A Matter of Trust
by
Samuela Bernetti
It was a glorious day, sunny and exceptionally warm for the time of the year, even for California. Judge Hardcastle was contemplating the cloudless sky from his kitchen window; a lavish meal was sitting on the table along with fresh orange juice. The man looked at what he'd cooked and decided he hadn't worked up an appetite yet, so he just poured himself a cup of hot black coffee, picked up his morning paper and sat at the table, determined to go through the sport section before breakfast. He leaned back on his chair, crossed his legs and shot a look at the clock on the opposite wall. Ten to eight.
He'll show up before I'm done with this.
After a while Hardcastle found himself contemplating the aforementioned wall and realized he didn't know yet whether he was going to pay or collect the twenty bucks he and McCormick had wagered on the Lakers game. He was wondering how many times the bills had gone back and forth in three years or so of bets. Since they bet on virtually everything—from pulse rates to speeding fines, not to speak of ball games—money tended to change hands pretty fast at Gull's Way. Handing over and collecting the cash had helped them to smooth the corners of a potentially lethal relationship since the very beginning and had turned into some kind of tribal ritual later on.
Unfortunately, Hardcastle thought, that didn't apply to The Bet. Using a wager to have Mark accept the money he needed for his education had been a good idea. Yet, as the whole fuss about the books purchase had already proven, the details of the payoff needed to be handled soon.
Soon had turned into 'the sooner the better' the day Mark had come to him, a large envelope in his hands and possibly the most troubled expression he'd ever seen on his young friend's face. The fee was almost overdue because McCormick hadn't been able to remind him to call the bank.
The fool kid.
He'd breathed a sigh of relief when Mark had gone along with his proposal without much bickering. It had been a matter of a few minutes really—he'd pointed out the obvious convenience of the arrangement, the kid had nodded his consent, he'd slapped his hands together and called the bank to make an appointment for the next day.
Once his own enthusiasm had subsided though, he'd started to wonder why there had been so little bickering. And now he was trying to decide whether that slight worry on the kid's face was actually a memory of the night before or just a dream-like by-product of McCormick's latest culinary experiment. Hardcastle was still considering and pursuing his lips when the kid in question stepped in from the back door almost startling him.
"Mornin' Judge." Without waiting for the man to return the greeting, McCormick closed the door hastily and walked straight to the sink.
"Hey." Hardcastle turned slightly on his chair to welcome the newcomer. As soon as the judge's eyes met Mark's face though, what was intended as a casual look turned into a stare. "You know," he said looking mildly displeased at the sight, "you outta put your books down and get yourself some decent sleep."
McCormick leaned casually against the counter holding the coffee pot and a mug, "I slept like a log, Judge," he said bluntly.
"To me it looks like you slept on it," Hardcastle said grimacing. He folded his paper in half and put it on the table. Then he watched Mark pour his own cup of the black liquid.
Mark conveniently took a quick swallow to hide his own grimace. "Doing an all-nighter has never killed anybody, Judge," he finally said, sitting at the table across form Hardcastle and sneaking a look at the man.
"You sure look so bad you could be the first."
The old donkey was clearly not inclined to let go of the subject—he'd frowned when he'd heard his excuse and was now looking at him intently. Although Mark knew Hardcastle's inquiring technique all too well, having experienced it on many occasions before, he couldn't avoid feeling edgy under the jurist's look. So he purposely ignored the man's piercing gaze, put a spoonful of scrambled eggs on his own plate, and began to inspect his food like a gold miner would examine debris on a sieve.
"I just needed to review my notes before tonight's lesson. I would have done it yesterday afternoon, but had things to do. And that was your idea." Then he stood up and went to the stove. "Is there any bacon left?" he asked. McCormick doubted his evasive maneuver would go unnoticed, but he needed to shake off the judge's stare—that man could read his mind and he didn't feel like being read.
Hardcastle wouldn't normally object to his friend making his own breakfast, yet he couldn't help but frown. He stared at the browned crunchy slices he'd cooked. "What's wrong with this?" he enquired touchily.
"Nothin', Judge." Mark answered, "Keep it; you might use it next time we run out of charcoal."
On hearing that, Hardcastle shifted his look from McCormick to the plate and then back again. "I thought you liked it crispy," he said prickly and then went back to staring at the young man who was busying himself with a frying pan.
"Yup. Crispy and chewable." Mark smirked.
Which response earned McCormick the first grunt of the day.
By the time Mark had fried bacon to his own satisfaction, the judge was done with his paper. They spent breakfast chatting about previous night's basketball result distractedly, both brains being occupied with their ten o'clock appointment. The only difference was that the judge was eagerly anticipating the moment, while McCormick was trying to keep himself from envisioning it.
Minutes before nine o'clock the two men got in the truck and headed downtown. Just after the driver had pulled into the PCH, the passenger gave him a swift glance. "You know Judge, you don't have to do this."
Hardcastle didn't take his eyes off the road. "I know I don't have to do this. I want to do it."
"I mean you shouldn't feel obliged," Mark clarified.
This time Hardcastle looked at the man sitting next to him, squinted a little and then turned his look back to the road. "I know what you mean. I've been speaking English for years now," he replied. "So that's what's been bugging you, huh? I thought we agreed," he said in a vaguely complaining tone.
"You agreed, Judge, I was just around when you made the decision." McCormick didn't bother to conceal the not-so-subtle shade of resignation in his voice. With that man it would have been futile anyway.
Hardcastle sighed lightly, his eyes glued to the skyline. "Listen," he began, "we made a deal and I want to make sure to meet my contractual duty without delays. And without having to rely on you, like last semester. You left the damn bill marinate on your desk for three entire weeks because you were afraid the figures would upset me."
McCormick interrupted his contemplation of the surroundings. "I know, that was dumb," he said.
"Dumb is just the nicest synonym of the word I'd pick."
"But it was kinda unintentional, you know," Mark protested mildly.
Hardcastle frowned. "What do you mean 'kinda unintentional'?"
"Well, I kept putting off because you were already dealing with that leak in the bathroom and then you had to replace the truck's suspensions and well … yes, I didn't want to upset you," McCormick finally admitted.
The judge thought he'd underestimated his friend's capability to fuss over things. "That's exactly why we're going to see ol' Larry Fedders, down at the bank," he said. And then added, "'Sides, we're not just dealing with money here. This is a matter of trust."
McCormick opened his mouth automatically, his first instinct being to ask why he'd chosen that word. Instead, he just offered quick reassurance. "I trust you, Judge," he said mildly puzzled, "I know you would never back off."
"It's not about you trusting me." Hardcastle paused and looked at his even more bemused passenger. "Nor about me trusting you."
The kid's face was a study in bewilderment now. "So whose trust are we talking about, Judge?"
"Yours. It's about you trusting Mark McCormick. Listen, you're no longer in my judicial stay, and you're too old to have to turn to me to foot the bill. Too easy that way, too. Besides, it's your money, you earned it, you decide what to do with it."
McCormick leaned forward turning fully to the driver with his back against the door, "But you know I would never back off either," he said in one breath.
"Yeah, I know. But you don't. And that's because deep inside that head of yours you still think you'll wind up quitting."
Much to his surprise, Mark heard himself say, "Well, it's a possibility."
