Still Truckin - Hardcastle&McCormick

A FANFICTION BASED ON STEPHEN H. CANNELL’S “HARDCASTLE & McCORMICK” TV SERIES – 1984-1987

PROLOGUE: Milton C. Hardcastle is a retired Judge from the Los Angeles Superior Court; Mark McCormick – ex-racecar driver turned car thief – is paroled into the Judge’s custody for the remainder of his 2-5 year sentence for car theft. Together, they’re going after the ones that slipped through the cracks of the legal system and avoided justice in Hardcastle’s courtroom.

Milton C. Hardcastle: Played by Brian Keith
Mark J. McCormick: Played by Daniel Hugh Kelly




Still Truckin’

Written By: Melinda Reynolds - 1987

“It’s all in the approach, McCormick; ya gotta know what ya want and what ya doin’.”

Milton C. Hardcastle leaned against the work bench in the garage, arms crossed, “Yee-uuup,” he made the word into two syllables with a knowledgeable air, “gotta know the pros and cons, the ins and outs…”

“The ups and downs, the tos and fros?” Mark McCormick didn’t look up from his efforts to remove a busted radiator from the centuries old pick up; the Judge wanted the junker to drive around on the estate, and it was Mark’s job to get it running again. “Come on, Judge, you’re just gonna buy a truck, for heaven’s sake! It ain’t the Sale of the Century!”

“Nope, it’ll be the Buy of the Century, with me doin’ the dealin’.”

McCormick did look up at that. “Yeah? Well, I tell ya, Judge, if you hassle salesmen the way you hassle everyone else… then you’re gonna be walkin’ home.”

“Think so, huh?”

“Know so.”

“See, McCormick, that’s the trouble with your generation: You know everything. It’s your group that wastes money on a three-year loan, payin’ twice what the car cost by payin’ all that interest. What you should do is save up for a few years, walk in, and make the deal. You get ‘em before they know what hit ‘em.” His fist struck the workbench for emphasis, “Clean’n’quick.”

Mark shook his head, pulling off a threadbare fan belt.

“You walk in,” the Judge continued, making a straight-line gesture with the edge of his hand, “and you don’t look like your interested in anything there. Find what you want, deduct at least a third from the sticker price, have the dealer throw in taxes and license, and hit the road—”

“Guy’ll probably hit you, if he can stop laughin’ long enough.”

The Judge watched as McCormick tossed two broken brackets, bolts, and belt over his shoulder and onto the concrete floor. “Oh? And you know all about it, huh? When was the last time you bought – and paid for – a car?”

The ex-con straightened slowly, gave the older man a level stare. “I seem to recall a Porsche, a few years ago—”

The Judge pounced, “And I bet you paid asking price, too, didn’t ya, Big Shot?”

“Uh… well… They threw in a lot of stuff…”

“What? Floor mats? Extra set of keys? Oh, I know – a coupla hats right?”

“You get hats?!?” McCormick looked amazed, at the same time avoiding a direct answer.

“I thought so. Nope, kid, car buying is an art; an almost lost art. Just a modern-day version of horse-trading.”

“So, you gonna be gone long?”

“Nah, shouldn’t be. How long does it take to look at trucks? I’ve already got the cash, and—”

McCormick had returned to the engine, but quickly glanced up. “You’ve got that much cash on you? Now?”

Hardcastle shrugged. “Yeah. Why?”

“ ‘Why?’” McCormick put down the wrench, came around the front of the truck. “Hardcase, in case you haven’t noticed – like on TV, radios, newspapers, word of mouth – there are bad people out there who’d think nothing of blowing away an old guy like you for loose change, much less—”

“Hold on, hold on – don’t start diggin’ the grave yet. First of all, how are they gonna know I got money on me? Huh?”

“I don’t know. But somehow, they just know.”

“That’s your neighborhood… And anyway, I’m not gonna walk in there wearing a twelve-hundred-dollar suit, or twenty pounds of gold jewelry. You don’t want those salesmen to know you have money – not right off. Dress the part, act the part, make the deal…”

“Boy, would I love to see that. The ol’ car hustler in action. Want me to run you over there? They can think you don’t have a car at all – which, technically, is true.”

