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

Authors Note: In the third season episode, "McCormick's Bar and Grill", McCormick's ne'er-do-well, absentee father, Sonny Daye, returns to present his son with the deed to a run-down bar that he won in a shady poker game. Mark and Milt fail to examine the gift horse's teeth properly. Issues arise between Sonny and the former owner, mobster Doyle Madison. Hardcastle eventually has to call in the assistance of his friend, Lieutenant Harper, to help him sort things out. Harper already knows all about Sonny. I've always wondered what and when he was told. (And most of what follows doesn't align with earlier stories I've written.)

That'll Be the Daye

by L.M. Lewis

"Let me get this straight, Milt. We're talking about

Sonny Daye. The same Sonny Daye you haven't stopped

talkin' about since you and Mark got back from Atlantic City?" Frank Harper in "McCormick's Bar and Grill"

October 5, 1984

Frank Harper wasn't exactly sure what was wrong, or even when he'd first figured out that something was wrong. The evening had all the standard trappings of poker night at Hardcastle's. The usual list of suspects were consuming the usual beers and snacks. The lieutenant would have been hard-pressed to put a finger on what was off.

Mark, who'd become a semi-regular at these gatherings, was just slightly less attentive to the proceedings than usual. He still managed to win his share of the pots, but it wasn't with his typical boisterous enthusiasm. It was only a little after ten when he excused himself and departed. That was obviously too late for a date, and he didn't claim any particular indisposition.

Milt was making every effort to keep up appearances of normality, but he was off his game, too. Frank had started to feel it himself, after a while, the strain of pretending nothing was wrong when something most definitely was.

It came as no surprise then, that the evening broke up early. Hardcastle saw his guests to the door. Mattie managed to remain politely oblivious to the situation, with only an off-handed comment to Milt that she was free for lunch any day the next week or so, while from Charlie came a glance backward and a vague and uncertain nod as he followed her out the door.

Which left Frank, still standing in the front hallway. That wasn't uncommon, either, since there was a standing rule against talking shop at the poker table and he and the judge were inveterate shop-talkers. There was even a small matter Milt had consulted him on a few days back, right before he and Mark had blown out of town on very short notice. Frank fetched it up as justification for not following Charlie out the door.

"That guy you asked me to run a check on last week, the one with the funny name—"

He'd started out casually enough, only to be brought to a full stop by a startled look from Milt, who'd apparently forgotten the request entirely.

Frank waded back in. "You know, Sonny—"

"Daye," Milt finished.

So he hadn't forgotten. Frank gave the matter a quick nod and opened his mouth again.

"Well," Milt said sharply, "turns out it's a dead-end. I don't really need any more info. Sorry to have put you to the trouble."

Frank froze, his mouth still open through the hasty apology, but he didn't even have a chance to say "No problem, anytime" before Milt had shot the quickest of glances over his shoulder and then, leaning in slightly, asked, "Didja find much?"

There'd been no mistaking it, his covert look had been in the direction of the gatehouse, and that, combined with the impressions from earlier that evening, left Frank with an odd unease.

"Not much," he said warily. "It's an alias, looks like."

"A stage name," Milt corrected.

"He's had a lot of stage names." Frank paused, then edged forward. "He's done some time, too. Under another stage name."

"Yeah, I knew that." Milt made a face. It wasn't exactly disgust. Grim acceptance, maybe.

"Looks like he's mostly in New Jersey." Frank paused again. The light was dawning and it was getting suddenly easier to read his friend's face by it. "You and Mark wouldn't have happened to have been there recently, would you?"

This got him a grunt. It was an affirmative grunt that was followed by a brief but awkward silence. Frank knew all about those. He waited patiently for a three-count and then asked politely, "Did you happen to run into Mr. Daye while you were there?"

"Hmm."

At least it wasn't grunt. Something seemed to be simmering just below the surface and looked as if it needed to get out somehow. Frank kept his own expression neutral. Milt finally seemed to notice he was still there.

"You got a minute?"

Frank cocked his head. "You kidding? It isn't even midnight. If I go home now, Claudia'll think I lost my whole paycheck with you sharks." He risked a grin.

He was rewarded with a brief smile and then Milt gestured—not toward the den, cluttered with poker accoutrements, but down the hall. Frank preceded him. It was obvious that they were headed for the kitchen, as though the conversation might require a pot of coffee.

