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

Author's Note: Another entry to Owl's holiday challenge, and yet another H&McC first Christmas story. Happy holidays!

A Friend of a Friend

By L.M. Lewis

They knew there'd be a stack of mail when they got back from San Rio. Mrs. Mulvaney, Hardcastle's neighbor two lots to the east, had taken it in and Hardcastle sent Mark to pick it up the morning after their return. He walked over—it hardly seemed worth pulling the Coyote out of the garage—and listened to Mrs. M's fearsome teacup poodles raising Cain on the other side of the door after he'd rung the bell.

"Misty, Tinker, down," she admonished, with a backward sweep of her foot as she opened the door. It was hard to see how they could get any lower to the ground than they already were, but they did have rather needle-like teeth, as Mark had discovered on a previous visit, and you couldn't in good conscience kick the little things, so he was glad she was reining them in this time.

She smiled up at him. "They're just excited. They like company."

He doubted this very much, but kept his opinion to himself as he returned her smile and accepted the grocery bag full of mail.

"How was your vacation?" she asked, in the spirit of neighborly conversation.

Mark pondered that for a brief moment, and did a quick compromise with his inner imp. He wasn't sure what Hardcastle had told his neighbor about their short-notice jaunt to trap a gun runner who'd gone to ground on a Caribbean island.

"Very interesting," he said brightly. "We met some of the local law enforcement people, got an inside look at the prison system—even took a helicopter tour."

"That's nice." Mrs. Mulvaney kept her smile in place, not seeming surprised by the itinerary. "Sounds . . . educational."

"Well," Mark confessed, "we had some drinks in coconuts with little paper umbrellas, too."

Her smile turned a bit more genuine in comprehension and she nodded. "Those drinks," she nodded conspiratorially, "my Bert loved them. We used to say you really knew you were on vacation when you got your first paper umbrella."

Misty had retreated to the sofa but Tinker made a feint to the right and then tried to make an end run around Mrs. Mulvaney's leg. He was intercepted with a quick scoop, even before Mark could step back warily.

He gave her a nod of gratitude along with an all-purpose "Thanks," then added, with a downward look to his postal burden, "I'd better get all this home." It was only after the door closed between them that he realized he'd said it—home—and it had come out in a completely natural, unpremeditated way.

He half-smiled and shook his head as he turned and walked down Mrs. Mulvaney's driveway, the faint yapping of the tiny hounds of hell receding rapidly.

00000

Back at the ranch, he dumped the bag upside down on the kitchen table, catching a stray circular as it threatened to go over the side onto the floor. He sorted the obvious junk mail and tossed it, then stacked the bills and business stuff to one side. What was left was a seasonal assortment of envelope sizes, some with Christmas filigree on them, all addressed to Hardcastle. He separated them off into their own pile. In all of it there was only one letter addressed to him, and that was from his insurance company. He added it to Hardcastle's pile of bills, feeling only faintly guilty about that.

He thumbed through the judge's correspondence one last time, hoping he'd overlooked something—maybe a letter from Barb Johnson. He'd sent her a postcard from San Rio, but undoubtedly it hadn't reached her yet.

No, nothing. He stifled a sigh and set it all down again. There were times—not many, and generally squeezed into the brief moments of calm here on Planet Hardcastle—when he felt . . . alone.

He caught himself in one of those moments of quiet reverie and pulled up with a jerk. Don't tell me you miss having a cellmate . . . ten showerheads—no waiting . . . chowlines. He shook his head once, sharply, and snorted as he put the motley collection of envelopes down.

"What's so funny?" The all-too-familiar voice still made him jump slightly. He hadn't heard the man come in.

"Nothin'," Mark smiled sheepishly, "just thinking you have a real knack for arranging interesting vacations. You oughta consider opening a travel agency: 'Hardcase Adventure Tours'—that's a hot thing these days." He gestured with a wave of his hand. "The mail, sir. Will you be needing anything else?" he added in his most officious Jeeves-worthy tone.

"Less lip," the judge muttered, reaching for the less unpleasant of the two stacks and then glancing up abruptly. "Those little beasts she got didn't try to attach themselves to ya again, did they?"

"Wore my Kevlar socks this time," Mark said with cheery assurance. "And, anyway, I think they're starting to like me."

"I'd rather face a couple of Rottweilers," Hardcastle muttered, "at least if you've gotta pull a gun people understand."

"You'd never shoot Tinker," Mark drew back in mock horror. "It'd be like . . . like—"

"Shooting a rat with a rhinestone collar." The judge ran his thumb under the flap of the first envelope and drew out a folded piece of cardstock.

