Hold Out
A closer look at "Shootout"
By SunnyD
sunrize83@gmail.com

Life holds on
Given the slightest chance
For the weak and the strong
Life holds on

Life Holds On -- Beth Nielsen Chapman


Chapter One

~~~~~~~~~~~~
    Hutch
~~~~~~~~~~~~

"As I said before, a man is safe in the shadow of the flower of the 
Himalayas. The light of Asia shines in my inner being."

Oh, God.

 I wasn't sure which was more incredible--the fact that he'd kept up 
the act for two hours or that he could maintain a poker face while 
faking such a cheesy accent. I shifted in my chair so I was leaning 
against the wall, tired, hungry, and sick to death of Harry Sample, 
wannabe maharaja and suspected rapist. Starsky, who'd been 
pacing the interrogation room like a caged tiger, shot me an 
incredulous look before leaning both hands on the small wooden 
table until he was in Harry's face.

"Yeah? Well, your inner being better stand by. Because if you 
come up with a couple more answers like that, you're not going to 
be safe under the shadow of a Sequoia tree!"

I dropped my head as Starsky and Harry continued their dance, 
mostly because I didn't want our suspect to see me smile. Starsky 
and I certainly didn't invent the good cop, bad cop routine, but we 
do play it a little differently from most. Instead of sticking to a 
certain role, we alternate, depending on our mood. Sometimes I'm 
the one growling and snarling at the suspect while Starsky radiates 
that innocent, little boy charm the ladies seem to find so 
irresistible. And other times I act the part of sympathetic ally while 
Starsky plays the brutal, no-holds-barred interrogator.

Starsky had been a ball of energy all day, more than eager to be the 
bad guy once we got our hands on ol' Harry. Which was fine with 
me. I wasn't sure if it was the impending thunderstorm, or the fact 
that I'd had some trouble sleeping the night before, but a vague 
sense of uneasiness had troubled me all day--like my own private 
dark cloud looming over my head. So when we'd hauled Harry 
down to Metro for questioning, I'd been more than happy to melt 
into the background while Starsky ran the show.

And he was in rare form.

"You're Harry Sample, that's the name on the rap sheet!" Starsky's 
hand slammed down onto the open folder, rattling the small 
wooden table.

Harry didn't flinch. "Perhaps. In a different life."

Starsky scooped up the rap sheet and crumpled it in his fist, glaring 
at me and hooking a thumb at Harry. My cue to join the party.

I pitched my voice soft and reasonable, a direct contrast to 
Starsky's bellowing. "Ah, Harry. You're irritating Detective 
Starsky, here. I wouldn't do that if I were you."

I was really saying, "Go ahead, Starsk. Shake the little bastard up a 
bit."

Harry turned that bland look on me but said nothing. Starsky read 
me loud and clear, though. Like the flick of a switch, he went nuts. 
He lunged across the table and grabbed Harry by his ridiculous 
robe, knotting his fingers in the silky material and shaking him like 
a rag doll.

I didn't bother listening to my partner rant, just charged out of my 
chair and tried to get between him and Harry, who looked like a 
deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming truck.

"Hey! Hey, come on. Starsky. Let go!" I struggled to pry Starsky's 
fingers from the robe, but he only tightened his grip. Then, just as 
abruptly, the fury turned my way.

"You stay outta this!" Starsky grabbed my arms and heaved, 
sending me flying across the room to crash into the wall. All the 
breath whooshed out of my lungs and I reflexively clutched at him, 
but he shoved me so hard I slammed against the plaster a second 
time. "Stay outta this!"

He turned, eyes scanning the room before landing on the hapless 
wooden chair he was supposed to be sitting in. Snatching it up, he 
glared first at Harry and then me, his eyes blazing with anger.

I dutifully continued to play my part, even though the back of my 
head and my neck were still throbbing from Starsky's enthusiastic 
performance.

"Not...not the chair. Starsk, not the chair." I held out both hands, 
non-threatening, coaxing.

Gritting his teeth he raised the chair and smashed it to the floor. I 
turned away so I wouldn't have to watch, one hand braced on the 
wall, but I could still hear the clatter of a leg as it snapped off and 
rolled across the linoleum. Starsky flung open the door and stalked 
out of the room, slamming it so hard the resulting gust of air 
ruffled my hair.

Dobey's going to kill him when he finds out about that chair. 

Still, he'd caught Harry's attention. You could've heard a pin drop 
in the silence that followed. Harry watched me with eyes like 
saucers as I massaged sore muscles. Starsky certainly hadn't pulled 
any punches. Felt like I hit that wall at about fifty miles an hour. I 
looked at Harry and shrugged as if to say, "See? I warned you," 
then followed my partner out into the hallway.

He was at the vending machine, of course. No matter how much I 
nag him about his eating habits, Starsky refuses to change. He's the 
original junk food junkie--the more grease, sugar, salt, and fat a 
food has, the more he's sure to like it. I think the thing that irritates 
me the most, is that he's still in great shape in spite of treating his 
body like a garbage can. Maybe if he had to pay the price, got 
paunchy around the waist or couldn't sprint as fast as usual, he'd 
listen.

I'm still waiting for that to happen.

"That creep's holdin' firm." 

Starsky's tone was almost nonchalant as he pulled a package of 
peanuts from the machine--a far cry from the enraged, out-of-
control man that stomped out of the room moments ago. Harry 
would hardly have recognized him--but then, that was the whole 
point.

"No, I don't think so. I think you're starting to get to him." I took 
the package out of his hands without asking and tore open the 
cellophane.

Sharing things is a habit with Starsky and me, something I never 
think twice about, like taking my next breath. Whether that means 
him stealing a swig out of my bottle of beer or me snagging his 
package of peanuts, there's an unspoken understanding between us-
-"what's mine is yours, and what's yours is mine." Within reason, 
of course. Women, well, that's a whole different ball game. I guess 
a lot of people might've gotten pissed off, me helping myself like I 
did. Starsky just rolled his eyes and started hunting for more 
change.

Maybe that's because the years as friends and partners have left 
very few walls standing between Starsky and me. We can be like a 
couple of kids at times: teasing, competing, and bickering. The 
thing is, it's all external, on the outside. Inside, we both know 
exactly how we feel. Yeah, sometimes Starsky irritates the hell out 
of me, and there are days I don't think I can take another minute of 
his greasy burritos and kamikaze driving. But when push comes to 
shove, who else would be there for me the way I know Starsky 
will? He's a solid wall I can always put my back against--whether 
that means holding me while I sweat, shiver, and puke my way 
through heroin withdrawal, or taking a bullet meant for me.

And he knows I'll be there for him, no holds barred, no questions 
asked.

"You know, you get pretty scary when you get mad." I tossed some 
peanuts into my mouth, wishing they were something a lot 
healthier, like a protein shake. Or just about anything out of my 
own kitchen instead of a machine.

"Yeah?" His mouth curved a little as if I'd just offered him a 
compliment, but he kept fishing for change from his pocket. 
Starsky wasn't one to be distracted when a snack was on the line.

"Almost broke my back in there."

"Hm. Yeah, well, it must be all those Bela Lugoosi movies I saw 
when I was a kid."

For a bright guy, Starsky can be terrible with names. When I first 
met him, back at the Academy, I'd made a big mistake. I'd heard 
that Bronx accent, and the way he mangled certain words, and 
quickly wrote him off, certain he'd never last long enough to earn a 
badge. I was young and idealistic, but too sheltered by my upper 
middle class, Midwestern family to understand that there were all 
kinds of smarts, and some of them don't come from books. It was 
just one of many lessons Starsky taught me.

I still got a kick out of razzing him about it, though.

"Starsky, it's Bela Lugosi."

He shrugged, not in the least bit bothered by me correcting him. 
"Well, Lugoosi, Lugosi. I just hope he cracks soon. I'm starved."

I couldn't resist the opportunity to ride him about his lousy eating 
patterns. Just another habit--I nag him about eating better and he 
moans that my diet is only fit for cows and other lower life forms. 
Underneath, I guess I really do worry about him taking better care 
of himself, and he probably wishes I'd lighten up a bit. Then again, 
it's all become so familiar, neither of us gives it much thought.

We traded insults until Starsky had enough. "Isn't it about time you 
went back in there?" He jerked his thumb at the interrogation room 
door.

"Yeah." I pressed the half-eaten peanuts into his hand.

"Hey. What about tonight?"

"Why don't we come back to my place, scramble up some eggs, 
huh?"

I knew the suggestion was going to go over like a lead balloon, but 
the weather was lousy, my eyes were starting to feel gritty with 
fatigue, and I wasn't interested in pizza--Starsky's usual idea for a 
late dinner.

Sure enough, my partner made a face like a little boy asked to eat 
spinach. "Hey, dinner, not breakfast." His expression brightened, a 
sure sign of trouble. "What about some Italian food?"

I wrinkled my nose. "Nah, nah, I wanna go home. It's liable to 
rain."

Starsky wasn't put off in the least. He oozed enthusiasm, still 
describing some new restaurant, even though I ignored him as I 
walked back into the interrogation room. I grinned, thinking it 
probably reminded him of the restaurant his grandmother lived 
over when he was a kid. Every single Italian restaurant we've ever 
been in reminds him of the one his grandmother lived over when 
he was a kid.

The ironic thing was that no matter how tired I was, or how stormy 
the weather, I knew I'd probably end up giving in. I have a hard 
time saying no to my partner, especially when he's excited about 
something. Trying to hold him back is a little like trying to stop an 
armed felon with a water pistol--you can have all the determination 
in the world, but reality is still gonna win out.