Hardcastle didn't seem to be taken aback, "Of course it is, but you've gotten your chance to get ahead and I want to make sure that whatever the upshot is, it'll be because of your own decisions." He paused, then added, "And now relax and let me drive."
McCormick knew that tone. He'd heard the bang of a gavel at the end of the sentence, too. He had something else to say, though.
"I wouldn't want to give you the impression that I don't appreciate what you're doing, Judge. 'Cause I really do."
Mark hadn't meant to be solemn, but somehow he must have sounded so because Hardcastle looked suddenly uncomfortable.
"Yeah, well … ya know," he said shrugging.
"Yeah, Judge. I know." Mark beamed.
They lapsed into a silence occasionally interspersed with comments on the morning news they heard on the radio as they drove along.
They'd been ushered into Mr. Fedders' office by his attractive young secretary. Strangely, though, McCormick had barely acknowledged her presence. Rather than boosting his self-confidence, Hardcastle's lecture on trust and responsibility had made him feel even more despondent. The judge said he'd earned it, but that wasn't the word he would have chosen.
They'd wagered on a game of one-on-one and he'd won. Though 'Hardcastle had let him win' would be a more accurate rendition of the event. He'd even pondered the option of selling the Coyote after all, and repaying his debt, but he knew that would have hurt the judge beyond description, and eventually he'd reconciled himself to the notion that he would owe his friend forever.
And now this. He'd spent the night wrestling with that thought and now Hardcastle was shaking hands with the man who was going to perpetuate his uneasiness. He watched the two men exchange civilities. Then Fedders gestured his guest to their seats and the three of them sat down.
"So, Judge Hardcastle, what can I do for you?"
"Well, actually, I'm just acting as a friend of Mr. McCormick, here." He looked at the goggle-eyed man sitting next to him. "He'll explain." Then he smiled broadly and eased back in his seat making it clear that he was going to listen rather than talk.
"Mr. McCormick, of course. You're Judge Hardcastle's employee, if I remember correctly." Ol' Larry Fedders had already shifted his gaze from the judge to the younger man and was now staring at him.
"Er, well, yes I am his … his—"
McCormick had just begun to clear his throat when the judge chimed in, "He's my associate; we work together."
"Hmm, I thought I saw your name on some orders of payment issued by Judge Hardcastle," the man peered through some papers on his desk, "tuition payments." He looked up at the younger man, smiling.
McCormick suddenly thought 'Ol Larry bore an eerie resemblance to his math teacher. He turned to the judge with a pleading look.
Hardcastle couldn't help sighing. "This is precisely why we are here." He said.
ACT II:
ACT II
Martin Healy had been in his job as a bank teller for nearly a year. He hated it. He would have never even considered applying for the position if it hadn't been for his wife. She'd wanted him to give up his job as a paramedic, she'd wanted to be married to a nine-to-five guy, she'd wanted him to be home at nights and on holidays.
Now that she was married to a bank clerk who was home at night and spent every Sunday with her—with the added bonus of no more suspicious stains in her laundry—she'd gotten tired of him. What an idiot.
Healy had known his days as a bank employee were coming to an end, but when he saw a man in ski mask shoot Dave, the security guard, he thought this wasn't exactly the end he'd been expecting.
There were three of them. The one who had shot and disarmed the security guard was now waving his semi-automatic gun around, issuing orders to a frightened audience.
"All right, folks, hands up and quiet down if you don't want to join the man over there." He gestured towards the semi-conscious guard.
A dozen of people, between customers and staff members, did what they'd been told almost in slow motion and holding their breath. In the meantime, the other two had gone and checked the offices, and were now shepherding their occupants to the main room.
Being held at gunpoint wasn't exactly a new experience for Mark McCormick. This time, though, he'd been thrown a curve. After they got to the main room he'd instinctively looked at the judge, just like a sailor would turn to the stars to find his way at night. All he saw was Hardcastle's attentive gaze. He'd seen it too many times to mistake it—Hardcastle knew the guy, or at least he'd recognized something familiar in the man who looked like the gang's leader.
The man in question must have noticed Hardcastle's stare too, because he was heading towards the judge. On seeing the ski masked guy's steady gait, McCormick automatically took a step forward, interposing himself between the man and Hardcastle.
Without uttering a word, the robber pushed Mark aside with his gun and stood in front of Hardcastle, returning the glare. Mark watched the guy search the judge thoroughly, and knew the two of them had met before.
"If I were you, I'd be concerned with the guard's life. That's gonna cost you more than a robbery." Hardcastle nodded at the man on the floor. He'd been shot in the upper chest and was clutching the wound, with both shirt and hand covered in blood.
McCormick saw the robber get closer to the judge and bend his head slightly to whisper in Hardcastle's ear. He didn't need to make out the words to know that he was one of the judge's old clients. The hissing said it all.
Once he'd finished murmuring, robber number one pressed the barrel of his semi-automatic against the judge's chest, laughing softly. Hardcastle was still staring at him with a blank face when the man turned around and addressed Mr. Fedders. "You look like you're the big wig around here, buddy."
Looking at his boss's face, Martin Healy recognized a color he'd seen dozens of times during his previous life as an ambulance crew member, but never on a guy who wasn't sick or wounded—that was definitely the ineffable whiter shade of pale. Although the man looked like he was going to faint, he managed to stammer an answer that sounded like,"I'm the one and I'll do whatever you want but please don't shoot."
"Good, lead the way," Number One said. He didn't move right away, though, but turned towards the general audience. "Is there a doctor here?" he asked.
Martin Healy hadn't even realized he'd taken a step forward when he heard himself say, "I used to be a paramedic."
"Good," said Number One, gesturing in the direction of the guard, "take care of that guy, there." And then he headed for the safe along with Mr. Fedders.
"I need the first aid kit; it's in the bathroom," Martin Healy said, kneeling down to inspect the guard's wound. "And some paper towels—lots of paper towels."
Number Two looked questioningly at Number Three, who returned an even more doubtful gaze—too many people to keep an eye on, and they were already short of eyes.
Number Two had a look around the place. "You," he finally said waving his gun in Mark's direction, "go get the box." Then he moved closer to the man he'd addressed, "And don't try anything if you want your old man here back in one piece." He was nodding at the judge.
It occurred to Hardcastle that he'd never been mistaken for the kid's father before. Not that he was surprised—he'd come to terms with the nature of their relationship a long time ago and most of their friends would have said Mark was like a son to him, but the idea that a complete stranger—a hood on top of it—had sensed their bond on first sight was somewhat disturbing. He focused his eyes on his friend's features and build. They didn't look alike, not a bit.
McCormick shot the judge a quick glance, ducked his head slightly, examined his shoes briefly and then turned to go while Hardcastle watched him stride off and disappear down the corridor. And then he remembered it: the man approaching and the kid stepping between him and the guy's gun, on the reflex. As a son would do. And when that excuse for a man had pushed his gun against the kid's stomach, he'd still had to put his hand on McCormick's shoulder to make him back off.
McCormick was pondering how he might get to a phone, but had to dismiss the idea when he realized the bathroom was a long way from the offices and the guy with the gun was standing at the entry to the corridor keeping watch on his movements. Not to mention the threat. He knew better than to trifle with armed guys.
"Get a move on, pal!"
Nervous armed guys. It took him about twenty seconds to locate what he needed, take a look at what was inside the box, grab a pair of items, put them in his socks and exit the room.