Mark clucked. "And Misty would go for your throat while you were reloading. I wouldn't chance it if I were you."

Hardcastle nodded absentmindedly as he read.

Mark left him to it, turning to inspect the contents of the fridge. "Some of this stuff's gotta go," he said half to himself. "And next time we do it before we hit the road." He rooted around, pulled out a bag that might have once contained lettuce. The contents were green, at any rate. He made a face as he transported it to the waste basket then returned and liberated some cold cuts that could still pass inspection, and a container of mustard.

"You want one?" he asked the judge, as he fetched the loaf of bread from the counter.

Hardcastle looked up, distractedly, gave the package of ham a dubious look and shook his head.

"Sure," Mark said, digging several slices into the loaf and victoriously pulling one that didn't have blue-green spots, "you just want me to go first. If I'm still okay an hour from now you'll have me whipping one up for you."

"One of us has to stay well enough to call the paramedics," the judge pointed out. He looked back down at what he'd been reading, then up at the calendar briefly. "The guys are having the Christmas party next Friday."

"'Guys'?" Mark asked, spreading the mustard thickly.

"Carleton and the crew—they threw me a heck of a retirement party, ya know. Got an honorary shield and everything." He smiled fondly. "Meant more to me than the plaque I got from the LA County Court Commissioner."

"Hmm," Mark said non-committally as he laid on the first slice of ham.

"You'll like 'em. A nice bunch of guys. You already know Carleton."

Mark looked up suddenly from his project. He frowned. Hardcastle was already tacking the invitation to the fridge with a magnet.

"Me?" the younger man asked nervously. "I think that invite's for you, Kemosabe."

Hardcastle cast an impatient glance over his shoulder. "Yeah, but it says 'and guest'—you're the guest, see?"

"No way," Mark shook his head. "A cop party. I'd rather go back and face Misty and Tinker. Those guys don't like guys like me."

"Carleton thinks you're okay."

"He does?" Mark raised one eyebrow in deep suspicion.

"Sure. Just the other day he said something about you." Hardcastle frowned slightly in concentration, as if trying to remember the precise words. Then he brightened suddenly. "Yeah . . . he said you had a pretty good hook-shot."

"Well, there you go. High praise indeed. I'll be going to him for my next letter of recommendation." Mark put the lid on the sandwich and picked it up, taking a decisive bite. He chewed for a moment, and even swallowed before starting up again, this time more hesitant. "I was wondering . . ."

It was hesitant enough to get Hardcastle's attention. He looked up from the next letter on the stack after a moment of uncustomary silence. "'Bout what?" he asked impatiently.

Mark cleared his throat nervously and then started again. "Barb Johnson . . ."

"What about her?" The judge looked momentarily concerned. "Something happen?"

"Oh—no, nothing like that. It's just that with Flip gone, she's kinda all alone out here. No family, really. And I was kinda wondering—"

"Sure she can," Hardcastle interrupted expansively. "Got a lot of space here. Nice view. It'll take her mind off things. Holidays are hard, 'specially that first one."

Mark sat there, stunned. He wasn't used to having his mind read, and that Hardcastle might have the capability came as a shock. He picked up the slack after a moment, though.

"I'll send her a note." He smiled. "Thanks. And she can stay out in the gatehouse. I don't mind the sofa. We'll stay out of your way."

"Nonsense. Got a bunch of spare rooms."

"How come you didn't when Death Ray was here?" Mark asked pointedly.

Hardcastle's "hmmph" was all the answer he got, then the man gathered up the rest of his mail and retreated.

00000

The note got written and mailed, post-haste. Then they got busy with Henry Willard and his assorted problems. Buried treasure in an abandoned subway line, and rogue police officers made the week fly by. It was only after that had been settled, and they'd seen Willard off to the bus stop, that the impending holidays loomed again.

"I miss Sarah," Mark said, gazing forlornly into the fridge. "There's still some ham left." He pulled out the package.

Hardcastle dropped the day's mail on the table and leaned over for an inspection, then shook his head. "I don't think ham's supposed to be fuzzy. Hey," he'd turned back to the small stack, "You got one from Barbara." He picked it up off the top and handed it over.

Mark abandoned the ham and reached for the letter eagerly. He tore into it, extracted the page, and opened it with a flourish. It was only after he'd scanned the first few lines that his expression fell.

"She's got plans," he said flatly. "She's going back east for Christmas. To Daytona."

Hardcastle ducked his chin sagely. "That's good, huh? She's not sitting around moping and all."

Mark nodded in slow agreement. "Yeah," he said. "She won't be alone."

