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

Rated: K

Feedback: Comments welcome at tunecedemalis@yahoo.com

Thanks, Owl; though it was barely beta-worthy.

Waiting had never been Hardcastle's strong suit, and that was one thing Mark thought they shared in common. The younger man wasn't sure exactly when the Ritual of the Mail had started, maybe as soon as four weeks after he'd taken the bar exam, surely not more than five, even though they both knew it would be at least six or seven weeks before the results would be sent to him.

So it was that every afternoon during that uncertain period, the judge had made the walk down to the front gate to inspect the mailbox personally. Some days, in his impatience, he'd jumped the gun on the first trip down, and would have to repeat the maneuver a second time.

Mark, on the other hand, faced the same impossible situation by retreating to the far end of the estate, sometimes all the way to the beach itself-sometimes up to his knees in the surf. It wasn't that he found the waiting any easier out there, it was just that he figured there was no need for both of them to hover over the unfilled mailbox, and he was getting a little prone to snapping, which did neither of them any good.

At least by dinner-time, when the risk of bad news was past for that day at least, he was able to sit down and behave civilly.

That particular afternoon, a Thursday, he'd gone almost a mile down the beach and back again, twice-he realized it was just pacing on a grander scale. He'd pretty much assumed that Hardcastle would come to the stairs if there was any news to report on the mail front and, since there was no one there on his second trip back, and it was past three-thirty, he figured it was safe to go back up.

No one in the kitchen, the truck was gone, and there was no note saying where or for how long. The mail was there-his handful of letters set to one side-nothing from the State Bar, of course, but one cream-colored business-sized envelope with the return address of an L.A. law firm. He thumbed it open, withdrew the single sheet, and unfolded it.

The letter was nice enough, a follow-up to an inquiry he'd made a month earlier about a clerking position. He'd almost given up hope of hearing back. He felt a brief twinge of relief that Hardcastle had gone off somewhere, though no doubt he'd seen the return address and knew what was what.

Every brief allusion on Mark's part to the possibility of taking a clerk's position, in the months before the exam, had been met with stern disapproval. 'Time better spent studying' had been the standard retort. After the exam, the judge's position had shifted slightly. Now it was 'Why take a job for such a short time? You'll have the results in a few weeks.'

Mark figured this much blind confidence in his chances ought to be heartening, if it weren't so misbegotten. There hadn't been a single moment of realistic acknowledgement of the possibility that he might not have passed, that the whole process might begin over again-two more months till the next exam, and then two more months of waiting after that.

But enough was enough. He had no intention of just sitting around the estate, functioning as an over-trained groundskeeper. There was a phone number to call, to set up an interview. No doubt the firm was eager if they'd gotten around to contacting even him. More than likely some of their current clerks would be moving on and up, once the results of the exam were available.

He reached for the phone and had already started to dial, when he heard the truck in the drive. He hesitated, and then hung up. Then, almost guiltily, he stuffed the letter into his pocket as he turned to face the man coming in the back door.

It wasn't his imagination; he was certain that Hardcastle had glanced briefly at the table, to where the letters were now less-neatly arranged, with the one obviously missing. A brief, fleeting frown-no comment.

"No news," Mark said. It was entirely unnecessary, but a good enough distraction from what news there had been.

"Well, maybe in another week." It was in Hardcastle's favor that, beyond holding his obvious opinion that everything would be all right, he no longer tried to inflict it on Mark. This time he stuck to inarguable fact and then capped it off with a clap of the hands and a brisk, "You hungry? Let's go eat."

"Out?" Mark asked, casting one quick look at the fridge. "Burgers," he pointed, "thawed."

"They'll keep. I'm in the mood for a chili dog." The judge looked upwards for a full second, as though he had to give this a whole lot of thought. Then, "How 'bout Barney's Beanery?"

McCormick couldn't help it; the whole effect was dead-on intended to get a laugh, so he did. That, and it was an obvious attempt to coax him out of what was fast becoming a permanent mood-something between dread and resignation.

"Okay," he smiled, "Barney's it is. Lemme get my keys."