VII. "How bad is it?" McCormick squatted down and opened the first-aid kit.
"Looks like the bullet hit the subclavian vein." Healy was trying to contain the hemorrhage by pushing his crumpled up jacket against Dave's wound. Then he raised his head and looked at the man in front of him. He'd forgotten that look. People used to look at him that way whenever he spoke the medical lingo. "Er, it is bad, but it could have been worse. At least it isn't an artery."
"What do you need from the box?" Mark asked.
"A pair of scissors and all the gauze pads and bandages you can find. All I can do is clean the wound and bandage it to contain the bleeding. We need to get him to the hospital soon." Then he turned to the nearest masked guy, "Do you hear me, he needs treatment!" To his almost unconscious patient he said, "Don't worry, Dave, you'll be fine."
McCormick thought Dave didn't look too good. The paramedic-bank clerk guy seemed to know what he was doing, though.
"Is there something else I can do?"
"Yes, press this one on the wound, while I cut his shirt."
Mark took the bundle of paper towels the man was handing him and did what he'd been told, then watched the guy cut through Dave's shirt and take it off.
Martin Healy was almost done with the shirt when a pale and sweaty Mr. Fedders and Number One reemerged from the back room, the latter carrying two heavy-looking bags. The other two robbers joined him, took one bag each and went towards the door.
Number One waited until Two and Three had gotten to the exit, then he began to approach the door, too, moving sideways, still wielding his gun. Once he'd drawn level with Hardcastle he stopped and looked sharply at the man who was staring at him intently, and gave him a mock salute.
Hardcastle thought he'd seen a lopsided smile underneath the mask. That smile and the disdainful look in the man's eyes were a familiar combination.
Having paid his respects, Number One resumed his crab-style walk to catch up with his colleagues. On reaching the exit he couldn't avoid looking down at the man lying on the floor. The clerk was dressing his wound and it looked as though the bleeding had subsided, but he still was damn pale.
Looking at the robber, McCormick had the fleeting impression that the view had caused the guy to wince.
All in all they'd done a terrific job—two bags full of fragrant green bucks in less than thirty minutes and only one weapon fired. Okay, the guy on the floor didn't look good, but he'd been doing his job—being shot just came with the territory.
Number Three was summing up his first experience as a bank robber while dutifully scanning the street before giving the all-clear. He'd rehearsed that bit so many times. First he took off his ski mask so that passers-by wouldn't be alarmed, then he stepped out and looked around—no traffic, just a few people walking along, no black and whites. Good.
He was striding briskly towards the car when he saw just what he didn't want to see: two cops approaching on foot. Number Three stiffened reflexively for a second then turned, frantically scrambling for the door. He collided with Number Two, who grunted as he dropped his bag of cash and went flailing backward to land on it.
"What the hell—?" Number One, who still had his back to the door, got the answer to his half-spoken question when he turned and saw Number Two toppling and then Number Three landing on him.
McCormick jumped up and tackled Number One from behind, sending the man sprawling and his semi-automatic skidding across the floor. Without missing a beat, Hardcastle moved to intercept the gun. Number Three franticly disentangled himself and lunged at him before he could reach it.
Mark was still occupied with the first man, but Number Two was up now as well. He hefted his money bag in a straight-arm overhead swing and brought it down squarely on the back of McCormick's head, knocking him unconscious to the floor.
Lieutenant Frank Harper was sitting behind his desk, working through his backlog, when the phone call came in. Five minutes later he was on his way to the bank, regretting his previous complaints about dull paperwork.
On reaching the spot, Harper counted four squad cars, a mobile response unit, and at least a dozen officers—among them a sergeant he knew.
"What do we have, Parker?"
"Two men, maybe more. Hernandez and Binder saw two guys leaving the place with big bags. They were heading towards the car." He pointed at a dark sedan parked along the opposite curb.
"I ran the plate." Parker fished out a small note pad from the inner pocket of his jacket and flipped through the pages. "It's registered in the name of Peter Morell, small-time hotel thief. He's been out for ten months now. I'm waiting to speak to his parole officer."
"Good. Any idea of how many people might be in there?"
"None. We haven't made contact yet."
Frank was pondering on how to tackle the question when his eyes spotted a familiar vehicle among those parked along the street.
Sergeant Parker saw Lieutenant Harper run his fingers across his face and heard a softly spoken, "Can't be," as the man walked off suddenly. He followed his senior officer, quickening his pace to catch up. The lieutenant approached a parked truck and peered into the driver's window.
"Lieutenant?"
"Milt's truck," Harper said, almost to himself. Then he leaned against the windows and shielded his eyes to look inside.
"Sorry?"
Frank took a step back and looked at Sergeant Parker as if seeing him for the first time.
"Who's Milt?" Parker asked.
"Judge Hardcastle," Frank sighed, "He's almost certainly in there," he said nodding at the bank and scratching the back of his head, "and Mark's almost certainly with him."
If Parker had asked how he could tell Judge Hardcastle was in that bank rather than, say, waiting for his appointment with the dentist in the next building, or picking up his car from the nearest garage, Frank wouldn't have known what to answer. And explaining how he knew McCormick was in there with the judge would have given him even more trouble.
He looked at the sergeant and saw him pressing his lips together and nodding slightly. He must have been familiar with the guys, too. Then he shook his head and headed for his car.
"Cops everywhere!"
"Easy as pie, you said! Look at this mess!"
"Shut up, Joey!"
Fifteen seconds of chaos had left another man on the ground, though apparently just unconscious, three edgy robbers and an increasingly hysteric group of hostages. The guys with the guns were no longer hiding their faces and were moving quickly, brandishing their guns nervously, and shouting wildly.
Among the general mayhem, Hardcastle had managed to drag Mark to the nearest corner and check his pulse. He's alive. His rejoicing was short-lived—somebody was pulling at his jacket.
"Back off, Hardcastle!"
The judge cast a last worried glance at his unconscious friend, then got slowly to his feet and turned to face the man. He came nearer to the now unmasked Number One and leaned heavily towards him, gritting his teeth.
"Your plan's full of holes, Harv," Hardcastle said, leaning even closer to the man so that the guy's gun was practically embedded in his stomach. "That kid's right," he said, pointing his finger at the youngest of the three, "you've made a royal mess of it."
"Shut up!" Harv bawled. "Shut up!"
Hardcastle went ahead instead, his voice low and intense, "Give yourself up right now and there's a chance you won't end your days in a state penitentiary."
"Not a chance, Judge." Harv stepped back to put some space between him and the unarmed man he was threatening with a gun. Then he turned his attention to the man lying on the floor.
"Your bodyguard?" he sneered. "You should've picked someone tougher." Then he summoned one of his henchmen, "Tied him up, Pete! Hands and legs."
McCormick woke up on a cold surface, his hands and ankles bound and his head aching like hell. He was lying on his left side. When he managed to open his eyes he realized he was facing a wall. He couldn't hear anything—no voices, no noises. Maybe his hearing had been damaged by the whack that had knocked him down. He rolled, pushing his feet against the wall, but once he got over on his back he couldn't shut his eyes fast enough to avoid being blinded by the overhead lights.
Deaf, blind. What else?
He eventually turned over onto his right side, propped himself on his elbow and got to his knees, and was now squinting at his surroundings through black, drifting spots. He was no longer in the main room. This was a smaller one filled with desks, chairs and file cabinets. He had to close his eyes briefly before going on with his inspection.