“I’m not takin’ a guy who’d shell out 30 grand for a foreign hot rod.”

Mark made a futile attempt to rub the grease off his hands on a worn shop cloth. “Didn’t pay 30 grand…” he mumbled, “It was…. Morethanthat…” The last part was inaudible.

“What?”

“Nothing. Look, maybe I should go with you; take a look at the engine and stuff. Just ‘cause the outside is bright and shiny, doesn’t mean there’s anything workin’ under the hood.”

“If anyone would know that, you would; you’re living proof.” The ex-con gave him a dark look, but said nothing. Hardcastle went on, rubbing his hands together in anticipation of the challenge of out-witting the witless. “Nope, don’t need your over-rated advice on engines, and don’t need a bodyguard. I’m going straight to the dealership. I won’t have the cash for long.”

“I don’t doubt that. How much ya got, anyway?”

Hardcastle pulled out a large bank envelope from his jacket pocket. “Here, just so you’ll know I’m not the cheapskate that you’re always sayin’ I am, you can count it. You probably won’t see that much honest money in one place in your near future—”

“Not if I keep workin’ for you…” McCormick interrupted with a smart-ass grin. He took the envelope, pulled out several bills.

“…See for yourself,” the Judge continued, unperturbed, “got enough there to get the best on the lot.”

“With this? Or is this the down payment?”

“Down payment?? Now I know I’m not taking you,” he reached across, snatched back the money and the envelope. “God knows what you’d pick out and bring home – though, judging by your taste in women, I shouldn’t be too surprised…”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Simple – you like fast, flashy women; you drive fast, flashy cars. Expensive. Demanding. Selfish. Difficult to maintain, touchy as hell, and not very durable for the long haul.”

Sighing, Mark went back to the truck. “You’re going to come back with a station wagon, aren’t you? Or… or a Volvo…” He glanced up suddenly, horror-stricken, “God, Judge, not a Volvo station wagon!”

“American, kiddo; always buy American. And you can haul a lot of stuff in a station wagon. That’s not a bad idea, kid; I wouldn’t have thought of it…” He looked thoughtful, as if giving serious consideration to the purchase.

Forgetting where he was, McCormick raised up quickly, cracking his head on the hood. “Owww-oo-o-och!! Shit!” He rubbed the back of his head, still groaning. “Ju-udgge… ya can’t haul ass – not any kind.

“Look, I can’t be seen drivin’ a station wagon. What’ll the guys think? Worse, what will the girls think?”

“That you’ve finally settled down, and become a mature, responsible adult?” Hardcastle suggested, maintaining a straight face.

Somewhat nervous, Mark laughed. “You’re kidding, aren’t you? Not even you would do something like that… Think of all the bad guys out there, Hardcase; you’re gonna have to catch them, you know. Only way you’re gonna nail ‘em in a station wagon is if they die laughin’.”

“You let me worry about that. How’s the truck comin’?”

“Uh, okay, I guess. I still need those parts I told you about last week.”

“They’re in the trunk of the ‘Vette.” Hardcastle tossed him the keys. “No real hurry, though; with the new truck here, we’ll just need this one for work around the estate. Do what you can today, and I’ll see ya in a few hours.”

McCormick watched as Hardcastle left in the 1982 blue Chrysler – the Harper’s family car, borrowed for the occasion. The Judge had said ‘truck’, not ‘car’. Maybe, with a little luck, they would end up with an ’84 pick-up of some type…

Anything… as long as it didn’t have two-and-a-half fold-down seats and fake wood panels down the sides… God, he couldn’t bear it…

***

Hardcastle turned into the largest Ford dealership in L.A. There seemed to be acres and acres of vehicles of all types. And one thing he noticed right off was that the new cars were rounder and fancier. He decided he’d stay as plain as possible. No need to pay for fancy crap that didn’t improve the vehicle’s performance – the only improvement would be to the salesman’s bank account.

He walked about for some time, up and down innumerable rows of cars, trucks, and vans. He was beginning to wonder if anyone was even working when a young, nattily-dressed man came over to him, smiling broadly. This twerp was a car salesman? He looked like he should be attending a meeting of the YCO. This, he figured, would be a snap; kid probably hadn’t sold a car all month…

“Good afternoon, sir. I’m Gregory Winger – no relation to Debbie,” he added with a laugh. “I’m your salesperson; call me Greg.”

