice-extractor Frank Kelly. He's quickly hired to drive one of Kelly's eighteen-wheelers full of stolen merchandise. Unknown to him, as he prepares to spirit the big rig off to the nearest police impound, Mark is under surveillance by Kelly's goons, who close in as soon as he deviates from the prescribed route.
The Bogeyman
By L. M. Lewis
Twenty-four hours could make a big difference in a guy's life. For example, Mark had once been driving along in what he'd thought was his own Porsche, and a mere one day later had been a guest of the County of Los Angeles. Now, nearly three years after that fateful episode, he was tooling down another highway in that same county, driving a truck loaded with a half-million dollars of stolen electronics.
He hadn't been expecting this, even as recently as the evening before. He'd been ensconced on the sofa in Hardcastle's den, doing nothing more ambitious than prowling the double-digit cable channels with an occasional glance over at the judge, who was still pouring over Frank Kelly's file.
It was nice to have sole possession of the remote now and then, especially when he landed on a late night classic—and only halfway through. He should have figured it wouldn't last, though. Not all that many minutes passed before the judge looked up from what he was doing and groused, "Isn't there anything decent on?"
"By 'decent' you mean a John Wayne movie, right?" Mark sniffed. "There are a couple of classics that don't have horses in 'em, you know. This is one of them. It's Bogart and Bergman—Casablanca."
"I know what it is," Hardcastle replied. "I just think it's overrated, that's all."
"It's Casablanca," Mark repeated disbelievingly.
"Look at it," the judge muttered on. "They're supposed to meet at the train station and she doesn't show. Then she turns up a year later in his bar. Stuff like that doesn't happen in real life," he grumbled.
"Okay," Mark nodded, "maybe not, but it's the movies, not real life. She's the love of his life but in the end he lets her go because it's more important that she be with Laszlo."
"In real life, she'd've stood him up in Paris for no good reason and he never woulda seen her again."
Mark gave him a hard stare. "You're kind of testy tonight. It's this Kelly thing, huh?"
"No it's not Kelly. Sheesh, you of all people ought've figured all this stuff out by now." He gestured toward the small screen.
Mark sighed. "In real life, yeah. Took the immersion course." He cracked a wry smile. "But it's Bogey. He always walks away from it with his head on straight, no matter what. Another town, another bar, another girl—he lands on his feet."
Hardcastle hmmphed but finally turned back to his file and left Mark in peace to his twenty-seventh viewing of Rick Blaine's moment of triumph on the tarmac of the fog-shrouded airport.
"Here's lookin' at you," he murmured as the closing credits finally rolled and he thumbed the off button.
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And now he was wondering if he'd ever get to see it a twenty-eighth time. Two sedans had pulled out from a side road and tucked in behind his truck. They'd been coming on strong since he'd gotten onto the road a moment ago that would take him back into town.
Hardcastle was up ahead, going point in the Coyote with Pam Peterson. Mark flashed his lights to signal him about their pursuers and watched while he executed a pretty decent handbrake turn—something he'd just taught him a couple weeks earlier. He had to grin.
That didn't last long as his two tails moved up to bracket him. The car on his left had a passenger with a gun. Mark could have sworn he felt the first shot hit the backrest of his seat.
For once, though, he was driving the heavier vehicle. Giving the car on his left a nudge was deeply satisfying.
That one dropped back. Mark heard another gunshot—the deep crack that he associated with Hardcastle's favorite piece, Old Henry. The judge must've scored a solid hit because the sedan dropped back further still before it veered and shot off the road on that side.
There was only a moment's breather. The car on his right had been in his blind spot, but now he saw the guy in the checked shirt, undoubtedly larger than his mirrored image appeared and plenty big as it was. He was scaling the passenger side of the cab. A second later Mark saw that door open and a .38 revolver pointed straight at him.
Stomping on the brake was reflex. The man slammed forward into the dash. Mark finished him off with a right jab and elbow combo.