"Right," the judge said abruptly and clapped his hands once. "And we really don't need a big lunch. There'll be a ton of food at the party tonight. Those guys always have a great spread."

Mark looked up sharply, first at him and then at the wall calendar.

"You forgot, huh?" Hardcastle prodded. "It's tonight. The party."

It was too late to plead indisposition, Mark figured and, what the heck, he'd never seen Hardcastle tie one on, but maybe the guy needed a designated driver. He sighed. Tonto's duties never ended. He nodded in way that he hoped didn't convey his reluctance. "Tonight," he said.

00000

He drove and Hardcastle directed. It was a catered deal, in the upstairs room of a union hall. Mark slipped in in the judge's wake, grateful for the anonymity of what looked to be a large and noisy gathering. The music was already pumping and the Christmas cheer was in plentiful supply.

Quickly assessing that he'd be more identifiable in Hardcastle's company, Mark made a quick diversion toward the back. The judge didn't seem to mind—he'd already hooked up with Carleton and a couple of apparent old cronies. Under other circumstances, Mark might have been curious about the war stories. Tonight he wasn't in the mood.

He snagged a beer from the barrel cooler and propped himself against the wall in an area that wasn't too crowded. He felt edgy. Even the pall of smoke aggravated him, making him miss his own pack with a nagging regret that he knew was just plain stupid. It was a habit he couldn't afford. Just one among many, but those little habitual comforts were what had gotten him through some rough times.

He must have been frowning. He became gradually aware that someone was frowning back at him—a thirtyish cop type with a buzz cut and a bulldog neck, nursing a beer and what looked like an attitude. It was more of a scowl than a frown but as soon as Mark had made eye contact with the man, the other guy's eyes shifted, and he seemed to go back to a conversation he'd been in.

There was ten feet separating them, but the feeling had been unsettling. Even more so, because Mark was fairly sure he'd never met the man. No name presented itself to go with the face, and he thought he had a pretty good memory for both names and faces.

He was still pondering this when a voice interrupted his thoughts.

"Got a light?"

Someone had taken up the space against the wall next to him. Medium height and build, sandy hair, and an unlit Marlboro.

"Sorry," Mark said. "Gave it up."

"Yeah, that's my New Year's resolution. But I've got a carton to plow through before then." The man quirked a grin and looked down at his coffin-nail ruefully. "Gonna miss 'em, though." He looked up abruptly. "Name's Handsup." There was a pause and then, "You're not gonna make a joke about it?"

Mark would have, ordinarily, but starting a fistfight at a cop Christmas shindig seemed ill-advised. "Joke?" he said innocently.

Handsup's grin broadened. "He does have you well-trained. I'm glad to hear the reports are well-founded," he added with a touch of confidentiality. Then his gaze tracked over to the bullnecked cop, still scowling into his beer. "Never mind Rickers. Just a sore loser."

Mark couldn't quite keep his puzzlement under wraps. He looked sideward at his new acquaintance. "Ah . . . ?"

"The pool. He's pissed because you outlasted him."

A little glimmer of light was beginning to illuminate the mystery.

"You must've figured there'd be a pool, didn't you? Maybe not, though—you never spent any time in a cop shop."

"Not if I could avoid it," Mark admitted. He didn't bother to introduce himself. It was now apparent that his companion already knew him. "This pool—you run it, I suppose?"

Handsup nodded cheerfully. "I always run the store. My percent off the top, everything else paid out in full. Only nobody's collected yet on the 'Hardcastle's Pet Con Pari-mutuel'."

Mark winced, but his curiosity was piqued. "And the proposition is?"

"How long before you jump ship, naturally. All methods inclusive—you bolting, him tossing you out, or the board revoking. See, Rickers over there, he'd covered three weeks and he thought after Gault threw you in the slammer back in October, that he'd walk away with the whole pile." Handsup shook his head slowly. "But it's not over till the fat lady sings. We had to get a ruling from the Commission on that one."

"'The Commission'?"

"Carleton and a couple of other disinterested parties."

Mark felt an ineffable sense of relief that at least Carleton hadn't grabbed a piece of the action. "I guess I owe the guy an apology." He smiled wanly.

"I think maybe you should steer clear of him," the officer said with a certain measure of seriousness.

"Anybody else I should be avoiding?"

Handsup looked around as though he were taking the question seriously. "Nah," he finally said. "I think the rest of them are pretty resigned. Still got a couple who are hoping for some late inning action. Me, my side bet'd be on Hardcase."

Mark stiffened slightly. There was a pause before he asked. "You mean he's in the pool?"

"Hell, yeah. Some of the guys thought that wasn't legit, him having insider information and all—not to mention some influence over the outcome."