"Nah, I'm driving." The judge was already holding the back door open, not brooking any discussion about it. Mark shrugged once and preceded him out, hoping he didn't look like he was in that bad a shape.

It was early. They got a booth toward the back and ordered a couple of chili cheese dogs. The waiter was a guy Hardcastle knew, and there was a brief exchange of pleasantries along with the order.

Mark's mind was elsewhere. It was obvious that it'd be too late to make that phone call by the time they got home, but he figured he'd tackle it first thing the next morning.

And you ought to tell him. It was a nagging thought. The letter was still in his pocket. It made perfect sense that he'd want to put his education to use, even in some limited way. But it was also only fair that the guy who'd paid for it should be in the loop.

The guy who'd paid for it-and who'd moved innumerable obstacles to get him approved to even sit for the bar exam-was now talking about the Dodgers, losing three in a row to St. Louis and beginning a slow drift down from the five-hundred mark.

McCormick reached for his pocket, for perhaps the third time since they'd sat down. He saw the waiter, wending his way back, bearing their food. He let his hand fall back down. It can wait a bit. Why ruin a perfectly good set of chili dogs? The food was set before them. The waiter smiled slightly and said, "Be right back with the other item."

Mark glanced up, puzzled. Hardcastle had the same echoing smile and, a moment after the waiter had departed, he was reaching into his the inside pocket of his jacket, pulling out an envelope, and placing it on the table.

Mark blanched a little but resisted the first impulse, which was to shove it back in Hardcastle's direction on the grounds that he hadn't done anything that deserved a public humiliation. Instead, he said in a voice that was kept low, but sounded a little harsh, even to him, "You said it hadn't come."

"No," Hardcastle cocked his head, "You did. Though I don't know how you were ever going to find out, if you wouldn't go within fifty feet of the mailbox." He was grinning. "I just said maybe," he added, in a tone of virtuous mendacity.

Mark snatched up the envelope, keeping his eyes on the older man with a narrowed look of annoyance. It was enough aggravation to carry him through the next part, his finger under the flap and the thing open a moment later. It was only as he was pulling the letter out, that he remembered again that he was being publicly humiliated-and that only lasted for the half-second it took him to get the line that began 'We are pleased to inform you . . .'

But now the waiter had returned, and, in an ever-upward spiral of weirdness, was bearing a towel-wrapped bottle and two glasses. "Dom Perignon," he announced casually, in exactly the same tone that Mark had heard him previously use to present a couple of Coronas. He released the bale and popped the cork with a quiet flourish. As the glasses were being filled, Mark had a another nagging thought that didn't quite have room to break through to the surface.

He realized that he was still clutching the letter, and that he hadn't said a single word since he'd opened it. He finally held it out, so that the judge could see it, and managed to murmur, "I passed."

"'Course you did," Hardcastle took the letter from him and read it all the way through with what appeared to be a great deal of satisfaction. Then he lifted his glass and said, quite simply, "Congratulations."

As Mark picked up his own glass to return the salute, the nagging thought finally bobbed up to the top. The champagne had obviously been ordered while the letter had still been in Hardcastle's pocket, unopened. He frowned. He hadn't been publicly humiliated, but he might've.

"You must've gotten a heads-up from somebody in the State Bar," he insisted quietly. He felt just a bit hurt by that, but thought he'd managed to keep most of it out of his voice.

"No," the judge looked a little scandalized, "I didn't."

McCormick stared at him in puzzlement and jerked his chin at the bottle. "You couldn't have been that sure, don't tell me that."

"Well," Hardcastle shrugged, "I was pretty sure, and I figured a bottle of bubbly wouldn't hurt either way."

Mark grinned. He couldn't help it. The idea of knocking back a bottle of Dom Perignon to drown his sorrows stuck him as well beyond ludicrous, and he suddenly realized that it would also have seemed so, if things had turned out the other way.

You'd've been laughing so hard, that you would have forgotten to be disappointed.

The grin settled into a smile, and he tipped the glass slightly to let it ting lightly against the other. "Thank you."

