Disclaimer: These are not my characters and I make no profit from them.
Author's Note: The missing scene challenge continues with episode 16 of season one, "School for Scandal", in which Hardcastle suspects his old nemesis, master thief Arthur Farnell, has come out of retirement to open a clandestine school for the criminal arts. Faster than you can say 'Artful Dodger', he sends Mark undercover to matriculate. Mark wrangles a date with the homecoming queen, Farnell's girlfriend Trish, and slips the undercover leash when the action starts to heat up. But Farnell's onto him; he threatens to kill Trish unless Mark steals a top-of-the-line car from a showroom. He does it—with his usual combination of élan and goofiness. In the next scene, he's back with Hardcastle and all is—mostly—forgiven. So what happened in-between?
The Hard Way
by L.M. Lewis
It briefly occurred to him, as he was putting the pedal down and screeching out of the dealership—klaxons blaring and security guards charging out behind him—that he kind of enjoyed doing things the hard way. There was that little frisson that came with a clean getaway, just as long as you managed to duck all the bullets.
There weren't any bullets this time; one of the side benefits of dealing with rent-a-cops rather than goons. In fact, he suddenly realized, he'd just managed to exceed his gross income for the previous two and a half years in a little under six minutes.
Bad thought.
No, the proper way to look at this situation was to realize that he was tooling through West Hollywood at a little after midnight in a uniquely high-profile stolen vehicle, dressed like a second-story man. As if to confirm that idea, he heard a squad car's siren—no lights in sight but the sound was moving fast, possible toward the scene of the recent crime.
The adrenalin was gone, replaced by a cold shiver and the knowledge that he was one bad decision away from a bus ride back to Q. And the unfortunate truth was, he most likely had made that decision two hours ago when he'd chucked Hardcastle's wire away and followed Trish out of the restaurant.
Trish. In all the excitement he'd lost sight of the reason why he'd taken the car. Would Farnell really shoot her? Mark frowned. He had a number written on a card. Farnell had handed it to him as he'd exited the limo, carrying borrowed burglary tools and heading off to do his extra credit assignment. He was supposed to grab the car, drive it to the nearest safe location, and make contact with the master criminal.
The illogic of this was slowly dawning on him. Once he was out of sight of Farnell, holding a gun to Trish's head was hardly a viable threat. And Farnell was anything but illogical. The fact that he'd sent Mark off on his own to do this job, not even waiting for him close at hand to monitor his progress and reinforce the threat, suggested that his goal had been something else entirely.
He wanted you to get caught.
Why? What point would that serve? If Farnell was angry about him putting the moves on Trish, siccing a couple of pipe-wielding goons on him would have made more sense.
He knows you work for Hardcastle.
Mark had pulled up at a red light, all alone at the deserted intersection but determined not to commit any moving violations in his current get-up. The sudden, sharp realization of how blind he'd been made him want to put his forehead down against the wheel—maybe even to bang it a couple of times.
Stupid, stupid, stupid . . .
The light turned green. Despite his current preoccupation—a mix of self-loathing and aggravation—he feathered the gas, pulling away with a minimum of fuss. So far he'd been very lucky. Hollywood and its environs were among the few places where a guy could drive a car like this, in an outfit like his, and not be a totally anomaly.
He didn't think it could hold, though. It wouldn't be long before there'd be an APB out on the car. He gripped the wheel tighter, feeling the response of the engine as he fed it a little more gas. Where did he want to be when the hammer came down?
00000
It was a little after one in the morning when he finally turned in the drive at Gulls Way. He didn't bother to cut the lights or complete the last hundred yards at a dead coast. He wasn't sure if he could identify the emotion that overtook him when he came to a halt next to the fountain and saw Hardcastle—and only Hardcastle—standing on the front steps, arms crossed.
He knew he shouldn't be relieved. He would have described Hardcastle's expression as irate, if he were prone to understatement. Mark cut the engine and climbed out of the vehicle reluctantly—too late now to change his mind, he figured.
He had a weird sense of déjà vu, or maybe it was a flashback to a similar scene a few months earlier: the afternoon he'd returned from his first meeting with Tina Gray. At least this time he hadn't wielded a gun.
"What the hell is that?" Hardcastle barked.
As Mark stepped out from the shadows the judge's eyes narrowed down further still. "Wearing the school colors, huh?"
Mark glanced down at the black on black ensemble Farnell had loaned him, complete with leather gloves. At least he had ditched the borrowed tools at the scene though the rest of the circumstantial evidence didn't leave much to the imagination.
"You stole another damn car?" The judge asked. At least he had the decency to sound incredulous. "A Rolls?"
"No, um, an Excalibur. Just looks like a Rolls." Mark glanced over his shoulder briefly at it. "Nice, huh? Look," he said, "I can explain."