He opened them again and contemplated the walls. No windows.
Nothing ever changes, he thought. Somehow, wherever he was, whatever he was doing, he seemed to always end up in a room without windows. Before he could even figure out how to get to his feet without falling over, he was startled by the sound of the door opening.
Hardcastle didn't know whether to be relieved to see the kid all in one piece or worried about his state. McCormick had twitched at his arrival and was now staring with his mouth open. The judge was assailed by a gnawing doubt. Maybe this last whack on the head had been one too many—he might have some kind of brain damage.
Good Lord.
Or maybe it wasn't some worst-case scenario; maybe the kid was just suffering from amnesia.
"Kiddo?" he called out hesitantly.
"Ju-dge?"
Hardcastle closed his eyes and sighed audibly.
"You all right?" Mark asked.
"You're asking me if I'm all right? And why the hell are you staring?" Hardcastle hadn't meant to snap at his friend. He just needed a few more seconds to overcome the sheer panic he'd just experienced.
"You know what they say about staring at the sun?" Mark said. "Well, don't stare at fluorescent lights, either. 'Blinding' isn't just a figure of speech, believe me."
McCormick was expecting the judge's characteristic grunt-response, but heard another sigh instead. Then, as Hardcastle was getting closer, he noticed the man had his hands tied behind his back.
"C'mon, I'll help you get on your feet." Hardcastle said and then bent over, "Put your arms around my neck."
McCormick looked at his hands, then shook his head slightly smiling wryly. "This is gonna be weird, Judge."
"Just do it, for Pete's sake!"
Mark blinked hard and then did as he'd been ordered as gracefully as he could and let the judge haul him up.
The phone rang in the bank's main room. Harv let go of the venetian blind he'd been peering through, walked towards the counter, and stretched over it. He grabbed the receiver on the third ring and spoke low and clear into the mouthpiece, "Listen-up good, pal, 'cause I'm not gonna say it twice. There's a man in here with a bullet in his chest. The guy needs to get to the hospital soon, but that won't happen until you let us out. And just in case you're planning something cute, we figure on taking one of the other hostages along for the ride. You don't want to do anything that'll make it his last ride."
Across the street, Lieutenant Harper handed the receiver back to the officer sitting inside the van and tried to wipe the frustration from his face by rubbing it vigorously with both hands. Then he strode towards the Commissioner's car, bracing himself for the talk ahead.
"Lieutenant?"
Frank knew Emhart wasn't keen on asking direct questions, especially when he had the suspicion that he was going to be told something he'd rather not hear, and that could be summed up by the word 'problems'.
"They shot someone, probably the guard, but won't release him until we let them flee. And they're going to take a hostage with them to make sure we do," Frank summed up.
"Impossible. We can't let them do that," Emhart said, causing Harper to wonder whether the guy was making use of the royal 'we'.
Frank knew the guy too well not to know what he was getting at, but pretended otherwise. "They won't accept mediation."
Emhart narrowed his eyes. "I wasn't thinking of mediation," he said with a frown.
"I would advise you against raiding the place, sir. We don't know exactly how many people are in there. Worse still, we don't know who we are dealing with. They might be crazy enough to cause a bloodbath."
"Do you think they would?" the Commissioner replied in a serious tone.
"Well, I'd say we can't afford to find out. The guy I talked to sounded like he would, anyway."
Harper thought he was perhaps overstating the case, but he was determined not to endanger the hostages, not to speak of his friends. He was trying to decide how to tell Emhart about their presence in the bank. With anybody else that wouldn't have been an issue, but the commissioner had a long-standing score to settle with Milt—Hardcastle had thrown him out of the witness box some fifteen years ago and, as if that wasn't enough, had called him a 'jackass'. Twice.
"We can't afford to let them get away with it, either."
"There are at least two unmarked cars ready to tail them. They're going to unload the hostage along the way, and as soon as they do, we'll be right on top of them."
"What if they reach the Mexican border?"
Again, Frank read the guy's mind, 'bad press'. "Well, in that case the reporters will say we let them get away, but at least they won't be able to blame us for triggering a slaughter. And there are two people in there who could lend us a hand." There, that's that.
Emhart seemed to puzzle over that last bit. "You have your men in there?" he finally said disbelievingly.
"Well," Harper hesitated, "yes and no."
"What do you mean, 'yes and no'?" Emhart puzzled.
Harper drew his breath in sharply, "Judge Hardcastle and Mark McCormick," he said and then sighed heavily.
On hearing that much, the Commissioner's face turned to cobalt violet and his eyes looked as if they were about to pop out of his head.
"Har—? What—?"
"You done fiddling with that rope, yet?"
McCormick was behind the judge, trying to free his friend's hands without falling down, his own hands and legs still bound.
"I'd be done if you stopped fidgeting, Hardcastle! Besides, it's not that easy to work on a rope with your hands tied, when you can barely stand."
Hardcastle responded with a grunt and then added, "We need to get outta here, ya know."
"Yeah, I know. I'm nearly done. By the way, Judge, how come they didn't throw you in here with me in the first place?"
A perfectly legitimate question, the kid never missed much. "Their leader wanted to keep an eye on me."
"Hmm, I knew he was familiar with you," Mark replied a tad smugly.
"Yeah, well, old story."
"Yeah, I bet. What did you say to make him change his mind, anyway?" McCormick asked curiously.
Hardcastle turned his head to the left trying to face his young friend, "What makes you think it was something I said?" he enquired.
Mark stopped working on the rope and looked up to meet the judge's eyes, "Your hands were tied up and the guy was keeping an eye on you. That leaves your mouth," he said as if stating a scientific truth.
"Okay," Hardcastle said, grimacing and turning his head back to the door, "I said even an idiot would be smarter than him."
McCormick snorted, "Yeah, I figure you would," he said with a grin. "Sounds like you've got some score to settle with the guy, Judge. What did he do?" McCormick asked before focusing his attention back to the disentangling task.
The judge went for vagueness, hoping the kid would be too busy to pay attention to Harv's criminal resume. "He stole stuff."
"Seems he's moved up the criminal ladder," Mark said casually. Then, as if on second thought, he added, "What kinda stuff?"
You shoulda known better. "Er, lotta things—money, jewels. Cars, mostly."
"And you never got to put him behind bars, huh?"
The kid sounded unconcerned, so Hardcastle tried to sound equally casual when he said, "I sentenced him to a year's suspended sentence."
McCormick was now staring open-mouthed at the judge, or rather at the back of the judge's head. "A year's suspended sentence? You? You've got to be kidding me!" Then, speaking in a tone between sarcastic and amused he added, "What did he steal? A Ferrari car model?"
Hardcastle couldn't help a sigh, "A Mercedes-Benz," he said and then, "A real one—grand theft auto."
Even though he had his back to McCormick, Hardcastle knew Mark was staring at him, so he turned.
Grand theft auto. Possibly the three words McCormick hated the most, along with 'prison' and all the possible variations thereupon.
"You can't be serious?" he said looking straight in the judge's eyes, "You gave that guy a slap on the wrist and sentenced me to two years for the same crime?"