“Uh, yeah, Greg… I’m Milton Hardcastle.” They shook hands briefly.

“Well, Milt, what do you think—”

A loudspeaker interrupted him. “Mr. Winger… Line 6; Mr. Winger, Line 6, please…”

“Will you excuse me, Milt? Probably the guy I talked to a short while ago. He’s buying matching cars for his three daughters and can’t decide on the colors. Look around, pick out a few, and we’ll test drive them. I’ll be five, ten minutes, tops.”

Twenty minutes later, Hardcastle wandered back into the showroom just as Winger was leaving his office. Catching sight of the Judge, he smiled widely. “Find anything you liked?”

“Well, I tell ya, Greg, I need something inexpensive, dependable, easy to run and maintain. Good on gas mileage, but something with a little pep, ya know?”

“Sure thing. Come on outside; got just what you need.”

Winger’s idea of what he needed turned out to be long succession of new LTDs and Crown Victorias, Thunderbirds and Tempos. Stately, safe cars, the salesman assured him; promising to meet all government mileage requirements and emissions standards. Hardcastle considered them too clunky, and didn’t care much for the space in the back seat – too tempting for McCormick. And he cared even less for the lack of space in the trunks.

“Tell ya what, Greg,” the Judge suggested after being led to the tenth LTD whose only difference to the previous nine was the color. “Let’s look at the trucks.”

“Sure thing, Milt. We’ve got some beauties. Got a whole new body style this year, and a special sports package at no extra cost, this week only. I can tell that you’re definitely a truck man, Milt. We got trucks that work hard and play harder; and you wouldn’t be ashamed to take a lady friend in ‘em to the most expensive restaurant in town…”

After what seemed to be a two-hour commercial, he finally narrowed it down between two F250’s, 4x4. Both had extra equipment, customized velour interiors and bucket seats. These people obviously didn’t know what the word ‘plain’ meant. He drove both, then picked the solid black over red. Again, the only difference in the two F250’s was the color…

Seated inside Winger’s office, he kept a carefully neutral expression as the salesman totaled up the price. “I think I can swing a really great deal for you, Milt. Do you have a trade-in? I can get you a good price on the Chrysler.”

“No,” Hardcastle smiled, thinking of Frank Harper’s reaction on being told his car had been traded in, “No trade.”

“Okay…” He made a quick adjustment in figures. “Down payment?” The question wasn’t ‘if’, but ‘how much?’.

“Just give me the bottom line, okay?”

“I think you’ll find this quite impressive, even without the trade-in…” Winger slid the paper over the desk toward the Judge. “Of course, I have to okay it with my boss, but I’m sure you haven’t seen that kind of price on a comparably equipped vehicle at any other dealership.”

The neutral expression slipped a bit as Hardcastle read the figures. “Noooo… I can truthfully say that I’ve never seen that kind of price… not anywhere…” He cleared his throat, smiled tightly, “You do understand, Gregory, that I want only one truck… not a fleet…?”

Winger laughed. “You have a great sense of humor, Milt. Of course this is for one truck. I could give you a discount if you wanted more, though; say… oh, 5-8 percent on three or four trucks with the same specs…”

“Sixteen thousand, two hundred forty-nine dollars…” it was difficult for the Judge to read aloud.

“And 78 cents,” Winger added helpfully. “That, of course, excludes tax and license. Do you want it added to the loan, or do you want to pay that separately?”

The frozen smile began to crack. “Let me think it over for a day or so… I have a few other offers in mind…”

“Of course, Milt, take your time. But you’ll find this offer hard to beat. We deal in volume sales, so we can cut the price to the bone. But don’t wait too long. I can’t guarantee that the truck you want will still be here. That particular F Series is a great seller; they won’t be on the lot for long…”

Hardcastle rose. “I’ll take my chances. Thank you and good-bye.”

***
McCormick jumped up from the lounge chair he’d placed near the garage as he heard the car’s engine coming down he long driveway. Quickly finishing the cold beer, he tossed the can into the garbage just as the dark blue Chrysler rolled to a stop behind the ancient truck.