He was on the verge of congratulating himself when a more controlled tap on the brake encountered no resistance and told him it wasn't over yet. He bore down on the pedal hard enough to put a hole in the floor but still the rig was careening back and forth across all lanes on the downward slope.
Two near misses in as many seconds—his luck couldn't hold as gravity started dictating terms. He had only one more split-second to decide where he'd ditch the beast.
As he steered right he felt the wheels hit dirt, his load overbalancing and the torque taking cab and all on a twisting, metal-shrieking roll.
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He thought he must've been thrown clear of the wreck. It was remarkably quiet, or maybe his ears were still ringing, though it wasn't just his hearing that seemed to be off. He must have hit the ground pretty hard—yet if he had to describe how he felt at that very moment, the word would be stunned. Nothing hurt.
It was remarkable, considering the state of the rig. The cab was canted over on its side and the trailer was lying at ninety degrees to it, one side split open. A flash of red caught the corner of his eye—the Coyote spinning into the turn-off from the opposite direction. Hardcastle must have overshot the first time, or maybe not even realized his sidekick was in trouble.
He knew it now. Dirt spun up from the wheels as the car shuddered to a halt. The judge clambered out and then froze for a second. Mark steeled himself for a chewing out once Hardcase realized he was all right.
Fifteen thousand dollars worth of police impound property, not to mention the embarrassment of having toasted a load of stolen goods. Exhibit 'A' in Frank Kelly's next trial was going to be pretty sloppy. None of it was even 'this end up' anymore.
But the man didn't even pause for a perfunctory barb. He loped toward the cab, circling around to what was formerly the top side and shading his eyes as he peered in against the wind shield. Even from where he was sitting, Mark could see the color drain from the man's face.
Mark suddenly remembered the would-be hijacker he'd knocked unconscious right before the crash. He'd been sprawled on the passenger side of the seat when the accident occurred. Mark swallowed hard. It must be pretty gruesome if even Hardcase looked pale.
He opened his mouth to say something—maybe explain that the guy had had a gun—when he heard a familiar voice behind him.
"It seems that destiny has taken a hand."
He jerked his head upright and swiveled it sharply to look over his right shoulder. The face matched the voice—craggy and worn from the mileage of cigarettes and whiskey. His coat and hat were familiar as well, but utterly incongruous for a brightly lit California afternoon.
"What the h—"
Mark halted in mid-word as the man lifted the front brim of his fedora with just the tips of two fingers, a minimalist bit of courtesy that matched the ghost of a smile that played his lips.
Mark shook his head. "You can't be him. He's dead," he added with certainty.
The guy who was a dead ringer for Bogart stuffed his hands in the pockets of his Burberry and shrugged, looking around at the dry and desolate surroundings.
"It's a good place for it."
Mark scrunched his forehead in thought and then muttered, "'What of it? I'm going to die in Casablanca. It's a good place for it.' You said that to Ilsa."
The man smiled encouragingly.
"So . . . you're not Bogey, you're Rick." Mark looked back over his shoulder at the ongoing chaos.
A police car had come screeching up, and not far behind that was an ambulance.
"Damn. I hope that guy's not dead."
He started to stagger to his feet. Hardcastle was still over by the cab of the truck, appearing totally absorbed by whatever he was looking at. Mark wasn't particularly eager to join him. The strange numbness reasserted itself as he tried to brush his hands off on his pants, and now it was accompanied by a clumsiness, as though his feet were mired in deep mud, though the rocky footing around him was bare and dry.
Mark frowned again. Paramedics and cops were hustling by. He saw Pammie Peterson standing next to the Coyote on the passenger side, looking grim. Hardcastle was shouting something, summoning the emergency workers over. If Mark concentrated, he could now make out some of the words.
". . . trapped . . . pry it . . . hurry."
The rest of it was unintelligible, but the tone was more anxious than anything Mark had ever heard Hardcastle utter. It must be ugly over there.