If that was a complaint, it didn't sound like one. Nor did it sound like an accusation. It was, Hardcastle noticed, just what it seemed: a question. He looked at his friend. McCormick's bafflement was so intense that Hardcastle couldn't phrase his answer coherently, "First offense. Very young. Bad judgment."
"Bad judgment indeed," Mark said, sounding and looking more and more peeved, "Just curious, Judge, did that 'bad judgment' have something to do with my two-year vacation in Quentin?"
Be careful now. Hardcastle met his friend's eyes. "Every judgment stands on its own; you should have learned that by now. I may have been wrong about him, but I was right about you."
McCormick suddenly found he couldn't stand the judge's stare any longer. He dropped his eyes and spoke quietly, his indignation completely gone. "You know Judge," he said, "we've had this discussion more times than I can remember and I know you'll never change your mind about it; but let me tell you that after all of this time it really hurts to hear that you still believe I deserved it."
Then it was Hardcastle's turn to puzzle. "What … the hell are you talking about?" he got closer to McCormick forcing the man to look at him in the eye, "It's not your sentence I was talking about. What I meant is that I was right about you. That I knew you would have turned out well. That's what I meant. What the hell do you think I did what I did for?"
Mark felt his eyes stinging and realized he'd been gazing without blinking for too long. Their faces were so close to each other all he could see were the man's eyes, much like that first time in the judge's chambers.
It felt awkward, yet he couldn't help wondering what exactly Hardcastle had been referring to. For a split second he'd thought he'd ask, but then he came up with his own answer.
"Yeah, Judge, I'm sorry," he said, "It's just that whenever I look back to what happened I can't think clearly. I thought I'd gotten over it, but it keeps cropping up at the weirdest times."
On hearing Mark's words the judge experienced an odd sensation—something close to relief but verging on shame. There was some sadness, too, and he found the view of his distressed young friend unbearable.
He turned away, offering his still fastened wrists. "'S okay, kiddo," he said in soothing voice. "Now go ahead with that rope, will ya?"
Eventually Mark freed Hardcastle's hands and the judge helped him to loosen his own ropes, but they still needed to find a way to get out of the room.
"So, what did you find to pick the lock?" the judge asked as soon as McCormick had gotten to his feet.
"What did I—? How do you know—?" McCormick trailed off, totally mystified.
"'How do I know?'" Hardcastle shrugged. "I know you. Something you found in the first-aid kit, I bet."
"Sometimes you really scare me, Judge," McCormick kneeled down to examine the lock, still shaking his head. Then he pulled up his pants legs and pulled down his socks, "A nice pair of tweezers and a safety pin," he triumphantly declared, a mischievous grin tugging at the corner of his lips.
Hardcastle watched McCormick dismantle the pin and attach what was left of it to the tweezers. He thought that taking lock picks away from a guy was a lot easier than keeping them away from him.
Hardcastle pointed out the items, "Why did you pick that stuff?"
"'Cause I couldn't find nothing more suitable to fix up a lock pick." McCormick answered in the most natural tone and without averting his eyes from the job.
There you are. "I mean how did you know you were going to need one?"
Mark stopped tinkering with the pin and looked up, "I don't know, Judge. I'd like to say it was a shrewd idea, but I didn't really think of it. It was kinda automatic—I just did it." Then he focused his eyes on the judge's face narrowing them a little, "Besides, you're the one who knew I'd do it, so why don't you explain it to me?"
Hardcastle was taken aback by the kid's remark and equally surprised by his own quick response, "You did it because you're a pessimist."
"I am a what?"
"A pessimist."
"Oh, really?"
"Yeah, you are. You always expect the worst. And in your case the worst is to find yourself locked somewhere."
"Fine analysis, Judge, but I have to point out a hole in your reasoning—bullets scare me way more than locks."
"But you can't stop a bullet with a pair of tweezers and a pin. Besides, I'm talking about subconscious fears."
McCormick almost dropped his contraption. "Subconscious fears? Where did you get that from?"
"It's in that book of yours," Hardcastle said matter-of-factly.
"You shouldn't be reading my psychology books, Judge," Mark said, looking wryly amused.
"Why not? They're interesting," Hardcastle protested.
"Because I read them to get an edge over you. This way you're thwarting my efforts." McCormick smiled broadly.
The judge groaned and waved a hand at the kid, who had just finished assembling his device and was focusing his attention to the lock, still shaking his head and grinning.
Harper was engrossed in the study of a road map.
"You talked to the guy's parole officer yet?" he asked as soon as Sergeant Parker came into view.
"Yes—he said he heard that Morell's teamed up with a guy named Zarkovsky, Harvey. I ran a check on him."
Again, Parker fished out the notepad and thumbed through it.
"All-purpose hood—B&E, burglary, car theft. The guy's got a juvenile record, too. And he's the best candidate for last month's bank robbery in Culver City. He's been on the run since."
"Sounds like our man." Frank said, "Must be the one who hung up on me."
"What are we going to do, Lieutenant?" Parker asked tucking his note pad back into his pocket.
"I'm going to give it another try, see if I can knock some sense into the guy. Maybe he'll be willing to let the wounded out if I point out he's got everything to gain. I wouldn't bet the farm on it, though."
"Judge?"
"Huh?"
"What are we going to do after I get the door open?" McCormick tried not to sound worried.
"Not much to pick from, here. Sneak up on 'em and knock 'em out."
"I hate to state the obvious, Judge, but it's three of them against two of us. On top of that, they have guns and we don't."
"I guess we'll have to improvise."
Hardcastle watched his friend probe the lock skillfully and waited for a comment. None was forthcoming.
"You worried?" he finally asked.
McCormick didn't have to give the question much thought, "Nah," he said, his gaze glued to the lock, "improvisation is my specialty."
After that they heard the metallic click of the lock.
ACT III:
McCormick turned his head and shot Hardcastle a meaningful glance raising an eyebrow. Then he started to get back on his feet, ready for the improvising job.
Just then the door banged opened with a blow that hit Mark's left shoulder and sent him tumbling to the ground. He instinctively stuck out one hand to break his fall, but realized that had been a bad idea when he found himself sprawled on the floor with a sore cheekbone and a throbbing wrist.
"Don't move!"
Still holding his breath and lying on his side, McCormick managed to open his eyes, ignoring the pain that dimmed his willpower. A pale young man, almost a kid, had a gun on Hardcastle. He was yelling and waving his weapon around edgily.
"Don't move! Back off!" he shouted frantically.
"Okay," Hardcastle stepped back, then he gestured at the weapon. "Easy with that, son. Somebody could get hurt."
"Back off! Against the wall!"
Hardcastle sneaked a look at his friend on the floor. McCormick had his eyes open and was trying to prop himself up on one elbow. Hardcastle wanted to engage Joey's attention long enough to allow Mark to get on his feet and catch the hood unawares, but before the judge could open his mouth, Joey turned to the man on the floor.
"You, too" he cried, addressing McCormick, "against the wall!"
McCormick got to his knees slowly and then started to rise. The moment he was on his feet he thought he was going to fall again. He felt his head pounding, as though from a surge of blood. His vision went red. He stiffened to resist the pain and moved unsteadily towards the judge, staggering noticeably.
Hardcastle grabbed him by the arm. "You okay?" he asked, and then took a closer look at the bruise already visible on the kid's face.
Mark didn't have the time to lie to the judge. A man appeared in the doorway, a gun in his hand. The guy was glaring at Hardcastle.