“… ‘Quick’n’clean’, huh?” Mark grinned as he sauntered out of the garage. “You’ve been gone almost six hours. So, where is it? Or are they gonna deliver it?”

Hardcastle glared at him, tight-lipped. “Don’t start on me, McCormick. I’m not in the mood.”

Somewhat taken aback, the younger man backed up, “Ohhhh-kaaayyyy….”

The Judge turned his glare on the lounge chair, the ex-con, then the pick-up. “You got that truck done?”

“Almost.”

“Well, get it finished; you’ve had plenty of time.” He waved at the lounge chair, “That’s all you do, goof off, laze around… Truck should’ve been finished yesterday!”

“Problems at haggling over the horsepower, Hardcase?”

“Sixteen thousand dollars! Can you believe that?! Robbery! Out and out robbery. Boy, I’d love to get one of those guys in my courtroom…”

“Maybe you have, and they remembered.”

Hardcastle turned on his heel, stalked off toward the house. Mark trailed a few feet behind him. “Nerve of those guys…”

McCormick’s curiosity got the better of him. “What’d ya find? For sixteen grand, it couldn’t have been much—”

Ignoring him, the Judge’s long strides lengthened. “…Get the old truck goin’,” he mumbled to himself, “It lasted this long, should be okay for a few more years… Still got that street monster, in case something important comes up…”

“Hold it, Judge. Still got what in case what comes up? Wasn’t the whole point of this truck-buyin’ spree was so we wouldn’t be using the Coyote?” Indignant, he had halted, then had to run to catch up with Hardcastle who had continued on without pausing.

“…Yeah, that’s what we’ll do…” He nodded to himself, decision made. “Use the other cars as we need ‘em… Sixteen grand… I could buy a plane for that…” He pulled the front door open, “I didn’t pay that much for my last house…!”

“When did you buy that last house, Hardcase? 1890?” McCormick reached the porch just as Hardcastle slammed the front door – nearly in his face. Mark hesitated, then started pounding on the door. “Hey, Judge! Open up!” There was no answer. He started to go in anyway, then paused, reconsidering.

“Wait a minute, here… He slammed the door on me. I go in there, I’m gonna get yelled at for at least an hour.” He shook his head, going back down the steps. “Nahhh, ain’t worth it.”

***
Sarah Wilkes gave the parked vehicles in the garage a brief glance, wondering, if by chance, she could get someone to help unload the car. She pulled as close to the kitchen door as she could get, but was still several yards away from the walkway.

She sighed; this was one of the times she wished Judge Hardcastle would hire a butler – somebody with a strong back to do the heavier work around the estate. The Judge, of course, would just say “Get McCormick”; but lately, neither the ex-con nor the Judge had been around long enough to do anything. And if she waited for one of the Judge’s ex-cons to show any initiative on the work front, she’d probably die of old age…

In fact, that was probably what most of them had been counting on… She smiled to herself; so far, she had out-lasted all of them.

Unlocking the trunk, she shook her head. The space was filled to capacity with enough groceries to feed a small country. She managed two sacks, ones that looked deceptively light, but were heavy and unwieldy. Where was that boy when she needed him…?!

“Let me get that, Sarah.”

She jumped, almost dropping the sacks; and it was very fortunate for McCormick that she didn’t drop them. She hadn’t heard his approach, and her startlement turned to anger. She didn’t like being snuck up on; but since McCormick rarely ‘snuck’, he really couldn’t be accused of trying to scare her… It was as if he’d read her thoughts, showing up the way he did; and her anger quickly evaporated, leaving mild surprise. He was volunteering to help her? None of the Judge’s previous ex-cons had gone out of their way to help her; certainly not without being told to.

She shoved the sacks into his long arms, “Take ‘em, then.”

She picked up a smaller sack, headed for the kitchen. She held the screen door open for McCormick, nodding toward the table. “Put them there on the table.”

He gave her his most engaging smile. “Yes, M’am.”

Sarah had to return the smile. He was a good-looking boy, without, thankfully, making a point of it. She recalled Antonio Torelli, the black-haired, dreamy-eyed Italian boy who’d spent more time in front of a mirror than he did doing his chores. Almost three months, that one had lasted, working his way into their good graces with his charm and guile. He’d become too confident, though, and the Judge had found him in the den late one night, taking nearly a thousand dollars from the desk… She came back to the present, as McCormick strode past her.