One guy from the rescue squad was scaling the front end of the cab, using the upended grill as rungs. Another had hustled back to their truck to retrieve some equipment. He returned a moment later, passing something up to the first guy, who was now crouching above the driver's side door.
Mark glanced back at his companion. "Maybe I should help?"
"I would advise you not to interfere."
Mark frowned and mouthed the words silently to himself. He looked up sharply. "Major Strasser said that line, not Rick."
The man shrugged again.
Mark shook his head impatiently and turned back to the accident scene, feeling oddly detached and distracted. Time seemed to have slipped a cog. Now there was a backboard, the crew manhandling it into position. One of the cops had Hardcastle by the arm and was trying to get him to step back. He wasn't being very cooperative.
"The donkey," Mark said quietly. "He's just in the way."
He wasn't exactly sure why, but it was all starting to make some kind of weird sense. He was also thought maybe Rick was right. It might not be such a good idea to take a closer look at what was happening.
Think about something else.
He shot another glance at Pam. She'd taken a couple of hesitant steps toward the rig. Now she circled around, averting her eyes slightly, but finally stepping in within reach of Hardcastle. The cop looked glad to hand over custody. It took a moment for the judge to respond as she tugged him gently back but eventually he seemed to notice her—turning toward her as if to shield her from it all.
Mark studied it all consideringly. When he finally found the words, they came out bluntly. "I'm dead, huh?"
"No, not yet."
Mark glanced back at the man in the trench coat. He found himself raising one eyebrow, and not entirely because he was trying to remember the context of that line.
"Do I really have the whole damn thing memorized?" he muttered, studying the ground suddenly. Then just as fast he looked up again. "Don't answer that, especially if you were gonna say, 'You must remember this: a kiss is just a kiss.'"
He'd managed to yank a wry smile up on the other man's face, but Mark turned away and shook his head sadly.
"Not a lot to show for twenty-nine years, huh? I don't even know what I see in you. Hey," he lifted his chin, scanning the surroundings, "isn't this supposed to be a tunnel? I ought to be heading toward the light or something like that."
He looked back over at the wreck. Pam had her arm wrapped lightly around Hardcastle's back, her head on his shoulder. He was standing stiffly next to her, refusing to be turned away.
"No tunnel. And my angel is right out of a film noir," Mark mused. "It figures." He sat back down on the rock noiselessly then shot his companion another quick glance. "They're a cute couple . . . sort of, don'tcha think? I mean, it's what?—only about twenty-five years between 'em."
"Maybe he's not quite as romantic as you are."
Mark studied the man in question. He looked rigid. His support of his former clerk seemed purely mechanical.
"Maybe you're right," Mark finally conceded.
Then it struck him. He wasn't even sure how he knew what he knew—maybe it was one of those strange gifts you got when you finally made it to the other side. Hardcastle was hurting—regret, remorse, all that stuff that comes from losing someone who means something to you—and he was dealing with it in the one way that seemed to work for him.
What had he said that afternoon after Joe Cadillac left—
He couldn't remember how the judge had put it, but the bottom line was he'd never talk about things like that. He'd keep it all inside, no matter what.
That he might be upset, even invisibly—Mark shook his head. How could that be so? He'd barely known the man for a month and a half. The judge had said, flat out, that they weren't going to be buddies and he was most definitely not a substitute for his dead son. But there he was, looking undeniably stricken.
Okay, well, he's responsible for you. That's all it is, like he said—
Though he hadn't actually come right out and said that, even, two weeks ago when Mark had sauntered in after his wild pursuit of Tina Gray.
His companion spoke, startling him slightly. "You've got something on your mind."
Mark twitched. "Huh?"
"Why don't you spill it?"
"Ahh, well . . . you said I wasn't dead," he cast a wary look over at the men, now huddled over the upturned open door on the driver's side, "not yet, anyway."
"Everybody in Casablanca has problems. Yours may work out."
"You think?" Mark asked absently.
"You want my advice?"