"Yeah," Mark agreed glumly. He hadn't thought his mood could get much darker, but somehow this little vote of no-confidence had an unexpectedly bitter edge to it.

"But it was a pretty tempting proposition, ya know," Handsup seemed to be admiring it, in his memory's eye, "and we put it to a vote."

Mark looked up from his own contemplation. "What?"

"The prop," Handsup said, "when he found out there was a pool, back in September." He paused, studying the object of the bet with open curiosity. "He said he'd match the rest of 'em."

Mark shook his head. "That doesn't make any sense . . . unless he picked a bunch of dates."

"Sense? Nah. It didn't. And he only wanted one date." Handsup smiled mildly and dropped his voice to a passable Hardcastilian growl "'Indefinitely' . . . 'Course I told him he'd have to be a little more specific," he added, back to his normal register. So we finally hammered it out. He'd take the payout three years after the last regular wagered date is passed." The man was still smiling—a bookmaker's appreciation of the grand gesture. "Of course you know how it is when the betting line starts moving. Pretty soon other people want in on the action."

Mark was still absorbing the first part, he'd felt a flush of pleasant surprise that he'd tried to bury in a swig of beer but now he looked up, sharply. "Who?"

"Ah," Handsup furrowed his brow for a moment and then, "Lieutenant Harper, you know him? Kinda tight with the judge."

Mark nodded.

"And Carleton finally got in on it—I think maybe he got the nudge from Harper—and a couple other guys. That turned into a side bet, whether or not Hardcastle gets the whole pile. But it's getting kinda hard to find any takers for that one. I had to close the window."

"With three years to go?" Mark tried to keep the astonishment out of his voice. There were mornings when he would wager against Harper on this one. He shook his head.

Handsup shrugged. "The smart money has spoken."

"It's still a long-shot."

Another shrug from the man with the unlit cigarette. "It's getting shorter every day."

"I suppose," Mark said, granting this a thoughtful smile.

His companion nodded once vaguely and wandered off in search of a light. Mark watched him wending his way through the crowd. His gaze wandered around the room, lighting on Hardcastle, off in his own corner, in high form with a rapt audience that included a couple of detectives Mark knew. He looked utterly at home, almost as much so as in a courtroom.

He supposed he could wander over there and edge into the conversation. He'd listen some, maybe make a smart remark or two; the judge would expect it but . . . no. He didn't think he would.

Not here. Not tonight. Three years. It was longer than he'd ever spent in one place. Longer than he'd ever spent behind locked doors in one place. Somehow 'indefinitely' paled in comparison to the concrete blocks of exact dates. And for all he knew, the period hadn't even begun to elapse. There might be a wager or two yet to expire in the pari-mutuel pool. Not everyone here was shooting him glances of disappointed hostility.

It was frightening, in a way, someone having that much confidence—confidence in him. He tried not to stare in the judge's direction. He hadn't even asked Handsup how much money was at stake. It was irrelevant, in a way.

His musings were interrupted by another familiar voice. "He strong-armed you into coming, huh?"

Mark's head jerked to the right, toward the source of the dryly uttered comment— Lieutenant Harper.

"Oh," Mark tried not to appear surprised, after all, Harper was a cop, and this was a cop party, "hi, Frank." He'd avoided stumbling over that last word. It was Harper himself who had declared them to be on a first name basis. "Yeah," he added ruefully. "I was dragooned. I think this falls under the category of remedial socialization."

"With this crowd," Frank made a face, "I hope not. Talk about the primrose path." He shook his head.

Mark grinned.

"Anyway, I just dropped by to say 'hello'. Claudia doesn't want me crawling in at two in the morning," he added primly.

Mark gave him a nod, and also noted just who the man was saying hello to, and smiled his thanks for the support. He had half a temptation to thank him for his side bet, as well, but that would be tantamount to thanking Hardcase himself, and he was by no means ready to do that. Instead he made the word all-purpose and kept it light.

"Thanks. It's good to see a friendly face."

"No problem," Frank said and then leaned in slightly and said, "That was a nice thing you did for old Henry Willard . . . and I don't just mean the money." Frank lifted his glass in a half-salute. "He was one of the originals."

Mark's expression had become a little nervously fixed. He finally asked, "How'd you know?"

Frank's smile was enigmatic, and he only replied, "Word gets around," but the quick flick of his glance toward Hardcastle was more of an answer.

"Well . . ." Mark hesitated, "being on the outside . . . being an outsider, it's hard. It doesn't hurt to have a little help now and then."