“I’ll get the rest, Sarah; then I’ll help you put ‘em away.”

As the screen door slammed behind him, Sarah strongly suspected an ulterior motive behind McCormick’s ‘helpfulness’. Probably avoiding some chore the Judge had told him to do… She wondered how long this would last; he was so different from the others. She had actually found herself enjoying his company more than once; and had found him to be considerate, kind… even respectful, at times. But he could also be as stubborn as a mule, and he seemed to thrive on clutter. Almost five months, and Mark was still in residence; still assisting the Judge on his self-proclaimed ‘War on Crime’; and still complaining about that, and anything else, whenever he had the chance.

She waited at the door, holding it open as he brought in the rest of the sacks, three at a time. “You don’t know where any of that goes, Mark; and I don’t want to waste my time trying to find where you put everything. So just sort them out, and I’ll do the rest.”

He cleared off the countertop, and she watched, amused, as he ‘sorted’. Gathering together various items for the salad, she sat at the table, cutting lettuce and other ingredients into a large bowl while he explained his methods.

“Okay… On the far end, we have Solitary – things that go under the sink; here we have ‘on ice’, stuff for the ‘fridge; over there is ‘in stir’ – canned goods. And last, but certainly not least, we have ‘on parole’ – junk food!” He grinned broadly, “It’ll be out for awhile, but not for long.”

“And,” He held up a plastic sack of grapes in one hand, and a bunch of bananas in the other, “We all know where the fruits go…”

Sarah chuckled in spite of herself.

He only had three sacks left, and he leaned over, picked one up. Pulling out a large box, he read it – then read it again, staring at it with surprise. “Caramel Crunchies! I love these things. Ol’ Hardcase told me he wouldn’t have ‘em in the house.” He began tearing into the box, ripping open the inner foil pack.

Sarah tried not to laugh, thinking he looked exactly like a twelve-year-old who had just found a candy bar in his lunch box.

He held the open box close to his face, inhaling deeply. “Ahhh, heaven…” He went over to Sarah, bent down, and hugged her. “Thank you, Sarah, thankyou, thankyou, thankyou.”

“You-you’re welcome…” She was a bit startled, but pleased. Goodness, what would he have done if she’d bought three boxes…? Perhaps she’d find out someday.

He sat on the table, the remaining two sacks forgotten, and delved into the box. “Better get what I want now, before Hardcase finds—” He broke off, remembering why Hardcastle wouldn’t buy the stuff. He pulled out another handful of the caramel coated popcorn and pecans. “Hey, that’s right; he can’t eat ‘em. They’re all mine…”

Finishing the salad, she covered the bowl and placed it in the refrigerator. Taking advantage of the opportunity, she went to the opposite counter and began making out a list of things she wanted McCormick to do around the estate, before he had a chance to take off again.

At that moment, Hardcastle barreled into the kitchen, not seeing Sarah, but catching sight of McCormick almost immediately. “What are you doin’ here? Aren’t you supposed to be workin’ on the truck? Awww, look at this – I might’ve known… stuffing your face again… ” Then he backed down a bit, “What are you eating? Smells pretty good…” The prospect of junk food always had a calming effect on the Judge.

“Mmmmm-Mmm, it is good. Here, have some…” He held the box out, the logo clearly evident. Hardcastle scowled, his former ill humor returning. “Oh, I forgot—” He tucked the box under his arm, “You can’t have any.” There was the insufferable grin, with perfect white teeth, just before he chomped down another handful.

Seeing the danger signs, Sarah was quickly between them, giving the list to McCormick. “Here, Mark. Try to finish these by the end of the week.”

Taking the list, he scanned it. “Okay.” He pocketed it, still grinning and munching.

“I told you I wasn’t buying any of that crap,” Hardcastle glared at him, “How’d you sneak them in here?”

“I got them, Your Honor; I’m in charge of the groceries, remember?”

“Yeah, Judge, remember?” Mark’s smirk chimed in, knowing he was safe as long as Sarah was present.

“Yeah… well…” He took a few steps toward McCormick, whose smirk was openly challenging. “You were waiting for me, weren’t you? Suppose I didn’t come in when I did; how long were you gonna wait?”