I set Harry up for Starsky's big entrance, playing the concerned 
friend. I deliberately drew his attention to the broken chair by 
standing it up against the wall. Encouraging his perception of my 
partner as a barely contained wildman, more than capable of 
physical violence, if provoked. Starsky and I had done the routine 
so many times it was like a script in my head. Still, I had to 
concentrate so I didn't let any amusement leak into my voice when 
Harry studied my face, trying to decide if I was pulling his leg. He 
still insisted he was innocent, but he was looking a little ragged 
around the edges.

The door opened and Starsky stuck his head in, a wide grin on his 
face. We each played "bad cop" a little differently. I gritted my 
teeth and stabbed my finger a lot. Starsky broke things. But I'd 
never seen anyone who could equal my partner when it came to 
oozing danger with a smile.

"Let me tell ya, Harry. Hutch and I don't have anything to do 
tonight. And if it's important to you, we are willing to take all 
night." He looked at me with raised eyebrows. "Right?" Then a 
frown. "Oh, you got a date tonight, don'tcha?"

Bastard. You know I had to cancel out on Abby hours ago. Just 
because you haven't gotten laid in a month, Gordo…

"Yeah." I stifled a grin and shrugged, then shook my head. 
"Whatever you wanna do."

"See?" Starsky gave Harry one of his lopsided grins. "Hey! How 
about a cup of coffee?"

Harry had started to cave from the moment Starsky turned on that 
exaggerated charm, but my partner's request for coffee tipped him 
over the edge. I knew we had him before my hand ever touched the 
doorknob.

"Hey, hey, man. Hey, wait a minute. I mean, you're not gonna 
leave me alone with this guy, are ya?"

Huh. Wonder what happened to the Maharaja Jeru? 

Starsky was really enjoying himself, buried in the part. He gave 
Harry a wounded look. "Hey. Whatsa matter? You don't like 
coffee?"

"All right. All right, man. But ya gotta believe me..."

Harry proceeded to spill his guts. Starsky and I traded a long look 
before I picked up the phone to call for a stenographer to take a 
statement. 

Once the game was over and reality set in, Starsky's mood took a 
nosedive. He propped his feet on the table and listened calmly to 
Harry's babbling, but there was weariness and resignation written 
on his face. Four years doing this job, yet in many ways Starsky 
had managed to hang onto the same pie-in-the-sky idealism we had 
at the Academy. We'd both seen the worst side of human nature, 
the bottom of the barrel. The difference was that I'd become 
increasingly resigned to it, while Starsky still hoped for something 
better.

Harry was so wrapped up in spewing a confession, he barely 
noticed when I walked over and nudged my partner's shoulder. 
Starsky looked up questioningly, his mouth set in a grim line.

"All right," I told him, though I rolled my eyes a little.

His brow furrowed. "Huh?"

"You. Me. The great little place near the docks that we're going to 
drive to in the pouring rain. All right."

His face lit up like I'd just told him he'd won a million bucks. 
"Yeah?"

I shrugged, but a smile found its way onto my lips. "Yeah."

It figured I'd wind up giving in. But I didn't really feel like I'd lost.


~~~~~~~~~~~~
   Starsky
~~~~~~~~~~~~

"As I said before, a man is safe in the shadow of the flower of the 
Himalayas. The light of Asia shines in my inner being."

I couldn't believe the turkey. I mean, did he honestly think Hutch 
and me were gonna buy the mahareeshi crap he'd been spouting for 
two hours? We had him cold; I'd thought sure he'd be singin' his 
lungs out once we brought him to the station.

When I'm wrong, I'm wrong. And it pisses me off. I got in real 
close so my face was just inches from his.

"Yeah? Well, your inner being better stand by. Because if you 
come up with a couple more answers like that, you're not going to 
be safe under the shadow of a Sequoia tree!"

Good thing Hutch let me be the bad guy, 'cause if I'd had to keep 
my temper on a leash I think I might just've chewed off my own 
hand. I'd read the hospital report on Katie Lange, every detail of 
what our buddy Harry had done to her. He was gonna crack, even 
if I had to pull out all the stops to make it happen.

Mahareeshi, my ass.

"You're Harry Sample, that's the name on the rap sheet!" I 
slammed my palm down on the file folder, but what I was really 
going for was the noise. Harry didn't like it when I got...physical.

This time, though, he kept his poker face. "Perhaps. In a different 
life."

I had to give the guy credit; he was a lot tougher cookie than he 
looked, wearin' a dress and all. Time to turn up the heat a little 
more. I gave Hutch the high sign--just a look and a tip of my head-
-but he was right with me.

Hutch can be real scary playing bad cop, but I still think he works 
best as the good guy. Better than me, that's for sure. Maybe it's 
those golden boy looks, or the way he can make his voice sound 
calm and reasonable, but people trust him. Me, I still got enough of 
the street punk in me that they aren't all that surprised when I go 
off. But Hutch hits 'em totally off guard. They don't know he can 
be a shark until the teeth come out. And by then it's too late.

I waited for Hutch to soften Harry up, and he didn't disappoint me. 
He kept his voice low, like he was sharing a secret with a buddy, 
but he also managed to look a little worried. "Ah, Harry. You're 
irritating Detective Starsky, here. I wouldn't do that if I were you."

Irritated? I was tired, I hadn't gotten anything to eat since the 
health crap Hutch forced on us at lunch, and every time I thought 
of that nineteen-year-old girl, my head ached. 

I'll show him irritated.

 I flung myself at Harry, snatching him out of the chair by grabbing 
hold of that crazy get-up he was wearing. "There's a nineteen-year-
old girl in the hospital. She's in a coma. You did it to her, Harry! 
Or ya had her put there. And I'm not gonna let up on it until you 
admit it!"

Hutch tried to force his way in between us, yelling at me to let go. 
I could feel Harry shaking a little, so I pushed things farther and 
turned on my partner.

"You stay outta this! Stay outta this!" 

I threw him up against the wall, shoving him when he tried to grab 
me. I could feel Harry's eyes on me and I knew I was making him 
sweat. My headache disappeared with the adrenaline rush, and 
even though I was mostly just playin' my part, I gotta admit it felt 
good to finally blow off some steam. I picked up one of the 
wooden chairs, checking to make sure that both Hutch and Harry 
were payin' attention.

"Not...not the chair. Starsk, not the chair." Hutch lifted his hands 
like he was trying to calm me down, almost making me believe it.

The chair made a really loud, satisfying crash when it hit the floor. 
I yanked open the door and stalked out, slammin' it behind me. I 
stood in the hallway for a minute, breathing hard but otherwise 
feeling a hell of a lot better than I had a few minutes earlier. 

Maybe I'd just discovered a new form of therapy for cops. Gets rid 
of all that pent up frustration and aggression.

I just hoped Harry bought it, 'cause I wanted dinner and some z's, 
in that order.

My eyes landed on the candy machine and my stomach growled, 
obviously protestin' the cruel and unusual punishment I'd been 
giving it. Candy ain't exactly in the same league as a plate of 
linguini, but it'd have to do.

Hutch joined me a minute later, just as I got my hands on a 
package of peanuts. The last thing I wanted to hear was another of 
his "Starsky, you're killin' yourself with all that junk food" 
lectures.

I mean, peanuts are healthy, right? Protein and all that. Okay, so 
maybe they're also fulla salt, but that's what makes 'em taste good.

"That creep's holdin' firm," I told Hutch.

"No, I don't think so. I think you're starting to get to him." 

Right outta my hands. Mr. Wheat Germ and Tofu grabbed the nuts 
right outta my hands before I could even open them, let alone put 
any in my mouth. Not that I really minded--I've been known to 
steal food from Hutch myself, now and then. It's gotten so I don't 
even realize I'm doing it anymore, which can be a real problem. I 
tried the same move with a lady once and…well…she was not too 
amused. 

I just looked for more change while Hutch started munching, glad 
that he wasn't complaining about sodium content and 
monowhatsits, and all that other health crap he reads up on. 'Sides, 
I knew Blondie probably wouldn't even finish eating 'em and I'd 
get the leftovers.

"Hm. Yeah, well, it must be all those Bela Lugoosi movies I saw 
when I was a kid." God, I loved those old horror movies. I 
wondered if anything good was on the late show.

"Starsky, it's Lugosi."

I knew that. Sometimes I just say things wrong 'cause I know 
Hutch likes to correct me. Gives him a chance to show off that 
college education. And sometimes it even gets a laugh out of him.

Hutch needs to loosen up, and I've made it my mission in life to 
see that he does. I get the feelin' he grew up with a lot of rules 
when he was a kid, that his folks were pretty straight-laced. My 
motto, on the other hand, is that rules are made to be broken--one 
of the reasons Ma decided to ship me off to Aunt Rosie and Uncle 
Al after Pop died.

Hutch has got kind of a love/hate relationship with rules. At heart, 
he's as much of a free spirit as I am, willing to work outside the 
regulations to get results. But he can't exactly shake off all those 
years his parents taught him that bein' a good guy is following 
rules.

Huh. Maybe that's another reason why he makes a better "good 
cop" than I do.

"Well, Lugoosi, Lugosi. Just hope he cracks soon. I'm starved."

"You might not be so hungry if you ate the right food."

Just like I'd thought--I couldn't get a lousy package of peanuts 
without hearin' a Hutchinson lecture on my diet.