Frank nodded with a look of agreement that was fairly thoughtful. There was a long pause before he added, "I think he'll make it though."

Mark squinted. There didn't seem to be much basis for Frank's opinion, which had been more than casually expressed, unless he'd switched lanes suddenly, and that without signaling his intentions.

Harper took one last swig from his glass and leaned over to park it on an abandoned table. "Merry Christmas," he said with a quick flash of a smile, "in case I don't see you again before that."

"You, too, Frank." It had come out a little more naturally that time. He thought he was getting the hang of being on a first name basis with at least one cop.

Frank was moving off through the crowd, this time making his way toward Hardcastle's corner. There was a hearty greeting and handshake and a friendly slap on the back, then Frank towed him over to the side slightly and a few more words were exchanged. Mark wasn't sure exactly how few because he made a point, at that moment, to be looking somewhere else. By the time he glanced back, Frank had departed and the judge was staring steadily in his direction.

Mark lifted his can in a general purpose party gesture which was accompanied by what was intended to be an 'a-okay' smile. It might not have been completely convincing. Either way, Hardcastle had broken off from his conversational group and was on the move.

He snagged a beer from the barrel—it looked like his first—and snapped it open as he approached. "You hit the buffet yet, kiddo?"

Mark shook his head and found himself snared by the elbow and being steered through the crowd.

"Come on, you gotta try the meatballs. I'll introduce you to the guy who caters this thing. His family's from Georgia. His dad ran rum with Bill McCoy during the Prohibition. He's got some stories . . ."

00000

They tried the meatballs, and the blue cheese things with the pimento, and the crab cakes, and even the quiche. Mark also ended up on a first name basis with Jake Neiderman, son of a reformed rum-runner, who did have a lot of stories, augmented by Hardcastle's recollection of a chance boyhood encounter with a moonshiner in the hills outside Clarence, and Mark's fateful repossession of a low-riding '76 Cadillac, in southern Georgia, which turned out to be loaded with gallon jugs of white lightning.

"Lot of trunk space in those old Caddies," the caterer observed sagely, with a level of practical appreciation that suggested his family had never completely abandoned the trade.

"You got pretty good probable cause just for having your rear bumper tapping the gravel in those parts," Hardcastle added. "That was the time Flip and Barb came and bailed you out?"

Mark gave him a sharp glance. "How the hell did you know about that?" He asked in disbelief. This was quickly followed by a suspicious narrowing of his eyes. "You interrogated her, huh?"

"Word gets around." Hardcastle shrugged. "Anyway, I've got a way with women."

00000

The conversation wandered some, from moonshine, to women, to other forms of practical education, to the differences between a small town Southern upbringing to being raised in the grittier parts of the Garden State. By then the crowd was clearing out, and what was left of the beers were bobbing in mostly melted ice water.

Niederman excused himself to direct the cleaning up. Hardcastle yawned widely and glanced down at this watch. "Almost midnight," he observed.

Mark startled, checking his own watch in disbelief—though it was hardly more reliable than a rough gauge in these instances. It was indeed five minutes to the hour, and about half the party-goers had departed.

"You need me to drive?" Hardcastle asked speculatively.

""Nah," Mark stood and shook himself out a little, "only had two and that was hours ago." He really had lost track of time.

He followed Hardcastle, who was receiving raucous farewells and season's greetings from the hardier and more persistent of the revelers. The wave of bonhomie even seemed to extend to him now, with an occasional pat on the shoulder and a "Merry Christmas". Mark nodded and smiled and shook somebody's hand.

Then they were down the stairs, and out the door, into the quiet night—not precisely crisp, but at least fresh and definitely cool. Mark shoved his hands into his pockets and hunched a little forward, striding along next to the judge.

The older man glanced to the side and observed, "You survived your first cop party."

"Just guys," Mark said bluffly. "They drink beer and stand around and talk about stuff." He paused, lifted his head, and ducked a quick look at Hardcastle. "A couple of 'em didn't seem to like me too much."

Hardcastle gave a quick grunt of acknowledgment. "That guy Ricker, huh? Yeah, well, that's what happens when you don't live up to some people's expectations."

"Not my fault he took a sucker bet," Mark said quietly.

There was a moment of silence. Mark kept his eyes straight ahead. He finally heard Hardcastle clearing his throat and then, "You heard about that, huh?"

"Word gets around."

"Handsup," the judge said with mild disgust, "always hanging out on the backside working on his handicapping."

Mark still didn't glance sidewards. He kept his smile to himself. This looked as close as he was going to get to a flat-out admission that Hardcastle was more than just in the know.

It was enough, and they walked the rest of the way back to the car, side by side in silence.