That's him, Mark thought.
Harv stepped in, staring straight at the judge as he headed towards him. When he reached the spot where Mark had been lying he stopped short and glanced down. He squatted and picked up McCormick's crude pick, studying it closely. Then he looked at Mark and stood.
"Hanging around with thieves?"
Though the question—which in truth sounded rhetorical—was clearly addressed to Hardcastle, Harv hadn't shifted his gaze; he had his eyes locked on the battered guy next to the judge.
In spite of his struggle to stay upright, Mark returned a steady look. Then he mustered all the strength he had left and let smart-mouthed McCormick emerge.
"Car-thief, to be precise," Mark glowered, "But I'm not in the business anymore. What about you? Did you start holding up banks because you couldn't drive fast enough?"
Harv glared at Mark. He sniffed disdainfully and then shifted to the older man.
"Oh, oh, I see," he sneered. "He's not your bodyguard. He's your pet. Too cute." Then he went back to looking at the younger man.
Hardcastle glanced at Mark. The kid's jaw was clenched—so was his fist. To anyone else McCormick would have looked threatening, but he could tell his friend was in a lot of pain. Despite that, he also knew Harv's nose was about to meet the kid's straight right.
"You don't think you're going to get away with it, do you?" The judge asked, placing a restraining hand on McCormick's arm.
Hardcastle's diversion worked fine. Harv shifted his attention from McCormick back to the older man. His demeanor and tone changed accordingly.
"Why's that? Because you say so? This ain't no damn court, Hardcase," he said through gritted teeth, almost spitting in the judge's face. Then Harv took a few steps back waving his gun in the direction of the door.
"Let's go."
Not having released Mark's arm, Hardcastle gave it a gentle squeeze and steered him towards the door, the hoods following along at a short distance, still holding them at gunpoint.
The corridor to the main room was endless, or so it seemed to McCormick. He'd been on the verge of collapse a couple of times, and would certainly have done so if the judge hadn't tightened the grip on his arm. His cheek throbbed painfully, so did his left wrist. He felt dizzy and exhausted, and the incessant ringing in his ears, that had started with the last blow, was stretching his nerves to the breaking point. None of that qualified as more than a nuisance, though, compared to being jeered at and threatened by that scum.
Hardcastle grimaced. Two whacks on the head. And he can't stand. At the least he's got a mild concussion.
His initial assessment of Mark's condition had been depressingly accurate. He'd developed an eye for that kind of thing, especially when that kind of thing happened to McCormick—basically because that kind of thing happened to McCormick a lot.
And whose fault is it?
The small party was halfway down the corridor when Mark stopped short, turning around abruptly. The maneuver had been so quick and unexpected that Harv almost jumped, while Joey bumped unceremoniously into the judge's back.
"I need the toilet," Mark said, not acknowledging the commotion he'd caused. He headed for the bathroom, holding his stomach with one hand and reaching out for the door with the other.
Although momentarily taken aback, Harv reacted before McCormick could cross the threshold. "This ain't no picnic, pal," he said, grabbing Mark's shoulder. "You'll go later."
"Sorry, pal—this can't wait until later." McCormick got closer to Harv, his hand still on the door. "Or I can just puke up my breakfast right here, if you want." Then he closed his eyes, swallowing audibly.
Mark didn't know whether to thank his pasty face, or the revulsion that vomiting never fails to trigger. Harv took a step back, letting him slip between the now open door and his gun.
Walking towards the first stall, McCormick felt the stares. He knew at least one of the onlookers was squinting at him, trying to guess what he had in mind. He desperately wished there really was something to be guessed at.
At that moment he heard the sound of excited voices from the main room. Although he couldn't make out the words, Mark was almost positive the louder voice was the clerk's.
He didn't turn or stop. The diversion he needed had finally come.
Harv swatted Joey's shoulder. "Stay with him in the john. If he tries anything, shoot him."
Then he shoved the barrel of his gun into Hardcastle's back, steering him down the corridor.
Joey watched Harv and Hardcastle depart hurriedly, then spun on one foot to catch up with his limping assignment.
Only seconds had elapsed. Mark was barely in the stall with its door still swinging shut. Joey dashed in, managing to reach the door and push it open before it could be latched. He was awkwardly placed with his weight off-balance when the door came slamming back into his face with McCormick's full weight behind it.
"Sorry kid." Mark muttered, looking down at the effects of his assault. Joey was lying, face up and eyes closed, where he'd fallen.
He dragged the man to the sink and tied him to the drainpipe with a rope he yanked one-handed from the blinds. He considered gagging him, but eventually dismissed the idea. The only thing available was toilet paper; it would be both ineffective and unnecessary. If things went as he hoped, the kid (who looked a lot younger now that he was unconscious) would wake up properly handcuffed in a police van, and if not—
What if not?
With one last look at his captive, McCormick got to his feet, picked the gun up from the floor, and headed for the door.
"Can't you see he's dying!"
Martin Healy was shouting at Pete at the top of his lungs and gesturing wildly, as if a combination of volume and gesticulation would somehow get through to their captors. Pete stayed tense and silent, tightening and releasing his grip on the gun.
Hardcastle strode to the room, Harv's gun still pushed between his ribs, completely absorbed by his worries about was going on both in the room he was entering and in the one he'd just left. Once he saw what was happening, he didn't need Harv's encouragement to get him to the spot where the guard was lying.
Harv gazed down at the injured man. He glared at Pete and then turned to the bank clerk.
"Fine job, doc," he said angrily.
"I'm not a doctor," Martin Healy retorted, "and I told you he needed hospital treatment. And why the hell did you shoot him?" His frustration had flared into genuine anger and he did nothing to hide it.
"I can shoot you too." Harv pushed his gun against Healy's chest, making him step back.
Healy stiffened abruptly, suddenly aware that a bullet would kill him no matter what the distance between the barrel and his chest—he'd seen plenty of such wounds in young men, bleeding to death in the streets.
"This isn't gonna do you any good, Harv." Hardcastle's voice grabbed Harv's attention, distracting him temporarily.
"Let the man get out of here now. You can take me to cover your flight. They won't risk a superior court judge's life." Hardcastle jerked his thumb towards the street. "I have friends out there."
"I don't need your advice, Hardcase!" Harv yelled with mounting frustration.
"The hell you don't. If this man dies it'll be first degree murder in the commission of an armed felony. That's a life sentence without parole."
"I'm not planning to get caught, Judge." Harv articulated "judge" as kids sometimes do with swear words when they want to irritate adults.
"You mean like you weren't planning to shoot a man and get yourself trapped in here with a dozen hostages?"
The telephone rang.
Pete went to the counter and picked up the receiver. He swallowed, "Hello?" he said, without much conviction, and then, "Lieutenant Harper." He handed the mouthpiece to Harv, who snatched it from him.
"Look, Harper," Harv growled, "there's one of your buddies here who just offered to escort us. And there's a bullet in my gun with the name Hardcastle on it. Do you hear me?"
At any other time a threat to his own life would have been enough to make the judge to pay attention to what was being said. Under these circumstances, though, his mind was elsewhere. He wondered how long it would take Harv to realize that his man and McCormick were supposed to have been out there by now.