He approached the man on the stoop warily, stripping off the gloves as he went. Hardcastle wasn't hollering. He wasn't saying anything. That was probably a bad sign. But he did step aside a little at Mark's arrival, allowing him to pass inside and then following him into the den.
Mark realized the sense of déjà vu was growing stronger, only he had none of the feelings of self-righteousness that he'd brought home from his encounter with Tina Gray. He'd screwed up royally this time, dumping the wire at the scene and taking off on his own with Trish.
"Farnell was on to me."
"No kidding," the judge responded, in a surprisingly mild tone.
"On to me and Trish," he shrugged and sank into a chair, suddenly wearily aware that it had been a damn long night. "When we left the restaurant—" he winced, hoping he'd get away with glossing over the precise details of how he'd abandoned his back-up, "—he was waiting for us—his limo."
"How convenient."
"Yeah, well, he took us up to Beverly Hills, a specialty auto place. That was in the window." He pointed in the general direction of the Excalibur, sitting out in front of the house."He said he'd kill Trish if I didn't boost it." There, plain and simple.
The judge was scowling. "He told you to steal the car, but he didn't hang around to make sure you stuck to the plan?"
Mark shook his head.
"How does that sound to you?"
"Like a lousy way to make sure someone steals a car for you," Mark admitted.
"Lucky for him he was dealing with somebody who does this stuff by reflex," the judge observed.
It didn't seem like a very fair assessment to Mark, but since Hardcastle could have said a lot worse, he let it ride.
"So, did you have any trouble?" the older man asked.
Mark wasn't sure if he'd heard a note of concern there, or merely curiosity. He shook his head again. "No, not really."
"And you drove all the way up here without any cops noticing you—in that thing?" He'd strolled over toward the front window and was now gazing out at the stolen vehicle. Mark had to admit, the machine was gaudy as hell in its own elegant way.
"No," he said, "no problems."
"So, maybe you were starting to think Farnell wasn't really going to hurt Trish?"
"Yeah," Mark admitted reluctantly, "kinda looked that way to me."
"And as soon as you figured that out, you high-tailed it up here, figuring I could undo the damage?"
Mark swallowed hard. All this calm assessment was starting to sound like what the doctor tells you right before he says you only have a month to live. Still, it was all true.
"Here, yeah," he replied. He paused then went right to the bottom line; there didn't seem to be any point in dancing around. "Can you fix it?"
To Hardcastle's credit he seemed to be giving it some thought. He was standing there, over by the front window, his lower lip out a little ways. He seemed to be pondering the view, or the situation, or both.
"All the way from . . . where?"
"Beverly Hills."
"And nobody gave you a second look." It wasn't a question. He was shaking his head in grim amazement.
Then, just as abruptly, he stopped and turned back. "Go get out of that rig."
Mark looked down at the damning outfit. He'd forgotten he had it on. He got to his feet wearily. The judge glanced at his watch and grimaced, probably at the lateness of the hour.
"I'll call Jay Hamilton."
Mark nodded dully on hearing the detective's name. He'd known all along that this couldn't be contained. There'd be questions, and a good chance of him being taken into custody—after all, there was an irate car dealership owner out there somewhere who was short one Excalibur. But the next words from Hardcastle startled him out of this grim imagining of his immediate future.
"Go take a nap or something. You look beat."
Hardcastle was already parking himself at his desk. He made a little shooing motion to accompany his instructions and then reached for the phone.
Mark halted in his tracks, taken aback by the turn of events. "But—?"
"Well," Hardcastle grumbled, "you've done enough damage for one night, don'tcha think?"
He had, he was pretty sure, but there was something in the judge's tone that suggested the man himself thought otherwise. In fact, a firm advisory to go to bed with no proviso to return when the authorities arrived with warrants and handcuffs suggested the possibility that the latter might be avoided. Mark hated to push his luck, but he thought he'd sleep better if he wasn't listening for the other shoe to hit the floor.
"You think, maybe—?" He halted, embarrassed.
"Do I think I can pull your ass out of the fire?" Hardcastle finished for him. He wasn't smiling. "You better hope Jay believes in the romantic gesture." He shook his head and muttered, "Farnell holding a gun to his own girl's head. You are such a chump, kiddo."
He was and he knew it. Thank God Hardcastle, at least, believed in romance. Distrusted, disapproved of, and disliked it, yes—but believed in the power of it.
He gave the older man's assessment a chagrined smile of agreement and then turned and trudged up the steps toward the front door. He was wearier than he'd realized, and at least part of it was the consequence of more worry than he'd been consciously aware of. He was still a little worried, but leaving Hardcastle to man the phone and persuade the authorities, made it all a lot easier.
And there was something to be said for doing things the easy way.