The judge had stuck to a moderate glass-and-a-half, and that left Mark to do his duty by the rest of the bottle. He wasn't sure if it was that, or the sense of relief, that left him feeling so buoyant. They were in the truck, and a few miles away from the restaurant, before he noticed they weren't taking the usual route home.

He stared a little bemusedly out at the street sign-Pico. "Where-?"

"I wanna show you something.

They'd turned left. Mark frowned, hoping vaguely that there wasn't any Tonto-ing to be done tonight. He didn't think he was quite up to it. It was another few miles before Hardcastle pulled to the curb. Nothing that looked particularly sinister, and certainly not familiar.

"Come on," the judge coaxed him out. "Take a look."

He was out. It was early twilight and the storefront they stood in front of was empty. Brown paper lined the inside of the window-obviously between lessees.

Hardcastle stepped over to the door and said, "Not done with the lettering yet."

He was right; there was only the outline, and that was just visible in the fading light. 'Nancy Hardcastle Memorial Law Clinic'. Only the 'N' and the 'a' were neatly filled in. The judge inspected the work-in-progress with obvious pleasure and then reached out and put a key in the lock.

Inside there was a smell of fresh paint. Hardcastle felt for the light switch and flipped it on, illuminating an-as yet-unfurnished front room, a waste paper basket in the corner and nothing else.

"Come on," he said again, a little eagerly, and led him down a hallway, past two rooms that hadn't had their doors hung yet. The second one was piled high with boxes and furniture, all draped in plastic sheeting.

"Here," Hardcastle said, coming to a third room. This one had a door in place already. He opened it and flipped another switch. Empty, except for some built-in bookshelves. "I thought you'd want to pick out your own desk."

McCormick hadn't said anything since they'd left the truck, now he realized that the judge was looking at him expectantly. "It's . . ." Words briefly failed him, but that seemed to be okay as far as the older man was concerned. "Hey," Mark interjected after a moment more of silence, "where's your office?"

The judge jerk his chin in the general direction of the way they'd come. "Next one forward," he said with a smile.

The one that had the boxes stacked in it. It was somewhat smaller.

"Shouldn't it be the other way around?" Mark said with a puzzled frown.

"Nah," Hardcastle said with a wave of his hand. "You're the director; I'm just some kind of emeritus something or other. Hey, we got a coffee room in the back."

Mark's expression had gone doubtful. "Director?" he said. "I'm just a fish-right out of law school."

The judge frowned a moment at the brief lapse into prison slang, but then passed over it lightly saying, "Nah, it's been almost four months now and, anyway, this place needs a director and you're it." And then, as if he'd realized he'd been a bit presumptive, he tagged "if you want it" on the end.

Mark stood there, thinking maybe the champagne had had more of a kick than he'd realized. He wished there was something in the room to sit down on.

Instead, he settled for a couple of deep breaths. And finally he managed a nod and said, "Yes, I want it."

Hardcastle grinned and said, "Good-they gonna finish the lettering on the front door tomorrow."

Mark took another long, slow look around at a room that was now furnished by imagination. "We'll need . . . file cabinets," he said, with a lopsided grin.

"Oh, yeah," the judge nodded. "Lots of those."

McCormick was leaning back a little, still taking it all in.

The judge let him be for a few moments, and then finally said. "Come on; let's go home. We can come back tomorrow and figure out where everything goes."

This got a nod from the younger man, who turned, giving the room one last look over his shoulder before following him. They paused one more time in the front room, while Hardcastle fumbled for the keys.

Mark patted his own pocket absently, and pulled out the letter he'd stuffed in there hastily at home.

"What's that?" the judge asked, finally fishing out his key ring.

"Nothing," Mark smiled. "Nothing at all." He crumpled the letter and dropped it into the otherwise empty waste basket.

Then he turned and followed the other man out.

Author's Postscript: I kid you not, in addition to over a hundred brands of bottled beer, Barney's offers a 'giant chili cheese dog and a bottle of Dom Perignon'-it's called 'Barney's Champagne Breakfast', and breakfast is served all day.