“As long as it took… Your Honor.”

Hardcastle went for him, and McCormick was off the table, and out the door, in record time. The Judge watched him disappear into the garage, then turned to his housekeeper. “Christ, Sarah, do you have to encourage him? Sometimes, I think you like him…”

“Now, Your Honor, I don’t think any more of him than I do of you. A lot less, in fact. If you want dinner on time, get out of my kitchen so I can get to work.”

“What are we having tonight?”

“Your favorite, liver and onions; liver was on sale today, and I got extra.”

“That’s great, Sarah; can’t wait.” Smiling, he left the kitchen.

“And for Mark, fried chicken; after all,” she reasoned, “I don’t think any more of him than I do of you…”

***

McCormick stretched, trying to find a more comfortable position on the rock-hard bench seat of the ancient GMC. Early that morning, the Judge had decided to try ‘a few more places’; and now, nearly seven hours later, they had gotten exactly nowhere. He’d never thought he’d get tired of looking at cars, but now he could honestly say that he was fast reaching his limit.

He glanced over at Hardcastle, whose disposition had rapidly deteriorated to ‘talk to me and die’; however, he’d been silent for roughly five minutes, and he’d about reached his limit on that, too. “I can’t believe,” he began tentatively, “that you actually told that last salesman what he could do with his rebates and sports package.”

The Judge’s grin was a little scary. “Hey, I offered to show him which went first, didn’t I?”

“Well, where to now, Kemosabe? Or are you gonna sentence all horse traders to hang at dawn?”

Hardcastle swung sharply into a GMC dealership, glaring at the salespeople grouped around the large glass door, as if waiting in ambush. “Might as well try here…”

McCormick shrugged. “Can’t hurt. They can already see that this truck is older than you are, and that you’re probably not going to get more than one new truck in your remaining lifetime – so maybe you’ll get a pretty good, one-time-only deal…”

A young, well-dressed salesman came over to them, smiling broadly. “Good afternoon, gentlemen. I’m your salesperson, Gerald Keaton – no relation to Michael or Diane,” he laughed. “Call me Gerry. Take a look around, and we’ll take the ones you like for a test drive.”

“We’ll do that, Gerry. I’m Milton Hardcastle, and this is Mark McCormick. We’ll check back with you in ten, fifteen minutes, tops.”

As they headed for the truck lot, McCormick gave the salespeople a parting glance. “Do those guys all go to the same training school or what? I’ve never met so many people in one day who weren’t related to anyone. Not to mention that they dress better than lawyers…”

“Yeah, well, answer this one, kid: Why are all these trucks exactly alike except for the color?”

“So you can tell them apart?” McCormick answered in a I-don’t-know tone. He smiled slightly. “Remember when you could tell the difference in all the makes and models just by the grille and bumpers?”

“Yeah. Now, now they got a color palette… And not even red, blue, or green; or even black and white, any more. But names like “Laguna”, “Cherry Frost”, “Periwinkle”, “Artic Glow”, and “Deep Noir”. What are those colors, McCormick?”

“Green, red, blue, white, and black?”

The Judge gave him a look, then sighed heavily. Twenty-four identical 4x4 GMCs were lined up in front of them.

“Well, kiddo; pick a color, any color…”

***
McCormick glanced at his watch impatiently, He’d walked around the lot at least four times, and pretty much had every vehicle memorized. Hardcastle was still arguing with the salesman, the manager, and the owner. He seemed pretty serious this time; earlier, he hadn’t gotten as far as the manager before getting pissed off and leaving.

He wandered back to the Service Department. It was off to itself, almost hidden. He figured the guys in the showroom didn’t want the prospective buyers to see how many new and late model cars and trucks were being repaired. Repaired, not serviced – he know the difference when he saw it. One of the repairmen came out, going over to an ’83 Suburban. McCormick grinned suddenly, and went over to him as he searched a keying for the right key.

“Boy, I tell ya, today’s job market must be damn desperate if they’re hiring degenerate reprobates like you—”

The mechanic turned, his angry expression changing to one of total astonishment. “…Skid? I’ll be damned, Skid-Mark McCormick!! Christ, who let you out? Or, do they even know you’re out?”