"Oh. Well, maybe it's all that organic Japanese seaweed I had for 
lunch," I remind him. How can he eat that stuff, anyway? I felt like 
I was eating grass.

"Couldn't be the can of sardines you had for breakfast."

It wasn't a whole can. Just a few measly little fish. "Hey, isn't it 
about time you went back in there?" Translation: stop naggin' me.

"Yeah."

Sure enough, he stuffed his barely eaten peanuts into my hand. 
Which reminded me of dinner. "Hey. What about tonight?"

"Why don't we come back to my place, scramble up some eggs, 
huh?"

The really sad thing was, he was serious. Eggs, for cryin' out loud. 
For dinner. I made a face. "Hey, dinner, not breakfast." Suddenly I 
got an idea. Maybe I could talk him into trying a great place I 
knew about. "What about some Italian food?"

Hutch wrinkled up his nose. "Nah, nah. I want to go home. It's 
liable to rain."

Rain? What did rain have to do with gettin' a decent meal? I started 
telling him all about this restaurant by the docks, but he just 
headed back to the interrogation room.

I hung out in the hallway, giving Hutch a chance to work. I could 
just picture my partner looking worried, telling Harry how 
dangerous I could be. How I'd send Hutch for coffee just so's I 
could have some quality time alone with a suspect. When Hutch 
finished, all I'd need to do was mention coffee and we'd have to 
scrape Harry off the ceiling.

I hoped. 

Finally, it was showtime. I opened the door, flashed Harry my 
teeth, and stepped inside.

"Well, Harry. It seems I got a little excited."

I reached for the chair, forgetting that I was a little rough on it until 
the back came off in my hand. Oops. Dobey was gonna kill me. He 
hated when Hutch and me destroyed property, even for a good 
cause. I kind of ambled up close and fiddled with the necklaces 
hanging around Harry's neck, laughing. "Hope I didn't tangle your 
chains, huh?"

From the way Harry reacted, you'd've thought I just tried to 
strangle him.

I pretended not to notice and kept on being nice. Too nice. Just like 
Tony Campanella. See, Tony was a kid back in the neighborhood 
where I grew up. After Pop died, Ma was pretty wrapped up in her 
own grief for a while, and me bein' the oldest, well, she leaned on 
me. A lot. Too much hurt, too much anger, too much 
responsibility--guess I couldn't take it, and I went a little wild. I 
started hanging out with the wrong crowd, joined a gang called the 
Scorpions. Tony was about five years older 'n me, the president, 
top dog of the Scorpions. And I wanted to be just like him.

No one crossed Tony. He was smart, and he had a real good eye 
for people, whether they were telling the truth or tryin' to put one 
over on him. But the thing I remember most about him, was that he 
scared the shit outta me when he got angry. He didn't yell. He 
didn't throw ya around or break things. He got nice. Real, real nice-
-putting an arm around your shoulders, slapping you on the back, 
smiling at you. Telling you in a soft, friendly voice exactly what he 
was gonna do to you if you were ever stupid enough to make that 
mistake again. And I'd seen him operate enough to know he meant 
it.

'Course, when Ma got wind of who I'd picked for a role model, she 
freaked. Shipped me off to Aunt Rosie and Uncle Al before I knew 
what hit me. It took a lot of years before I could recognize that by 
doing that Ma had saved me, not abandoned me. Instead of 
becoming Tony Campanella, rotting in prison for armed robbery 
and assault, I wound up a cop.

I just get to play at being Tony every once in a while.

Ain't life great?

"Let me tell ya, Harry. Hutch and I don't have anything to do 
tonight. And if it's important to you, we are willing to take all 
night." I realized I had the perfect chance to pay Hutch back for 
those cracks about what I eat. "Right?" I asked him, then frowned. 
"Oh, you got a date tonight, don'tcha?"

I'd heard him on the phone after we realized Harry wasn't exactly 
dyin' to talk to us, canceling out on Abby. Figured he couldn't be 
too happy about trading an evening with his beautiful lady for one 
with his slightly cranky partner and a second-rate mahareeshi.

"Yeah." Hutch lifted one shoulder, and if I'd managed to yank his 
chain, he sure didn't let me know. "Whatever you wanna do."

"See?" I told Harry, then played my ace. "Hey! How about a cup of 
coffee?" I rested one arm on the back of Harry's chair and gave 
him that smile, the one that made guys' blood run cold, then looked 
at Hutch. "It's your turn." To Harry. "His turn."

Harry looked like I'd just offered him poison.

"You really want a cup of coffee?" Hutch played it just right, 
looking first at me with a serious, wary expression, then at Harry.

"Yeah! Don't you want a cup of coffee, Harry?"

He was about to crack. It was written all over his face, the way he 
looked at me like I was Bela Lugoosi.

Lugosi.

Whatever.

Hutch kind of shrugged and stood up as if he was going to walk 
out the door. And all of a sudden ol' Harry didn't feel so safe in the 
shadow of the Himalayas.

"Hey, hey. Hey, wait a minute." He stuttered, that phony serenity 
stuff out the window. "I mean, you aren't gonna leave me alone 
with this guy, are you?"

Bingo.

Harry didn't just crack, he splintered into little pieces. Yammering 
on about how it wasn't his fault, he was stoned, she came at him...

Yeah. Right. Five foot four and a hundred and ten pounds soakin' 
wet. Poor kid's gonna need therapy for years, if she even pulls 
through.

Suddenly playing cat and mouse didn't seem fun anymore and I 
wasn't even sure I was hungry. If Harry was an isolated case, it 
might not have been so bad. But the truth of the matter was, for 
every Harry we pulled off the street and locked up, there were ten 
more waitin' to take his place. 

And that gets pretty damn discouraging after a while.

I vaguely heard Hutch calling for a stenographer as Harry 
continued to unburden himself like I'd turned from cop to priest. A 
finger tapped my shoulder, and I tipped my head back to see 
Hutch's face.

"All right."

Huh? 

He kinda rolled his eyes, but I could see a smile twitching at the 
corners of his mouth. "You. Me. The great little place near the 
docks that we're going to drive to in the pouring rain. All right."

I couldn't believe my ears. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

And just like that, all the doom and gloom lifted off my shoulders 
and I was hungry again.


Chapter 2

~~~~~~~~~~~~
    Hutch
~~~~~~~~~~~~

"You are gonna love this place. I mean, I want ya to look at the 
atmosphere, huh? You ever seen anything so old?"

Starsky was like a puppy with a brand new bone--if he'd've had a 
tail it would've been wagging wildly. I was caught between feeling 
charmed by his enthusiasm and irritated that I'd just waded through 
a downpour to eat a meal I wasn't really hungry for.

"Think we can find a table?" I ran my dripping hand over my 
equally wet face--not much improvement.

"All right, here's a table right here. Come on. C'mon, c'mon, 
c'mon." Starsky led us to one of the many empty tables covered in 
a traditional red-and-white checkered cloth.

I considered making a snide remark about the lack of clientele, but 
restrained myself. It was past eleven o'clock, after all--most folks 
were home in their beds, listening to the rain pattering on the roof, 
not sitting down to dinner. I deliberately refused to think about the 
health repercussions of eating a heavy meal right before bed.

Starsky continued to jabber as we seated ourselves at a table. 
"Take a good whiff--doesn't it smell terrific? And it tastes just as 
good, trust me. These little hole-in-the-wall restaurants are always 
the best places to get authentic Italian food--expensive joints like 
Venuti's can't touch 'em."

Venuti's was a popular, upscale restaurant. I knew for a fact, you 
couldn't even get a plate of spaghetti there for less than twenty 
bucks. I couldn't help myself--I had to say it.

"Starsk, have you ever been to Venuti's?"

He stared at me, thoughts derailed, his mouth slightly ajar. His 
eyes narrowed for just a moment before the sunny smile reclaimed 
his face. "Nah. But you don't need to've eaten there to know this 
place is way better, Hutch. I mean, just look around ya."

Can't argue with that Starsky logic.

He waved to the waitress and she made her way over to our table. 
She was very pretty--long brown hair and big brown eyes. 
Knowing my partner, the checkered tablecloths and drippy candles 
weren't the only part of the "atmosphere" he found so fascinating.

"It's almost closing time; we really don't have much left." She 
seemed tense, uneasy. I chalked it up to the end of a long day.

Starsky flashed one of his grins at her. "Well, whatever you got I'm 
sure it's good--even if it's not on our menu."

She rolled her eyes a little, but a tiny smile touched the corners of 
her mouth. I'd tossed similar lines at a pretty lady myself, but I 
owed Starsky for that crack back in the interrogation room about 
my date.

"You'll have to excuse my friend here." I ignored Starsky's slightly 
puzzled, slightly annoyed stare, acting the perfect gentleman. 
"What would you recommend?"

Remember when I mentioned that Starsky and I compete? Well, 
one easy way to show my partner up is in things like manners and 
etiquette. Don't get me wrong--Starsky's not a complete slob or 
anything. But let's face it, his roots are a lot…earthier than mine. 
My folks have money. A lot of it. Which didn't really mean much 
when it came to the truly important things in life, but it did insure I 
grew up with a certain knowledge and comfort level for things like 
caviar, formal dinner parties, and the ballet. Poor Starsk, on the 
other hand, is like a fish out of water. And it's impossible not to 
rub his nose in it a little, now and then.

Of course, Starsky has his own areas of…expertise. Talents and 
abilities I couldn't pick up back on the farm in Minnesota. He's got 
innate street smarts you can't obtain from anywhere but 
experience. He's hands down the best driver in the Department, 
split-second reflexes and intuition combining so he practically 
makes that striped tomato jump through hoops. And even though I 
already knew how to box, it was Starsky who taught me how to 
brawl. Pretty invaluable, since the bad guys don't exactly fight by 
the rules. 