With his back to the corridor, Hardcastle didn't realize that McCormick had gotten to the doorway just in time to witness the phone call. Knowing that Frank was out there was somehow a relief to Mark, but he also knew there wasn't much Harper could do for them. He had to think quickly and act even faster—letting them flee with the judge was not an option.
On the other hand, although he had a gun and the element of surprise, he didn't think his shooting skills would allow him to deal with two armed men who were surrounded by hostages they wouldn't hesitate to use as shields. He looked down at the gun and then at the judge's back. Wrong hands for a semi-automatic.
Here Hardcastle. I'm here, just turn your head.
Just then Hardcastle scratched the back of his neck to relieve an itch and instinctively turned his head slightly in the direction of the corridor. He had to suppress a grin when he saw Mark squatting down behind a desk near that doorway. He moved a little further to the right to make sure no one else would see the newcomer and jerked his head imperceptibly as a sign of acknowledgement.
Then the judge made a go-back gesture with his hand. McCormick didn't understand but quickly complied. He got up, still undetected, and retreated back into the corridor as far as the bathroom. He stopped and waited, trying to figure out what Hardcastle wanted him to do. There was a utility closet directly across from the bathroom. After a moment's thought he opened the louvered closet door, stepped in, and closed it silently behind him. Still uncertain, he peered between two of the narrow slats and waited.
Once McCormick was gone, the judge let a few seconds pass before starting his performance. This time he made sure that everyone was looking at him as he turned back to sneak a look at the corridor, pretending to be inconspicuous.
"Where the hell's Joey?"
Although Hardcastle had been expecting the question, it surprised him that it came from Pete. Harv had just slammed down the receiver, having adding a few additional threats to the judge's life for good measure.
The two robbers exchanged looks.
"Damn!" Harv said under his breath. Then he stalked off, brandishing his gun.
McCormick was still pondering his options when he heard heavy footsteps approaching swiftly. He rested his forehead on the inside of the closet door, clutching the gun tightly in his hand. The sound of the steps stopped abruptly. McCormick opened the door slightly, just enough to free it. Harv was at the bathroom door, his left hand on the knob. He seemed to be pondering his options, too. He finally pushed the door open, but didn't step in.
Enough of this.
McCormick flung the closet door open and barreled into Harv, slamming him into the bathroom door and down onto the floor Harv's gun went flying, landing against the opposite wall.
But Harv was only momentarily stunned. He rolled and struck out wildly with a right cross that smashed into McCormick's face. Mark fell back against the wall, dazed. Harv got on his knees and swung again, McCormick's plunged to the right, dodging it, and Harv's fist smashed against the wall.
Mark scrambled up unsteadily, fueled only by a rapidly diminishing supply of adrenaline and clinging to the door with his sore hand. Harv was on the floor, trying to rise. McCormick still clutched Joey's gun in his other hand. He looked at the weapon and then tossed it away. Then he grabbed a fistful of Harv's shirt. He looked him in the eye for a split second before delivering the blow that put Harv down for the count.
A satisfied grin appeared on Mark's face just before he felt his legs no longer supporting the rest of his body and he collapsed in a heap.
ACT IV:
Back in the main room, Harv's sudden departure had made Pete even more nervous. What had started off as a relatively easy bank job was growing more complicated with each passing moment. He paced back and forth, between the wounded guard and the hallway, muttering increasingly incomprehensible words.
Hardcastle watched him, monitoring his every move. He knew Harv could trigger a red alert from the back any minute and he feared Pete's reaction. He knew too well that the worst moment in a hostage situation was the instant the kidnapper realized there was no way out.
It occurred to him just then that Harv might be reaching the same fatal conclusion. And he'd intentionally sent the man to hunt Mark. The kid had a gun, but he would hesitate to use it, no doubt about that. Harv would never return that favor, no doubt about that either—he'd already been proven to be trigger-happy. Hardcastle glanced over at the guard. A shot in the chest. Blurry images of a ravine started to play in his mind: a body at the bottom, leaves all around.
His heart sank.
Not this time, he thought angrily.
Holding tight to that resolution, Hardcastle roused from his day-nightmare and scanned his immediate surroundings, looking for something within reach that would work for what he had in mind. He finally spotted the right tool for the job, his eyes lingering on the thing for a second.
That will do the trick. It has to do it.
Hardcastle eased back almost imperceptibly toward the nearest desk, reached behind him and resting his palm on the paperweight sitting there. He wrapped his fingers around the object until it was nestled firmly in his hand. Then he straightened his arm slowly, letting it come to rest against his side.
He addressed Pete. "You'd be doing yourself a favor if you let the police in. I'd testify in your behalf before the court."
Pete stopped short and fixed the judge with a lopsided grin. "You would?" he enquired sarcastically.
"Sure, you didn't do the shooting, did you? I'm a judge, you know, I still have friends th—"
"Yeah, you have friends in prison, too," he said, as he walked toward Hardcastle. "I've been inside. Can you guarantee I won't go back there?" He stopped in front of the judge, waving his gun under his nose. "I don't think so," he said, without waiting for an answer.
"This is a big mistake. You're gonna regret it."
"Oh yeah? When?"
"Now." Hardcastle hurled the paperweight onto Pete's foot with a perfect snap of his wrist.
Pete let out a yell of pain and automatically lifted the offended limb, bending over to grasp it. He'd barely realized he was standing on one foot with his gun aimed down, when Hardcastle's fist crashed into his nose. The next thing he knew he was sprawled on the ground, stunned. Without missing a beat, Hardcastle snatched the gun.
"Get up!" he ordered, grabbing Pete's shirt and lifting him as if he were a puppet. Then he turned to the bank clerk. "Get out there," he said pointing his finger at the door. "Move slowly, keep your hands up. Give them the all-clear."
Then he set out, pushing his reluctant and unsteady prisoner ahead of him down the corridor.
Hardcastle had already considered every possible scenario by the time he halted his captive at the bathroom door. No gun had been fired, so the chances were good that Mark had managed to disarm Harv. Still, the judge wouldn't risk his friend's life on assumptions, no matter how reasonable they were. He pressed his ear against the door.
Nothing.
After that he looked at Pete and jerked his head. "Call him," he ordered in a hoarse whisper.
"Harv!" the man called out tentatively. "You in there?"
No answer.
Hardcastle reached for the doorknob and turned it cautiously, then pushed the door part-way open slowly and looked inside. Through the narrow space he saw McCormick on the floor, face down and unmoving. He felt his breath catch. He flung the door open, dragging Pete behind him. He dropped to one knee next to Mark and, for the second time that morning, felt for the kid's pulse while his own heart skipped a couple of beats. Then he closed his eyes, sighed heavily, and started breathing again.
He grasped McCormick by the shoulders and gently turned him over. Some blood was oozing out of a fresh cut on the kid's forehead but he was breathing steadily, too.
As relief flooded through him, Hardcastle heard a series of light steps behind his back. He raised his gun and made a quarter-turn, aiming it at Pete.
"I wouldn't do it," he said dryly.
Pete dropped the gun he'd just scavenged from where Mark had tossed it earlier. He straighten and stood with his hands up.
His stance hadn't changed much when Frank stormed into the room. He looked at Mark, then at the judge. The lieutenant took a deep breath, closed his eyes and heaved a huge sigh. He reached into his tactical vest for his radio and issued an all-clear, along with a request for medical assistance.