Milt said nothing further until they were settled, and the coffee-maker set to brew. Even then he seemed to be taking his time, grabbing mugs off the shelf and half & half from the fridge.

Frank had been starting to think he was just there for silent moral support when the older man finally sat down, exhaled a heavy sigh, and said, apropos of nothing in particular, "Must be the jet lag . . . yeah, it's three a.m. there." He seemed to think that one through for a moment and then added, "It's always three a.m. in Jersey."

"So," Frank said cheerfully, "how was the trip? You never really told me what you and Mark were doing out there." He'd put just the slightest emphasis on Mark's name.

Hardcastle looked pensive. He shrugged. "Aw, overpriced steaks, girls with lots of feathers, second-rate lounge acts . . . you know."

"You can get all that in Las Vegas. Why go all the way to the East Coast?"

Another shrug. "McCormick wanted to see this Sonny Daye character."

"A fan?"

"A son."

Frank had seen it coming. He kept his face arranged and nodded in what looked like no more than polite interest.

"They hadn't been in touch for a while," Milt said flatly. "Twenty-five years."

Frank did the math, discovered X equaled "five years old" and winced. "A divorce?"

"A desertion."

Frank nodded. It made sense in a way, with all the aliases. Those people tended to be light on the legal niceties.

"So how'd it go?" he asked tentatively. "I mean, the big reunion and all—"

Milt snorted. "I'll tell you one thing. McCormick made a smart move just flying out there and surprising him."

"And you along for a referee?"

"Hah, you don't need a ref if the other guy won't come up to the scratch." Milt shook his head. "Nah. No bloodshed. Not even any shouting . . . mighta been better if there'd been some shouting."

Frank thought about that one for a moment and then nodded.

Milt let out a sigh. "More like disinterest. Really, the whole trip would have been a wash if it hadn't been for that mobster, Tommy Sales."

Frank frowned. "'Mobster'?"

"Yeah. He wanted Sonny to bust into a federal judge's safe and retrieve some evidence."

There was a moment of mutual silence and then Frank ventured, "Guess it's true what they say about apples and trees."

Milt scowled. "They're nothing alike." The scowl persisted for a moment and then he resumed the story. "So me and McCormick convinced Sonny to go to the cops, and then Sales grabbed McCormick to put some pressure on Sonny." The scowl returned. "Except that lever wouldn't've worked on ol' Sonny. He was ready to split town as soon as he heard Sales had his kid."

There seemed to be nothing to say to that. That Mark had been present for the evening's poker session was proof that some lever had been applied somewhere, and it didn't take much effort to imagine who'd done it.

As if in answer to Frank's silent supposition, Milt muttered, "I had to lean on him some."

"Sonny?" That hadn't been Frank's first guess and Milt's shrug of confirmation brought the whole situation in to sudden focus for the lieutenant. "You mean you got him to crack the safe?"

Milt waved that away as essentially irrelevant. "All I'm sayin' is that I shouldn't have had to lean so hard. McCormick's his son, for Pete's sake."

Frank considered that for a moment, came to the obvious conclusion, considering who'd been doing the leaning, decided that wouldn't be received too well, and shelved it with a sigh.

Milt gave him a puzzled look that indicated he could not read minds, possibly not even his own.

Frank, still feeling around for an appropriate response, finally latched on to, "But all's well that ends well, right?"

For this he got another grunt, followed by a grumbled, "You might be right about that. As soon as the dust settled and we got McCormick back, Sonny skipped town. No forwarding address, nothing." Milt glanced away. It was an evasive, slightly guilty expression accompanied by a stubborn silence. It didn't hold for long before he admitted, "But McCormick might not agree."

It suddenly dawned on Frank that he was being asked for another favor, or at the least for his opinion.

"I think maybe some people shouldn't have kids," he drawled, buying a little time.

"But maybe all kids need a dad," Milt insisted.

"You can put the name on the birth certificate, but you can't make 'em play catch," Frank said flatly. "Look, you want me to run his name again, I'll do it. It might take a while, but guys like that usually show up somewhere eventually. But if you ask me, he's not a keeper."

"You think so?" Milt asked. There was a hint of hope to it, but he sobered sharply and added, "Yeah, but what about McCormick?"

"Oh, he's a keeper all right," Frank laughed, playing the misunderstanding for effect. "Anyway, give him some time. I think he'll be okay."

"Without his dad, huh?"

Frank smiled. "With or without."