The waitress paused before answering me, probably to consider 
what they had left in the kitchen. "Veal Piccata. Linguini with 
clams…"

I stole a quick peek at Starsky before answering. "I'll have the 
veal."

"I'll have the linguini with the clams." He was still cheerful, 
untroubled by my little dig.

She nodded. "Veal, and linguini. Do you want some wine with it?"

I knew I probably shouldn't, it was late and I was already tired, but 
it sounded too good to pass up. I figured there was a good chance 
they even made their own, and that's usually the best kind. 
"Ahh…vino de casa."

"Vino de casa." She hustled off to the kitchen, that distracted, 
strained expression back on her face.

Starsky watched her go, his brow wrinkled. "What's, uh…vino de 
casa?"

"They make it themselves," I explained, leaning forward a little to 
brace my arms on the table.

"What?" He looked at me blankly.

"Wine. House wine."

"Oh! Hey," Starsky gave me a lopsided grin and settled back in his 
chair, gazing contentedly around the room. "Hey. I told you you'd 
like this place. You know what it reminds me of?"

Here we go. I knew he'd mention it sooner or later.

"Yeah. The restaurant your grandmother used to live over when 
you were a kid." I let my eyes wander, taking in the two men 
seated at a table in the corner and the jukebox over my shoulder.

Starsky's mouth dropped open with surprise. "How'd you know 
that?"

"Starsky, every time we walk into an Italian restaurant it reminds 
you of the restaurant your grandmother lived over when you were 
a kid," I told him dryly.

He wasn't offended, just showed me another crooked grin. "Yeah, I 
guess it does." 

The two cups of coffee Starsky downed during Harry's statement 
must have kicked in. I pointed him toward the john and went to 
pick out a little dinner music. If Starsky was gonna be so 
concerned with atmosphere, I figured I might as well contribute.

I dropped in my quarter and was scanning the songs and whistling 
under my breath, when something hard buried itself in my spine. 
I've been a cop too long not to immediately recognize the feel of a 
gun. 

"Don't move." My head snapped up and I turned to stone. The 
voice was low and very calm. "I've a gun in your back. Now put 
both hands on top of the machine." I hesitated for a split second 
and the gun dug painfully into my flesh. "Both hands on top of the 
machine."

I brought my right hand up very slowly and propped it on the 
jukebox beside the left. My thoughts were chasing each other in 
circles, trying to make sense of what was happening. Was it a 
robbery? A disgruntled employee? And most importantly, did he 
realize he was pointing his gun at a cop?

"That's right. Just keep both hands--don't make any moves." A 
hand reached under my leather jacket, unerringly found my piece, 
and slipped it from the holster. Well, that answered one question 
anyway.

My mind leapfrogged to Starsky. I wanted to believe that the guy 
hadn't seen my partner, but his knowledge of my weapon made 
that unlikely. If he'd observed enough to somehow gather I was a 
cop--or at the very least, armed--he probably knew I wasn't alone.

Stay in the bathroom, Starsk. Whatever you do, don't come 
barreling out into the middle of this mess…

Another nudge from the gun. "Now, let's take a walk. Let's go to 
the men's room. Turn around." When I didn't move fast enough, he 
pressed harder. "Turn around."

Damn. Whoever this guy was, he had us cold. Starsky would never 
know what was going down until it was too late.

I turned very slowly and began walking, careful to keep my hands 
slightly away from my sides and in plain view. From the corner of 
my eye I saw my captor; recognized him as one of the two men 
who had been sitting at the corner table. An older man with 
graying hair and an immaculate suit. His companion, younger and 
much scruffier, was lounging in a chair facing the bathroom, a gun 
trained on the doorway.

What happened next still haunts my dreams, unfolding in slow 
motion over and over, so I'm forced to relive each terrifying detail. 
In reality, however, it was all over in the blink of an eye. Starsky 
came through the doorway, faltering slightly when he spied the 
guns. It might've all ended there, but our pretty waitress chose that 
moment to come out of the kitchen.

My partner never hesitated. He lunged for the girl, shoving her 
back toward the relative safety of the kitchen. I tried to charge 
forward, but a hard push from the older gunman sent me flying. I 
hit the floor hard enough to make my teeth snap together, rolling 
until I smacked into the wall.

A gunshot.

Two.

I struggled to sit up, a corner of my mind recognizing that two 
more people had entered the restaurant, I still had a gun aimed at 
my head, and the waitress was screaming. It was all white noise, 
unimportant for the moment. The only thing that mattered, that 
filled my eyes and made my heart lurch in my chest, was Starsky. 

Crumpled on the floor, like a broken doll.

Not moving.

Breathing?

The gunman's voice. Still calm. Matter-of-fact. "You're not gonna 
make it, friend."

Would Starsky?

Would any of us?


~~~~~~~~~~~~
   Starsky
~~~~~~~~~~~~

I was so glad to finally be outta that interrogation room, it didn't 
even matter to me that it was rainin' buckets. I knew Hutch didn't 
really want to go to Giovanni's, that he was doing it for me, but I 
figured once we got there he'd see how great the place was. So, I 
guess maybe I overdid it a little, raving about how terrific the 
atmosphere was, how great the food would taste, and how glad he 
was gonna be that he came.

I'm sure people think I make a fool outta myself sometimes, 
clowning around. Most of the time I don't really care, that's just 
who I am. I mean, I got no choice but to take my job very 
seriously. The least I can do is kick loose and have some fun when 
I have the chance. And if I manage to drag Blondie along, get him 
to shake off a little of the Hutchinson restraint--it's even better.

But that night, Hutch sure wasn't makin' it easy.

"Take a good whiff--doesn't it smell terrific? And it tastes just as 
good, trust me." I could see the way he was looking at all the 
empty tables, like maybe other people knew something I didn't. 
"These little-hole-in-the-wall restaurants are always the best places 
to get authentic Italian food--expensive joints like Venuti's can't 
touch 'em."

He gave me that look, the one with the raised eyebrows that says, 
"You're full of it, and we both know it." "Starsk, have you ever 
been to Venuti's?"

What's that got to do with anything?

"Nah. But you don't need to've eaten there to know this place is 
way better, Hutch. I mean, just look around ya."

I spied a waitress clearing off another table and motioned her over. 
Even tired and frazzled after a long day, she was pretty. I could see 
right off that if she'd smile, she'd be a knockout.

"It's almost closing time; we really don't have much left."

Gonna make you laugh, sweetheart, if it's the last thing I do.

I grinned up at her. "Well, whatever you got, I'm sure it's good--
even if it's not on our menu."

She ignored me, but her mouth twitched a little. I was just 
congratulatin' myself, sure that I'd have her grinning in no time, 
when Hutch went all Miss Manners on me.

"You'll have to excuse my friend here. What would you 
recommend?"

Huh? Excuse me? Excuse me for what?

He wouldn't look at me, just gave the waitress his whole attention 
and politely waited for her to answer.

What did I say? I replayed it, but it still seemed okay to me. I knew 
Hutch was probably just getting even with me for riding him about 
having to break his date, but it still left me off balance.

I know I'm good with the ladies--always have been. I distinctly 
remember the first time I realized it. Sixth grade. Sheila 
Carmichael. We were lab partners for a science experiment and it 
came time to write up the report. I said she should do it because 
her handwriting was so much neater and easier to read than mine. 
She said I should do it because I'd sat on my lazy butt and left her 
most of the work during the experiment. Which, by the way, was 
completely untrue.

Well.

Mostly untrue.

Anyway, we were walkin' home from school, squabbling over who 
would do the dirty deed, when I decided to try something different. 
I turned to her and smiled. Told her if she really wanted me to 
write that report, I would. That I was just lucky to've gotten a 
partner who had brains and beauty, and if she really thought it was 
fair, then I would.

She stared at me for a minute, and then her eyes got all soft and she 
smiled back. Not only did she wind up writin' the report, she 
agreed to go to the Spring dance with me.

Yep, it's that Starsky charm. Get's 'em every time.

But even though I don't have any trouble relating to women one on 
one, I'm not always so great at the mechanics. Oh, I can handle 
dinner and the theater all right, so long as the restaurant doesn't 
have more than two forks and the theater happens to be the Rivoli 
around the corner. Which shows all those great old movies like 
"The Maltese Falcon" and "Casablanca."

Yeah, I'm a sucker for Bogart. So what's it to ya, schweetheart?

Hutch, on the other hand, just oozes class and good taste. To see 
the guy on the streets, roughin' up suspects and chasing down bad 
guys, you'd never guess that he listens to opera and reads stuff like 
Shakespeare. For fun. He doesn't want people to know his family is 
loaded, and I respect that because it's not who he is. And most of 
the time it don't make a hill of beans worth of difference that he 
was raised Park Avenue and me, Coney Island.

But he can't resist shovin' it in my face a little every now and then. 
I don't like it, but it doesn't exactly bother me either. I know how 
he feels about me in every way that really counts. And I score my 
own points over his lousy housekeeping habits and his obsession 
with desiccated liver.

The waitress thought for a minute. "Veal Piccata. Linguini with 
clams…"

Hutch glanced at me before ordering the veal. I knew what he was 
thinking, and I didn't disappoint him. I told her I'd like the linguini, 
knowing I'd filch a little of my partner's veal, too. 

