This was written in response to a “story starter” challenge on a Hardcastle & McCormick fan forum. The theme was “trust” and the story had to involve an example of one of the main characters demonstrating trust in the other. The story was not supposed to be “angsty” and brevity was considered preferable to length.
“McCormick!” Hardcastle stood on the kitchen stoop listening to his shout reverberate across the estate, but that was all he heard. There was no answer to his yell. “McCormick!” he bellowed again, and this time there was a muffled response.
Muffled, but tinged with petulance. “What?” McCormick emerged from the depths of the garage, drew a greasy rag from his pocket, and added the grease on his hands to it. “What?” he asked again. “I’m right in the middle of something, here.”
“We’re out of just about everything in there,” Hardcastle said, indicating the kitchen with a jerk of his thumb.
“Yeah, I know,” McCormick said. “You haven’t been shopping since Sarah left.”
“Hey, shopping’s not my job. It’s yours.”
McCormick looked amused. “Since when?”
“Since Sarah left. Here: Here’s a list. If you think of anything else we need, get it. But don’t go crazy, y’hear? Don’t go bringing home Twinkies, or any of that garbage.”
“Twinkies?” McCormick said, taking the list and eyeing it critically.
“Whatever.”
“You forgot mustard.”
“I told you: Get what you think we need.”
“With what, my good looks? What we need and what I can afford to buy are living on different planets, you know.”
“Turn the paper over, wise guy.”
McCormick turned the list over and saw that there were two pieces of paper in his hand, paper-clipped together. He slid the second one out from behind the list and realized that it was a check, blank except for Hardcastle’s signature. He blinked. “Okay,” he said, knowing even as he said it how lame he sounded but too surprised to produce anything more intelligent. “I don’t know where Sarah shopped,” he added after a moment.
Hardcastle shrugged. “Ralph’s, I think. Or Stater’s, maybe. If you don’t find what we need at the one, go to the other. That’s why I left the payee line blank. You know where the stores are, right?”
“Yeah,” McCormick nodded distractedly. He was still one page back.
“If you have any trouble with the store—you know, because of the signature—tell ’em to call me.”
McCormick glanced back at the garage where the Coyote stood in a state of disassembly.
“Take the truck,” Hardcastle said, tossing him the keys before he could open his mouth. “You’d never stow all that food in your firecracker, anyhow.” McCormick caught the keys, but before he could say anything else, Hardcastle added, “And pick up something we can throw on the grill tonight. Coupla steaks, or fish or something. Salmon, maybe.”
“You got it,” McCormick grinned. “Twinkies okay for dessert?”
Hardcastle scowled. “Get outta here.”
*
McCormick was still grinning about that when he climbed into the truck, but as he pointed it up the winding driveway he eased off the gas until, at the outer gate, he stopped. He set the shifter to park and sat there staring at the highway before him, seeing neither it nor the cars streaking past. There was a blank check in his wallet, signed by the richest guy he knew—but he wasn’t thinking about how far it would get him, or how fast. He was thinking about Hardcastle, and he was wondering how long he’d have to know the Judge before the guy stopped surprising him.
He was used to suspicion from people: In prison he was assumed to be a liar, and when he got out and people found out he was an ex-con, they assumed it too. Maybe one day that might not sting so much, but meanwhile he was used to it. Only Hardcastle threw him off balance. Merely by being his bluff, straightforward self, Hardcastle forced McCormick to rethink his ideas about how things were, how they should be—and more importantly, what McCormick himself should be. Not with outright demands—although the Judge made plenty of those, too—but unconsciously, with the force of his expectations.
Was the blank check a test? McCormick dismissed that at once. As comfortable and familiar as being suspicious would be, he had to admit that plotting and testing wasn’t in the Hardcastle playbook. No. Hardcastle expected him to go to the store, buy the food, and come home. The thought came to him in a flash of insight: He’ll trust you until you show him he can’t. So now here he was, thinking how ridiculous it was to be sitting there feeling like a 10 year-old who just got permission to go down to the corner store alone for the first time and buy a loaf of bread. Hardcastle expected him to be honest, and McCormick, sitting there, realized with considerable surprise that he had no desire to be otherwise. His determination had more to do with a competitive nature than with a life-altering epiphany, but if Hardcastle had been privy to McCormick’s thoughts just then, he would have observed with satisfaction that It’s a start.
*
Hardcastle sauntered back into the kitchen. He would have liked to have a beer while he waited for McCormick to get back with the groceries, but they were out of beer. Instead he wandered into the den and turned on the TV. He wasn’t thinking much about having just handed McCormick the key to his checking account: The kid would either come back with the food or he wouldn’t, but Hardcastle didn’t really think the outcome was in any doubt. It occurred to him then that McCormick might see this as some kind of test, but then he scoffed at idea: he wasn’t responsible for McCormick’s assumptions. Not his problem. Still, he hadn’t missed that instant of surprise on the kid’s face when he’d realized that the check was signed but otherwise blank. McCormick wasn’t fast enough on his feet to hide that from him. The Judge smiled. It might even do him some good to have someone show a little confidence in him. That, or make him completely insufferable.
*
“Well, kiddo, that was a pretty good day’s work.” Hardcastle laid the fork across his empty plate and smiled across the table at McCormick. “You found everything on the list, hauled all those groceries home single-handed, and grilled up a pretty mean steak on top of it.”
“And how about some credit for having to decide between ‘choke a fish’ or ‘kill a tree’? But I’m glad you approve.”
“You realize, of course,” Hardcastle added, “that now you’re stuck with the job.”
McCormick grinned. “No act of competence goes unpunished around here, huh?”
“Never.”
“Then next time I’ll put paper plates on the list. I hear they make clean up a breeze.”
“Ah, relax. You wash, I’ll dry. How’s that for a fair division of labor?”
“Well, considering this was all on your dime,I suppose that’s pretty fair,” McCormick allowed.
“Damn right. Hey, while you’re up, how about another beer?” Hardcastle said.
McCormick gave him a reproachful look but stood and began collecting the plates. “Be right back.” He returned bearing two bottles of beer–and something else that Hardcastle couldn’t quite identify.
“What’s that?” the Judge asked.
“Beer.”
“Not the beer. That. What is that?”
“Oh. That’s your dessert. Catch.”
Hardcastle caught, then laughed. “Twinkies.”
“Uh-huh. Cheers.”
* * * * *