Frank put the handcuffs on Pete personally. Joey, now scowling sullenly from below the sink, was cut loose and handcuffed as well. Harv was the last to rouse, lifting his head and trying to spit at Hardcastle before Frank stiff-armed him up and handed him over to one of the arriving back-up officers. The three men were escorted out just as the paramedics arrived with their stretcher.
Mark groaned when his lids were lifted and a penlight was pointed at his pupils. The paramedics seemed pleased with the response. The older of the two flipped his radio unit on and relayed their findings to his base hospital while Hardcastle listened in anxiously. It was the usual gibberish that didn't tell a bystander very much. About all he caught from the return transmission was the final phrase "—and transport."
"Where you takin' him?" the judge asked, as the paramedics signed off and readied to leave. "And how's he doing?"
He got a questioning look from the older paramedic. Hardcastle glanced down at himself and realized he must look like he'd been through the wars, maybe like he needed a paramedic to check him out as well.
"I'm okay," he assured the man. "But the guy your hauling off, I'm his … his—"
"Best friend," Frank suggested gently.
"Right," Hardcastle said, without any protest or hesitation, and when that admission didn't seem to be carrying much weight, he hooked a thumb at Frank and added, "and this guy is in charge of this crime scene; he needs to know where to contact the victim and how soon he'll be able to give a statement."
"Na' today," the guy on the stretcher muttered.
Everyone looked down at him. Hardcastle grinned.
"St. Mary's," the paramedic said, aiming the answer toward Frank, "closed head injury and facial trauma. Stable, for now. Is that enough for your report?"
Hardcastle didn't mind being ignored. He sidled in next to the stretcher and patted McCormick's shoulder. "See ya in a little bit. You just take it easy for a while, okay?"
As the paramedics loaded their gear and rolled, Mark waved—his right hand just barely clear of the stretcher, his eyes still closed. Then the stretcher and its occupant were gone.
Frank looked at this friend. He'd rarely seen him that exhausted. "You look like you could use a stretcher too, Milt."
"I'd rather drive there," Hardcastle answered as he trudged out into the hallway.
Frank put a comforting hand on his friend's shoulder. "I'll drive, you'll talk."
EPILOG:
The next day Mark was watching the evening news curled up on the judge's armchair. His head still ached; his left wrist was splinted. He put his good hand to his forehead and scratched the stitches lightly. Then he looked at the bottle of painkillers sitting on the judge's desk.
Maybe later.
"…and now, Commissioner Emhart's press conference on yesterday's attempted bank robbery in downtown Los Angeles."
"Juuudge!" McCormick hollered out, but immediately regretted it, even before he heard the familiar sound of the judge's heavy, hurried footsteps in the hallway. Hardcastle had been hovering over him with a morbid air of guilt ever since Mark had woken up in the hospital that morning. He stuck his head out around the edge of the chair just in time to see the man vault down the steps.
"What?" he asked anxiously. "You okay?"
"Yeah, Judge," Mark said sheepishly. "I didn't mean to alarm you."
"So why the hell were you shouting? I'm supposed to keep an eye on you here—just in case you faint or something. You heard the doctor. I can't do it if you give me a heart attack!" Hardcastle grumbled.
"Sorry," McCormick said defensively, "there's a friend of yours in the news." He jerked his thumb at the screen smiling wanly. "I think he's gonna thank you. The guy owes you another one."
Hardcastle looked at the screen and winced at the sight. He walked up to the TV set and switched it off with a sharp slap.
"Jackass." He said disdainfully. Then he turned and sat down slowly across from Mark. "Frank told me the genius wanted to raid the place, no less," he said with a look of disgust. "And this isn't gonna improve our relations, either. He probably hates me twice as much now." He let a moment pass, then leaned forward, resting his forearms on his lap. "Besides, if there's somebody who deserves to be thanked, it's you, not me."
"Me?" Mark said disbelievingly. "For what? Having my head smashed by each and every one of those ski-masked guys before passing out? You saved the day, Judge," Mark said, shaking his head. "Even the security guard made it through alive."
"I just dropped a paperweight onto the guy's foot. You could've been shot. And it would've been my fault, too," Hardcastle said with a sigh.
"Your fault?" Mark asked quizzically.
"I had Harv go after you. Put your life at risk," Hardcastle clarified.
This hardly qualifies as news here, Mark thought, and he would have said out loud under different circumstances.
"A calculated risk, Judge," he said. "Listen, I can see that you feel responsible, but you made the right decision."
Hardcastle was shaking his head.
Mark leaned forward, pointed his finger at the judge. "You did," he said firmly, "And you did it because you knew I'd get the drop on that jerk. And I did." Then he sat back.
So did Hardcastle. "As simple as that?" he asked quietly.
"Yes," McCormick said, replying promptly and leaving no doubt that he meant it.
They sat there in silence for a while.
"Judge?" Mark finally said, interrupting Hardcastle's contemplation of the furniture.
"Yeah?"
"Can I ask you something?"
"'Course."
"That guy Harv. Why did you …?" Mark trailed off.
"Let him get away with it?"
"Yeah." Mark nodded.
Hardcastle sighed heavily and then spoke in a low voice. "It was 1973." He paused.
1973. The year he died. For a moment McCormick wished he hadn't asked.
"Harv was nineteen … no, eighteen, first offender." Hardcastle went on. "He'd stolen a Mercedes Benz down in Van Nuys to help his widowed mom, he said. He came before the court full of contrition—'Yes, Your Honor,' 'Of course, Your Honor'—the whole package. His lawyer appealed for leniency and swore his client was willing to toe the line, and he really looked like he was. And I—well, I must not've been thinking straight," he said, wincing.
"You gave him a chance, Judge. To me that is thinking straight." Mark shook his head. "You just picked the wrong guy," he said simply.
Hardcastle drew in a long breath. "I even sent him to Father O'Malley down at St. Patrick's."
"The one who runs the shelter?"
"Yes. He ran away with the alms box the morning after he set foot in the place. He's been in and out of prison ever since. And now he's going to spend another long stretch in there. And he's lucky, too. If the guard had died he would've ended his days inside." He paused.
"Maybe if I'd handed down a harsh sentence, even an average sentence, things would've been different."
"Maybe, or maybe not," Mark rightly pointed out.
Hardcastle sighed again.
Third time he's done that.
"I don't know," the judge went on, "I've seen too many young men doing the same mistakes again and again, no matter the chances they were given." He shook his head. "Maybe some people never change."
"Maybe," Mark said, looking at the judge, "but some other do."
Hardcastle met his friend's gaze. "Yes," he smiled, "some other do." Then he was on his feet. "You worked up an appetite yet?" he asked cheerfully.
Mark patted his stomach lightly. "I could eat," he said, matching his friend's smile.
"Good." The judge slapped his hands and headed for the door. "Oh, I forgot," he said, stopping and snapping his fingers. "I just called the bank. I figured you wouldn't want to go back there so I had them send out the papers. You'll just have to scrawl a couple signatures. I'll return them." He grinned. "Isn't that great?"
"Yeah, Judge, it is," Mark said in a tone and with an expression that contradicted what he'd just said.
"Oh, c'mon, kiddo. You'll be glad when it's done. Trust me." Hardcastle beamed at his friend, mounted the stairs and disappeared down the hallway.
He didn't hear Mark whisper, "I do, Judge. I always do."