She asked Hutch if he wanted wine with the food--Hutch, not me. 
Obviously, she'd decided he was the one at the table who'd know 
what to order, and she was right. To me, red is red and white is 
white. Hutch is the one who gets down to specifics, so I leave that 
to him.

"Ah…vino de casa."

Vino de what?

I looked at him after the waitress bustled off to get our food. 
"What's vino de casa?"

"They make it themselves."

I'm sure they do. Now what the hell is it, Mr. Cosmopolitan?

"What?"

He didn't tease me, just answered patiently. "Wine. House wine."

"Oh. Hey!" It dawned on me then that if Hutch had loosened up 
enough to order wine, he must be having a good time. "Hey. I told 
you you'd like this place. You know what it reminds me of?"

"Yeah. The restaurant your grandmother used to live over when 
you were a kid."

I gaped at him. It was exactly what I'd been thinking, but I couldn't 
figure out how he read my mind. "How'd you know that?"

Hutch shook his head. "Starsky, every time we walk into an Italian 
restaurant it reminds you of the restaurant your grandmother lived 
over when you were a kid."

He was right. I got a lotta great memories of goin' to visit my 
grandma. She had this purse that I woulda sworn was bigger on the 
inside than the outside. That thing had anything you could ever 
want or need in it. If I felt like drawing a picture, Grandma would 
reach into that purse and pull out a pack of crayons. If Ma needed a 
safety pin to fix a tear in her skirt, that purse would cough up three 
different sizes of 'em. She had a little plastic folding cup for gettin' 
a drink when there wasn't a water fountain. And an endless supply 
of gum. Nicky and me were convinced it was magic, and that 
Grandma had special powers she kept secret from us. Now I realize 
the only magic Grandma had was love, and lots of it.

Memories wrapped around me like a warm blanket and I couldn't 
help smiling, even if Hutch was bein' a smart ass. "Yeah. I guess it 
does."

Suddenly nature called and I shifted in my chair, looking around 
for the bathroom.

"I think it's over there." Hutch tipped his head toward the kitchen.

"What?"

"The john."

His ESP was gettin' to be annoying. I leaned toward him. 
"Anybody ever tell you you're a regular shaft of sunlight?"

Hutch snickered and we both stood up. I know ladies have the 
habit of going to the john in packs, but Hutch and me don't usually 
buddy up when we take care of business.

"Where are you goin'?" I asked him.

"Play some music."

"Oh!" I reached into my pocket for change, but Hutch stopped me.

"That's all right, it's free." Since he had his fingers in his own 
pocket, I figured he meant it would be his quarter.

"Oh."

I left him to peruse the jukebox while I disposed of all the coffee 
I'd drunk back at the station. I whistled softly as I washed my 
hands, my stomach grumbling that the food had better be ready 
soon. I wondered which I'd like more--my linguini or Hutch's veal. 
That's what was on my mind as I walked out the door.

Right before everything went straight to hell.

The first thing I noticed was the punk sitting in a chair, his piece 
pointed at my chest. Almost immediately after that, I saw Hutch 
walking toward me, covered by a second guy holding two guns--
one of them Hutch's Python. All that ran through my brain in a 
split second. Before I could process it, before I could consciously 
decide what to do, the kitchen door swung open and the pretty 
waitress stepped out.

I reacted, plain and simple. Hutch and me are cops, we take the 
risks that come with the job. But there was no way I was gonna let 
that girl take a bullet. I ducked to the left and shoved her as hard as 
I could toward the kitchen, hoping she'd stumble back through the 
doors. I guess maybe in the back of my mind I thought I could 
drop and roll, get outta the way. 

I never had a chance.

I vaguely heard two gunshots as something slammed into me so 
hard I flew into the air. I crashed into a tray and slipped to the 
floor, barely feeling the impact. My arms and legs felt like lead, 
and everything narrowed down to pain--in my head, in my back, 
pulsing through my whole body. A high buzzing sound filled my 
ears, like a buncha wasps, and I slid into a dark tunnel. Far away, I 
could hear our waitress screaming.

One thought managed to wade through the molasses in my brain as 
I fought not to pass out.

Sorry, Hutch. This time you're on your own.


Chapter 3

~~~~~~~~~~~~
    Hutch
~~~~~~~~~~~~

All I could do was watch, helpless, while the punk who'd just shot 
my partner roughly patted him down and pocketed his gun. Starsky 
didn't protest the manhandling, his body limp and motionless. Our 
waitress had dropped to a crouch beside my partner, her horrified 
eyes darting between Starsky's chalk-white face and the gunman's 
emotionless mask. She abruptly stood and strode toward the older 
man still covering me with his piece.

"They said only Monty'd be shot. Only Monty!"

The widening pool of blood around my partner held my gaze like 
steel to a magnet, but her words penetrated the fog of shock and 
fear smothering me. No wonder our pretty little waitress had 
looked so tense. Whatever was going down at the restaurant, she 
was smack dab in the middle of it.

Nothing seemed to faze my captor, his voice stayed low and even. 
"It couldn't be helped. And remember, you have to think of your 
mother."

So much blood. It soaked the already crimson carpet, turning it 
almost black. Starsky could be bleeding to death while we all stood 
around staring at each other. Without even making a conscious 
decision, I began moving cautiously toward him.

"Stay where you are." The old guy--I'd started thinking of him as 
"Iceman"--twitched his gun in a not-so-subtle reminder that he was 
in charge.

I locked eyes with him, but though I slowed my movements I 
continued to rise to my feet. For the moment, I didn't care why 
there were hired killers staking out an Italian restaurant or what 
part our waitress played in the whole mess. Starsky needed me. 
End of story.

"I don't care what your business is here tonight. I'm going to my 
partner." I raised my hands a little, trying to appear non-
threatening, when what I really wanted to do was beat the hell out 
of both of them.

He looked at me for a long moment. "All right. Go ahead. Go 
ahead." He tipped his head toward Starsky, a faint twist to the 
corners of his mouth, as if I'd somehow amused him.

I hadn't moved more than two steps when the punk darted into my 
path, his piece leveled at my head and a smirk on his ugly face. 
"Aaaah! I say we waste him."

Something deep inside of me snapped, and like a dam bursting, 
anger bubbled up and spilled over. Starsky lay there hurting, alone. 
No two-bit hood with a quick trigger finger was going to keep me 
from him.

I gritted my teeth against the words that really wanted to come out. 
"If you're gonna blow me away, you'd better do it now."

His eyes glittered and the smirk turned into a grin. I glared at him 
and curled my fingers into fists, wishing I could bury them in his 
jacket and slam him against the nearest wall until the self-satisfied 
leer slid off his face.

"Joey. The man in the kitchen, he must've heard the shots. See if he 
ran away." An order, not a request. When Joey didn't move, a little 
bit of impatience crept into Iceman's tone. "Joey. The kitchen!"

Joey shot him a black look, and for a split second I wondered if he 
actually had the guts to challenge Iceman's authority. Instead, he 
backed down and did as he'd been told. I filed the observation 
away for future reference even as I was dodging checkered tables 
in a rush to reach Starsky's side.

Blood had pooled beneath his head and was spreading in a 
widening circle behind him. I dropped to my knees and slipped one 
hand under his cheek and the other at the back of his skull, very 
gently lifting. "Hey, buddy. Hey, buddy." Close up, the amount of 
blood looked much worse. "Oh my God." 

I pitched my voice soft and soothing, wanting him to know he 
wasn't alone, that I was with him. His eyes, glassy and unfocused, 
insisted on fluttering closed, but he tried to respond, one hand 
clumsily fumbling for a hold on my leg, my arm, my jacket. It took 
him several tries just to say my name, slurred so badly it was 
barely recognizable.

"It's okay, buddy, I'm right here."

My stomach did a long, slow roll when I saw the furrow one of the 
bullets had plowed along my partner's temple. Change the angle 
just a bit and it would undoubtedly have penetrated bone instead of 
deflecting off it. Starsky would have a monster headache and most 
likely a concussion, but that seemed a small price to pay in 
exchange for keeping his brains intact.

"Hey, Hutch." The words were weak and muffled.

I lowered his head and reached over my shoulder to tug a 
checkered cloth off a nearby table. "C'mere," I muttered, more to 
myself than to Starsky, my nerves jangling and my heart 
hammering against my ribs. I positioned it under his head to 
cushion his skull from the hard floor, hoping it would also act as a 
crude bandage to soak up the excess blood. "Okay."

"Hey. We really goofed, huh? Huh? Huh?" Starsky gulped air in 
short, sharp bites.

I skimmed my hand down his back and something warm, wet, and 
sticky pulsed against my hand, staining my fingers bright red. My 
own breath locked up in my chest and I scrambled over him to take 
a better look at the damage. 

Only marginally aware of what was going on around us, Starsky 
kept trying to talk. "Didya... Did you get the bad guys?" He 
punctuated the question with a deep, raspy cough that shook his 
whole body.

"More like they got us."

Between the steadily oozing blood and his clothing I couldn't see 
the extent of the injury. I glanced around for something to help me 
cut away Starsky's jacket and shirt, my eyes landing on a cart just 
outside the kitchen doors with a drawer that appeared to hold 
silverware. As I stretched out my hand, I couldn't help doing a 
quick double take of the blood coating my fingers. Keeping the 
other anchored on Starsky's shoulder to reassure him, I yanked 
open the drawer and pulled out a knife. 

"Take it easy. Take it easy, now."

The blade sliced cleanly through cloth, enlarging the bullet hole 
until I could rip the fabric and completely expose the wound.