McCormick shook hands vigorously with the tall, lanky mechanic, Four-Seconds Sam Connors – so called because that’s how long it took him to change a tire in the racing pits; and, if anyone listened to his lady-friends, referred to his other accomplishments as well… “Sam, God, you’re as ugly as ever! What’s it been anyway; eight, ten years…?”

“Too long, Skid… way too long. You still scorchin’ the quarter-mile?”

“Nahhh, reality finally caught up to me…” He let it go at that.

“Yeah…” Connors nodded. “Happens to all of us, sooner or later. So, you lookin’ or buyin’?”

“Neither. Friend of mine is tryin’ to find something whose price won’t insult his sense of ethics.”

Connors laughed. “Good luck. He lookin’ for anything in particular?”

“Hardcase?” McCormick grinned. “He’s the least particular man I know.”

“Well, if you’d think he’d be interested… We got a return the other day. Real nice GMC 4x4 Sportside; heavy-duty to the max. Woman that bought it raises horses, and needed something for a four-horse trailer. Seems she had to take a mare up to Washington State, with a side trip to Idaho. It’s got almost 3,500 on it, so they can’t sell it as new, even though it’s an ’84. Wanna take a look at it?”

“Why did she bring it back?”

"Oh, the same complaint all women have: It’s too small and too short!”

“Excuse me, I’ve never gotten that complaint.”

“Yeah, you and me, both, buddy.” They laughed, and Connors added, “Nah, the truck bed, it’s six-foot. She wanted an eight-foot--”

“Yeah, they’ll take those eights every time, won’t they?”

“You gonna let me finish? Took it on that trip to try it out, brought it back and got one with an eight-foot bed. They’re stuck with it now. Probably get it for around thirteen-two, thirteen-four…”

“Seriously, around thirteen thousand?”

“Yeah… no problem.”

“Let me get back with you, ol’ buddy.”

***

“There it is, Skid; sharp, huh? For a truck,” Connors amended.

While the Judge spoke with Keaton, McCormick gave the engine a quick once-over. Connors was right – big V-8, lots of horsepower… Heavy-duty suspension, big-ass tires. There was even a roll-bar, and lots of other extra, fancy equipment. It was three-tone, black-gray-silver with red pinstripe and maroon interior; velour bench seat, full instrumentation dashboard, and dual gas tanks.

He checked the rear suspension and shocks, and came around to find the Judge under the hood. “Counting its teeth, Hardcase?”

“Something like that.”

“Come on, Judge, look at this bad boy. It’s got everything you could ever need.”

“Hmphh! More like everything you’d ever need…”

Hardcastle closed the hood, walked around it; he climbed inside the cab and turned the key. The engine turned over instantly, settled down to a quiet hum. Turning it off, he climbed out.

“Well? What do you think? Is this it, or is this it?”

“I don’t know, kid. Got an awful lot of fancy crap on it – it’s like puttin’ a mink onna mule…” He walked back to the tailgate, “And look at that short bed – what can ya put in that?”

“That’s what you need, Judge; wide wheel-base, short bed that’ll make for better handling, more stability, and tight turns in even tighter situations.” The Judge was wavering. “It looks classy, it can go anywhere… Just think of her as the perfect woman, Hardcase: Can get the job done and look great doin’ it.”

“Yeah… well…”

McCormick played his trump card. “And best of all, my buddy, here, says thirteen-four will get it.”


“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Hardcastle turned to the Stepford salesman, “Okay, let’s talk.”

***
“ ‘My buddy, here, says thirteen-four will get it’.” Hardcastle mimicked, glaring at Mark. “I think I’m the one that got it.”

“Awww, quite complainin’, Hardcase. Gotta pay the taxes, ya know; you still got it for under fourteen thousand. And I don’t wanna hear anymore about it.”

“Oh, you don’t?”

“No, I don’t.” McCormick sorted through the warranty papers as they walked back to the decrepit pick-up. “And I’ll drive it home, just to make certain there’s no mechanical problems.”

“Yeah, I noticed it was an automatic, stereo-cassette player with Dolby sound… You’re getting spoiled, kid…”

McCormick grinned, not denying it, “Now yer truckin’, Hardcase…”

Fini – for now