Mark shot a quick glance at him. "Not if you're going to tell me to go back to Bulgaria."
The man laughed, short and harsh, then shook his head.
"Listen," Mark said with sudden intensity, "did you ever regret it, doing the right thing?"
The man's face had gone pensive and now revealed his age. "I found it a very expensive habit . . . but then I never was much of a businessman."
"Me neither," Mark said quietly. "Look, I think I've got to go back—"
"You're part of his work, the thing that keeps him going."
"Yeah, something like that." Mark looked up slowly. "I'm no good at being noble, but it doesn't take much to see that my problems don't amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world."
He grinned and added, "Damn, I've always wanted to say that. Sorry I had to change the words a little."
His iconic companion tipped his fedora again, just slightly, and then tugged it down once, firmly. "Here's looking at you—"
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"—kiddo? You with me here?"
The sharpness of it cut through the fog of sensation—mostly pain—and dispersed what had gone before it like an alarm clock scatters a dream. Mark dragged his eyes open but winced and squinted at the harsh overhead light.
"I thought you said you could drive one of those things," the judge sighed.
Mark tried to turn his head toward the voice but felt the tug of a bandage.
"Drive, yes. Stop, no," he said, hearing the rasp in his own voice. He cleared his throat gently. Even that hurt.
"Here—"
Mark opened his eyes again. They came into focus on a straw. Hardcastle was holding the cup it was sticking out of.
"The nurse said it'd be okay when you woke up," he prodded the straw forward again.
"'Okay', huh?"
"Okay to have some water," Hardcastle clarified. He grimaced as Mark took a cautious sip. "Everything else'll be okay eventually."
Mark swallowed, equally cautious, and then let the straw go. "'Eventually' . . . is that kinda like indefinitely?"
"Piece of metal," Hardcastle tapped the side of his own neck. "Blood everywhere." He made a face. "You should've seen it."
"I think I'm glad I didn't." Mark didn't try to shake his head. The he remembered something else. "The other guy—"
"Couple of cracked ribs, a busted jaw, and a concussion. They already moved him to the jail ward."
Mark frowned. He hadn't even thought about his unwanted passenger until Hardcastle had mentioned him, but the other other guy—he thought maybe he'd better drop that subject.
He groped for another topic and finally settled on, "What time is it?"
"About nine-thirty . . . P.M.," Hardcastle informed. "Pammie got 'em to swear out the warrants pretty quick and they ought to be serving Kelly's right about now. I wish we could've gotten his lawyer on something," the judge muttered. Then he brightened slightly. "I made sure they put Jerry Blackmore on the list. Conspiracy, felony theft, attempted murder—"
"And punching me in the gut, twice," Mark pointed out.
"Oops, left that one out. Oh well, never put all your eggs in one bill of indictment . . . and next time I get you a cab-over that's equipped with a Jake Brake," Hardcastle added in a gruffly apologetic tone.
That moment of awkwardness ended with the judge putting the cup back on the nightstand. "You got a TV here." He picked up the control, untangling its cord from the bedrail.
Mark let him fiddle with it. He was still trying to sort out his own puzzling perceptions of what had followed the crash. The deeper he probed into his memories, the less he wanted to admit any of it out loud.
"Look," Hardcastle beamed in an unfamiliar way, "must be showing it all week or something. It's your favorite movie."
Mark found himself snapped back suddenly from his revere and facing the very man he'd been pondering.
Bogey smiled wryly at the cop who'd been his one-time opponent. Louis, I think this could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.
"Too bad," Hardcastle frowned, "looks like it's about over."
"Nah," Mark said with a cryptic half-smile as Rick and Louis walked off into the fog, "it's just getting started."
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Author's Postscript: All of Rick's dialog is borrowed (with great esteem and admiration) from the transcript of the movie, Casablanca, script by Julius and Phillip Epstein, and Howard Koch. The precedent for Mark having a Bogart movie very nearly committed to memory is in the script version of "The Georgia Street Motors".