"How do I look?" Starsky's breathing hitched and stuttered, but he 
persisted. "How do I look? Huh?"

Oh my God.

Cold fingers scampered up my spine and I stared numbly at the 
area of torn flesh. Thanks to a brief flirtation with medicine, I 
possessed enough knowledge to recognize three things. First, the 
bullet had lodged, not passed cleanly through as I'd hoped. Second, 
it had impacted much lower than I'd guessed, in the back, not the 
shoulder. And third, it was stuck in a position frighteningly close 
to both Starsky's spinal cord and his left lung.

My brain raced along at a hundred miles an hour, even though my 
body felt frozen in place. I couldn't let Starsky know just how 
badly he was hurt. The most important thing was to keep him quiet 
and calm until I could get him to a hospital. That meant padding 
the truth a little to prevent him from worrying.

"Well...wu...wu...one of 'em bounced off that thick skull of yours." 

I snatched a handful of napkins from the bottom of the cart, 
mentally cursing the fact that I stutter when I'm upset. And Starsky 
knows it. If he hadn't been half out of his head from shock and 
blood loss he'd've been grilling me in a minute. "The other one 
found your shoulder." I pressed the wad of cloth tightly against the 
wound and tried hard to keep my voice light and unconcerned.

"The shoulder?"

"Yeah."

"'S that all?" His papery thin voice rose with surprise and relief.

"That's all." I forced a little chuckle though my heart twisted 
painfully in my chest. Starsky and I don't lie to one another, and 
even though I believed in my motives, the words still left a bad 
taste in my mouth.

I leaned in close, taking the chance to put pressure on both injuries 
at the same time. The gash on his head had begun to clot, but I 
could already feel warmth on the palm pressed to his back. Starsky 
needed a hospital, and he needed one right away.

"Don't go away, huh?" I murmured into his ear, very aware of my 
audience once I'd finished caring for my partner.

"What, now that I finally got a waitress?"

Every breath an effort, words blurry, spasms of pain, yet my 
partner still managed to crack wise. Starsky is my best friend and I 
love him more than any other person on the face of this earth. 
That's a given, something I don't have to think about. There are 
times, though, when I'm forcefully reminded just how much I 
respect the man, as well.

The door to the kitchen burst open. "I locked the old man in the..." 
Joey faltered as he stared down at us, his dark eyes ice cold, 
"...cellar. He ain't gonna go nowhere."

The queasiness in my gut grew with his words. Whatever business 
these goons had, it didn't appear that shooting a cop was going to 
scare them off. They weren't getting ready to make a run for it. 
They were settling in for the long haul.

"Hey, I gotta get him to a hospital." I directed my words to Iceman, 
clearly the guy in charge.

Though our pretty little waitress's face showed a mixture of horror 
and pity, Iceman's could have been carved from stone. "You just 
said yourself it's only a shoulder wound."

People sometimes make the mistake of thinking that out of the two 
of us, Starsky is the one with a temper. And to be fair, it's true that 
he can be more emotionally...volatile than me. He's an odd mix, 
you know? He keeps his personal anger and grief close, so close 
that sometimes even I have to pry it out of him with a crowbar. 
When it comes to his feelings about other people and what's going 
on around him, however, he wears them on his sleeve for the world 
to see. So when something pisses him off--an almost daily 
occurrence in our line of work--he doesn't hesitate to show it. 
Whether that means breaking lamps and kicking over coffee tables 
or slamming a suspect up against a brick wall. 

Compared to Starsky I can come off looking like our new friend 
Iceman. My family was never comfortable with displays of strong 
emotion, whether anger or what Starsky likes to call "soapy 
scenes." So I learned to be pretty good at locking down my 
feelings. Until Starsky, anyway. Maybe being around my partner 
has loosened me up, encouraged me to be myself and not worry 
about other people's opinions. God knows, Starsky doesn't seem to 
give a damn what other people think of him. Or maybe it's just that 
when I opened the door to Starsky, I let him all the way in. Even 
showed him the messy, cluttered rooms you never let company see 
because they're too embarrassing. I'd never done that before. Every 
other friend I'd ever had only made it as far as the hallway, or 
maybe the living room where everything is kept nice, and neat, and 
presentable.

Anyway, I'm not nearly as cool-headed as some would like to 
think. And certain triggers can make me angry enough to lose my 
legendary self-control and blow my top. Starsky hurt or in danger 
is number one on that list.

Iceman's words, mocking my clumsy attempt to comfort Starsky in 
the middle of so much pain and fear, infuriated me.

"Look. I don't know who you are, and I don't know why you're 
here, and right now I really don't care. What I do know, is that my 
buddy here has got a bullet in the back. And unless I get some help 
for him, now, you're gonna have a dead cop on your hands. Do you 
understand?"

Amazingly, Joey, the guy who minutes earlier wanted to "waste" 
me, was the one to react to my warning. His eyes fastened on 
Starsky as if he were really seeing my partner for the first time.

"Hey a, hey a... Hey maybe he's right, maybe we oughta get outta 
here while we can, huh?"

True to form, Iceman refused to let my words rattle him. "It's too 
late to back out now, Joey."

Starsky's hand reached back, searching for mine, his body wracked 
with pain. I grasped it firmly almost wincing when his fingers 
closed in a crushing grip.

"Easy," I murmured, hating the feeling of complete helplessness. 

Iceman elbowed our waitress. "Is there any place we can put him?"

"Uh...there's an office back there, it has a couch in it." She pointed 
over her shoulder toward an open doorway, unable to take her eyes 
off Starsky.

"Take your partner into the office." Iceman gestured with his gun, 
then turned to his partner. "Joey, if there's a back entrance, take 
care of it. And if there's a phone, pull it out. Go!"

It wouldn't get Starsky the medical help he desperately needed, but 
it was better than leaving him on the floor, and it would give me a 
chance to cobble together a little more first aid. His eyes had 
slipped shut again, and I was pretty certain he'd missed most of 
what was happening around him. I got to my knees and started to 
slip an arm under his shoulders, worrying about how I was going 
to haul him into the office without causing agonizing pain and 
maybe more damage from the bullet.

"C'mon, buddy."

"Where we goin'?" The weak question confirmed my suspicions 
about his awareness.

"Gonna take you someplace where you can be comfortable. 
C'mon." I very carefully slipped his arm around my neck.

"Sounds nice."

"Come on."

He was a dead weight. Starsky's a little smaller than I am, but he's 
solid as a rock. As badly as he was injured, a fireman's carry was 
out of the question. Once I had his arm slung around my neck I slid 
my hand under his legs and slowly rose to my feet.

He moaned, an involuntary reflex that spoke of such intense pain, I 
had to blink hard against the tears that flooded my eyes. Another 
involuntary reflex.

"Sorry, Starsk. I'm sorry. Hang on, buddy. Hang on."

I panted for air as I staggered across the restaurant, which seemed 
to have doubled in size. Starsky's head lolled and his free arm hung 
loosely by his side. The only indication he was alive was the soft 
grunts of pain that each step I took wrenched from his lips.

As I passed the waitress, I barked instructions. "I need some clean 
towels. Tablecloths. Water."

As we got to the office Starsky muttered something incoherent, 
then gagged, as if choking.

"Take it easy, buddy. Take it easy." I eased him onto the couch, 
flinching as his head thumped onto the armrest.

Joey made no attempt to help me as I struggled to position Starsky 
comfortably. He stood in the doorway and smirked at us. "Listen, I 
could put your friend out of his misery for him."

"Get the hell out of here." I glared at him for only a moment, more 
concerned with Starsky than a mouthy punk determined to prove 
he was a tough guy.

"Don't forget, cop, when you come out I wanna see your hands in 
the clear, huh?"

I ignored him and he left, satisfied that he'd laid down the law. I 
picked up Starsky's legs that were trailing off the couch onto the 
floor, and placed them onto the cushions. The movement provoked 
another round of gagging and he squirmed.

"Come on, easy. Don't move." I turned him onto his side, trying to 
ease the weight on his back.

"Oh, Hutch...ah...I feel sick."

A green terrycloth towel lying on a nearby table caught my eye, 
and I snatched it up, quickly returning to Starsky's side. "Just a 
second." I gently lifted his head so that I could wedge a pillow 
beneath it.

Starsky's protest was little more than a puff of air. "Hutch..."

Snagging the cloth, I lifted his head again so that I could press it 
against the gash. Starsky's flailing arm told me what he couldn't 
say--that every shift of his body increased the pain.

"One more time. One more time," I murmured.

He convulsed with more dry heaves. "Oh, Hutch...Hutch..."

"Take it easy. Take it easy."

Hard to say if I was talking to Starsky or myself. I just wanted him 
to hear my voice, to know I was doing everything in my power to 
help him. I kept a hand on his shoulder as I scrambled around to sit 
beside him on the couch. The hand that had been floundering 
found my leg, curling around it as if I was a life preserver. My 
chest tightened painfully as I realized he'd been reaching for me all 
along. One of his legs had slipped back off the cushions. I tucked it 
back up, then leaned over to get a look at the bullet wound in 
Starsky's back.

"Hey...wha' happened? Would you tell me...what happened?"

Starsky's question was music to my ears. At least he was with it 
enough to care about what was going down--up until that moment 
he'd been alarmingly passive.

"You got shot, remember?" I tugged the cloth away from the 
wound, dismayed to see that the bleeding hadn't let up. If anything, 
our trip across the restaurant had aggravated it.

Starsky mumbled something, but the words were so badly slurred I 
couldn't understand them. "Huh?" I tried to use the blood-soaked 
tablecloth to clean off the wound, but it wasn't working very well.

Starsky's attempt to repeat himself trailed off into a groan. "Huh? I 
thought..." His face scrunched up. "Oh, my head."

"You got a little crease." 

His head had shifted off the pillow and blood was trickling down 
his cheek. I grimaced, as once again I had to cause more pain by 
shifting him back into position. His skin felt cool and clammy 
under my palm.

Starsky's fingers tightened on my leg. "Hutch...oh, Hutch."

My frustration multiplied. My partner was rapidly bleeding to 
death--I could feel warmth as his life literally trickled between my 
fingers. I had no doctor, no first aid equipment, and no hope in 
sight of obtaining any in the near future. I'd be damned if I was 
gonna lose Starsky over a five-dollar plate of linguini.

"Where in the hell is that girl?" I muttered, lifting my head to glare 
at the door. "GET IN HERE WITH THAT STUFF!"

"Hey...Hutch, you...you sound like Dobey."

Starsky brought me back, actually made me laugh when I would've 
sworn it was impossible. "I'm sorry."

Our waitress burst through the door, carrying a bundle of cloths 
and a pitcher of water. "Here are the things you wanted." 

She set them down on the desk, within easy reach for me. I 
grabbed a clean napkin and laid it in place against the wound in 
Starsky's back while she hovered over us, wringing her hands 
nervously. I wrapped my fingers around her wrist and tugged, 
placing her palm over the cloth.

"Take your hand, keep pressure on that." I heard my own voice, 
sharp and terse, but I couldn't bring myself to feel regret. In spite 
of my worry over Starsky, I'd kept my ears open, and I'd heard 
enough to guess why our waitress had looked so frazzled when she 
came to take our order. "What's your name?"

She perched on the arm of the couch, just behind Starsky's head. 
"Theresa."

Sweat trickled between my shoulder blades. I jerked first one arm, 
then the other out of my leather jacket and tossed it aside. 
"Theresa," I growled. "Some mess you got us into."

She stared at me, all wide brown eyes. "What are you talking 
about?"

I stood up and grabbed a trenchcoat and a tablecloth from the pile, 
spreading them over Starsky's chilled body in an attempt to combat 
the shock.

"'Monty. It was only supposed to be Monty,'" I mimicked. "I heard 
ya." I sat down and picked up another napkin. Starsky, as hazy as 
he was, fumbled until both hands latched onto my leg. "You're 
talking about Vic Monty, aren't you? Gangland boss. You set him 
up, huh?"

"No!"

I didn't buy it for a minute. "You set him up, didn't you?"

She proceeded to give me a song and dance about how Vic Monty 
had her brother killed. As if it mattered. As if there could be any 
justification for her actions when my partner was lying between us 
with a slug in his back that could possibly end his career as a cop, 
if not his life.

"Your brother was family, huh?"

I grabbed another tablecloth, figuring I could use it to form a kind 
of tourniquet to slow the bleeding. Starsky flinched from a 
particularly strong spasm of pain, his fingers digging into the flesh 
of my thigh.

I put one hand on his shoulder and gave it a cautious squeeze. 
"Take it easy. Take it easy. I'm right here," I soothed. His eyes 
were clamped shut, his jaw tightly clenched, sweat beaded on his 
forehead.

While I tried to set Theresa straight on the repercussions of setting 
up someone like Vic Monty, I worked the rolled-up tablecloth 
around Starsky's body. When I'd finished, it threaded under his left 
arm and tied around his neck in a kind of sling that I hoped would 
keep pressure on the wound. The fingers clamped onto my leg 
acted like a barometer for the level of hurt I was inflicting, 
tightening down almost unbearably no matter how careful I tried to 
be.

"This is no personal vengeance killing. Vic Monty's an important 
gangland boss, and those two men out there are hired, out-of-state 
killers. What you have done, is to put us right in the middle of a 
shooting war."

I nearly lost my temper when she argued with me. It was hard to 
believe someone with connections to the Mafia could be so naïve. I 
could only imagine the price tag that came with the two men in the 
next room. Did she really think her people would go to all that 
trouble and expense for a dead kid who was probably just another 
numbers runner or drug pusher?

I pressed my lips together to keep from saying something I'd 
regret, and concentrated on wetting a cloth to clean the gash on 
Starsky's temple. His eyes were shut, his breathing ragged. If not 
for those fingers gouging into my leg, I'd've thought he was 
unconscious.

"Easy, Starsk. Easy." I slowly shifted him toward his back so that I 
could reach the cut. "Easy now, I have to pick up your head."

The arm I moved could have been attached to a rag doll, and 
Starsky's eyes didn't even attempt to open when I tipped back his 
chin so I could slip the cloth under his temple and press it to the 
gash. The moment the fabric made contact, however, his whole 
body jerked and his face screwed up into a grimace.

"Easy, easy," I soothed, reflexively flinching as if I'd just inflicted 
pain on myself. In a way, I had.

Maybe the cold water felt good, because my partner relaxed a little 
and eased up on my leg. I held the towel in place and glared up at 
Theresa.

"And besides killing people for a living, I got a feeling those two 
guys out there might lie a little, too. You understand?"

"Hey, cop. Come out here." 

Joey's order, yelled from the other room, affected Theresa like a 
jolt of electricity. She leaped to her feet but I caught her wrist and 
dragged her back, tightening down when she struggled to break 
free. I was a little rough with her, but chivalry was the last thing on 
my mind. The only hope Starsky and I had for getting out of this 
nightmare alive rested with her. I had to make her see the truth, to 
get her on our side. She was an insider--she knew the layout of the 
restaurant and the men who had taken us hostage. And most 
importantly, she knew when Monty was due to arrive.

I laid all the cards on the table. Starsky's life wasn't the only one 
hanging in the balance. Even if the hit went down as planned, two 
professionals like the ones in the next room would be sure to clean 
up any loose ends. I'm pretty good at getting a feel for people, and 
though her gullibility frustrated the hell out of me, I sensed that at 
heart Theresa was a good person.

"Don't be stupid. You're safe. They won't touch you, you're 
family," I told her. "But do you think for one minute after they've 
killed Vic Monty they're gonna let any one of the rest of us walk 
out of here alive? Now what time is he gonna come?" I watched an 
agony of indecision flicker across her face; pushed harder. "What 
time?"

"Midnight!" Eyes wild with fear, her voice breaking, she was a far 
cry from the lady who had taken our order just...

Had it really been only fifteen minutes ago?

"Hey, cop, I'm not gonna tell ya again. Now come on out here!"

"Okay. Okay." I sucked in a deep breath and backed down, feeling 
tremors racing through her where my hands still clenched her 
wrists. I loosened my grip, but didn't let go. "Listen, you stay in 
here. You keep him covered and warm, and keep his face cool. If 
he needs me, you call me."

She nodded, shoulders curling as she relaxed. "Yeah."

I turned her loose, suddenly painfully aware of Starsky's blood on 
my fingers. I picked up a towel and wiped my hands, stealing a 
quick glance at my partner's pale face before walking out of the 
office. The last thing I wanted to do was leave him, but I had no 
choice. It had to look like I was playing their game--for now 
anyway.

I'd wait. My time would come, eventually.


~~~~~~~~~~~~
   Starsky
~~~~~~~~~~~~
 
How did I manage to get hit by a truck in the middle of an Italian 
restaurant?

The world turned all topsy-turvy and my brain felt like someone 
ran it through a blender. I couldn't hear anything but this high-
pitched whinin' in my ears, like a thousand mosquitoes buzzin' 
around my head. And I all of a sudden I realized that the rough, 
itchy stuff under my cheek was carpet.

What in the hell am I doin' on the floor?

I hurt. Bad. A dozen congo drums pounded in my head, keeping 
perfect time with every beat of my heart--which was bangin' a lot 
faster than usual. But that was nothing compared to the pain in my 
back, which burned so bad I thought someone must've set me on 
fire. I wanted to move, to check myself out, see what was wrong, 
but my arms and legs felt like they weighed about a thousand 
pounds each, and I couldn't for the life of me figure out how to lift 
'em.

Oh, God, it hurts. Hutch!

As I lay there, panting like I'd just run the mile, I fought to make 
my brain work, to remember what had happened and why. Back 
when I was a kid, when I'd lose something, Ma would always tell 
me to retrace my steps. 'Course, that's not exactly easy to do when 
you're kissin' the floor while someone jams a knife between your 
shoulders.

Running through the rain, Hutch grumbling that we shoulda just 
had eggs at his place...

Teasing our pretty little waitress while Hutch and me ordered 
dinner...

Hutch gettin' up to pick out some music while I went to take care of 
nature's call...

And then I remembered. The guy with the gun, waitin' for me 
when I got outta the john. Our waitress coming out of the kitchen, 
walking right into the line of fire. Shoving her back toward the 
door, and then...

Gunshots.

Oh, man, Hutch is gonna be pissed...

Hutch?

When I concentrated real hard, I could hear voices over the 
buzzing in my head. The words all ran together, like they were 
speakin' another language, but I could hear anger. And the voice 
that cut through it all, loud and furious, made it a little easier for 
me to breathe.

Hutch.

I tried to get off the floor, pull my knees up under me and push 
with my arms. Who knew that something as simple as tryin' to 
stand would make my head crack open? The buzz in my ears 
turned into a roar and everything went dark around the edges. I 
slammed my eyes shut and told my stomach, which was tryin' real 
hard to climb outta my mouth, to stay put.

Hands. Warm and gentle, touching my shoulder, my cheek. I 
hadn't even realized how cold I was until I soaked in their heat. I 
recognized them right away, even as hazy as I was. Those hands 
have gotten me through more hard times than I could count. A 
palm cradling my forehead while I puked my guts out during a 
killer case of the stomach flu. Two firm hands against my chest, 
restraining me, when all I wanted was five minutes alone with 
Crazy George Prudholm. Fingers squeezing my arm while I 
grieved over Helen, reminding me I wasn't alone.

I struggled to say his name, but my tongue felt thick and clumsy. 
What finally came out sounded more like "Hush," but it didn't 
matter. He understood.

"It's okay, buddy. I'm right here."

He didn't really have to tell me. He always is. I've never had 
anyone in my life I could depend on like I do Hutch, ya know? I 
guess if my Pop hadn't died the way he did, I'd've been able to say 
that about him. I can still remember how it was when he was alive, 
how safe and protected he made me feel. When he was shot, it was 
like someone ripped the ground right out from under my feet, and 
Ma was no help. She was too busy leanin' on me to see that I was 
just as lost and alone, only trying damn hard not to show it. I love 
Ma a lot, but I can't say I've ever felt I could depend on her. And 
Nicky... Well, let's just say my little brother is the last person I'd 
want watchin' my back. He's always looked out for number one--
screw anyone else who gets in his way.

I can depend on Hutch. He's like a rock--no, a mountain. He 
doesn't move; you can always count on him bein' there, right where 
you left him. Not just through good times, but through bad times--
and believe me we've had some doozies. Sure, we get pissed off at 
each other, and there are nights when I drive home glad I don't 
have to see his face for at least eight hours. But when the chips are 
down, when I need a friend, a partner, a...a constant... There's only 
one person I trust without question, without even having to think 
about it.

And right then, I needed him bad. Somehow we'd landed ourselves 
in a helluva mess.

Hutch lifted my head, and I thought I was gonna pass out from the 
spike that hammered into my skull. When he eased me back down, 
though, something soft had taken the place of the scratchy carpet 
under my cheek. I focused on making my mouth work.

"Hey. We really goofed, huh? Huh? Huh?"

My eyelids had a mind of their own, and they obviously thought it 
was naptime. When I finally did manage to pry 'em open a bit and 
got my hand working enough to reach for him, I was confused to 
find that Hutch was now behind me, poking around at my back.

"Didya... Did you get the bad guys?" I hoped that the fact he was 
crawling around on the floor with me meant we were outta the 
woods. 

"More like they got us."

Terrific. Something caught in my lungs, like I'd sucked in molasses 
insteada air, and I coughed. Felt like something inside me ripped 
into pieces.

Oh, God. Please let's not do that again.

Something rattled and clanked, then I felt Hutch tear my jacket and 
shirt. Damn. I liked that jacket.

"How do I look?" He wasn't talking, not even to tell me it was 
gonna be all right. That scared me. "How do I look? Huh?"

When he finally told me it was a shoulder wound, I was relieved. 
Gettin' shot's no picnic, no matter where the bullet lands, but a 
shoulder wound sounded pretty routine. Hopefully when this was 
all over, I'd just be left with a new scar to impress the ladies.

Suddenly Hutch leaned over me so he was talkin' right into my ear, 
his hand pushed into my back. "Don't go away, huh?" 

He's got a sick sense of humor sometimes, ya know? Like I'd been 
planning to get up and go dancing or something. Well, two could 
play that game--if I could make my tongue move. 

"What, now that I finally got a waitress?" Things were getting 
hazier and the mosquitoes were back in my ears.

I think maybe I zoned out a little after that. I could hear Hutch 
speaking--yelling, really--and the voices of two men. But it was 
like they were talkin' at high speed and I couldn't keep up with the 
words. And the pain... Maybe the shock of gettin' hit had worn off, 
'cause I was feeling worse every minute. I'd've done anything to 
make it stop.

A few words did squeak through, though I'm not sure if it was 
because Hutch was so close to me, or because I could sense how 
angry he was. I heard "bullet," "back," and "dead cop." That was 
enough to tell me that Hutch had been holdin' out on me.

Hutch and me don't normally lie to each other, but I guess there's a 
couple of exceptions. If we're messin' around, playing a joke, we 
might stretch the truth a little. Or, if it's a question of the other 
person's safety, we might just keep a few cards under the table. 
Knowing my partner, he figured what I didn't know couldn't hurt 
me.

Now that I think about it, I bet he was stuttering when he said it, 
too.

All of a sudden, Hutch was moving me. "C'mon, buddy." He 
draped one of my arms around his neck, and I realized he intended 
to carry me.

"Where we goin'?" That's what I tried to ask. What came out 
sounded pretty pathetic.

"Gonna take you someplace where you can be comfortable."

Just getting off that cold, hard floor would be heaven. "Sounds 
nice."

'Course, I wasn't thinkin' about the fact that getting someplace 
more comfortable meant Hutch carrying me across the room. He 
slipped his arms under me and lifted...

A bomb exploded behind my eyes. Next thing I knew, my head 
thumped against something padded and my body was gently eased 
down onto some cushions.

One time when we were kids, Jonny Gillespie got me on the 
merry-go-round at the park and wouldn't let me off. He just kept 
spinning it faster and faster, cacklin' like a chicken. Eventually, he 
got tired and slowed down enough so I could jump off. I laid there 
on the ground, my stomach doing cartwheels and everything 
around me whirling and pitching like I was still going in circles.

Layin' there on the couch was like being back at the playground. I 
was so dizzy I couldn't tell up from down, and my stomach kept 
twisting and rolling. Hutch and me were both lucky I hadn't had 
dinner yet, 'cause we woulda been wearing it.

In fact, I wasn't so sure the coffee I'd drunk earlier wasn't about to 
make an appearance. "Oh, Hutch...ah...I feel sick."

I couldn't keep up with where he was. One minute I felt him lifting 
my legs up onto the couch, then he was gone, then he was back and 
stuffing a pillow under my head. I reached for him, finally 
managing to snag his leg. Maybe if I grabbed onto him he'd stay 
put.

"Hey...what happened? Would you tell me...what happened?"

He was fiddling with my back again. "You got shot, remember?"

Brilliant, Hutchinson. Who's the one who just took a slug to the 
head?

"No kidding."

"Huh?"

"Huh?" I concentrated on forming the words. "I thought...oh, my 
head."

Wait a minute. That's not what I was gonna say...was it?

It was hard to think straight around the pain that seemed to be 
everywhere--my back, my chest, my head... Heck, even my hair 
hurt.

"You got a little crease." Hutch shifted my head on the pillow.

I know he was trying his best to be careful, but I couldn't help 
moaning. "Hutch...oh, Hutch."

His hands stayed gentle, so when Hutch yelled it took me 
completely by surprise--not to mention his voice cut straight 
through my aching skull.

"Where in the hell is that girl? GET IN HERE WITH THAT 
STUFF!"

I heard what most people wouldn't. Under all that tough-guy anger, 
Hutch was scared.

"Hey...Hutch, you...you sound like Dobey."

He laughed, just like I'd hoped he would. "I'm sorry."

Our waitress--Theresa, it turned out, was her name--came running. 
From that point on things slid in and out of focus. I wanted to 
listen to what they were saying, and I could tell from the tone of 
Hutch's voice it was important. But I hurt, and I was so tired. 
Hutch spread something over me, and I started to feel warm for the 
first time, but somehow that also made it harder to concentrate.

Every time I started to slip all the way under, though, he'd press on 
my back, or slip something under me or around my neck, or move 
an arm or a leg. All completely necessary, sure, but even the tiniest 
movement made my head pound and my back feel like ground 
glass. I hung onto Hutch's leg and the sound of his voice, gritting 
my teeth to keep from makin' any noise. I knew he was doin' the 
best he could, and it would kill him if he realized how much he 
was hurting me.

But when something cold hit the gash on my head, I couldn't stop 
myself. I winced, my whole body kinda jerking away from him.

"Easy. Easy." His hand in my hair, soothing me.

Hutch finally stopped fussin', and the cold cloth actually began to 
feel good on my aching head. I relaxed, let myself slide a little 
deeper, and their voices got farther away. I was drifting when I felt 
the couch move and Hutch's warmth leave my side, too far gone to 
do anything but wonder if he was okay, and wish he'd come back.

Fuzzy as my brain was, I could still be afraid. Not for me--for 
Hutch. See, I can take just about anything if I know he's gonna be 
all right. A slug in the back's nothing compared to watchin' him 
suffer. I've been down that road, and I never want to go back.

"Hutch."

Something touched my shoulder and I raised my hand, searching 
for his. The fingers that slipped into mine were all wrong, slender 
and soft where Hutch's were strong and firm.

Not Hutch. I know Hutch's hands.

Theresa.

A muscle in my back seized up, turning the ground glass into 
molten lava. I squeezed her hand without thinking and she 
tightened her own fingers.

Not the hand I was searching for, but it'd have to do. I held on and 
prayed Hutch knew what he was doing.


Chapter 4

~~~~~~~~~~~~
    Hutch
~~~~~~~~~~~~

"You don't know how close you came to bein' laid out with your 
partner."

Actually, what I didn't know was if I could stand one more minute 
at the mercy of that loud-mouthed, twitchy punk. Joey obviously 
needed to prove what a big man he was on a regular basis, and my 
temper was quickly fraying. My eyes registered the gun aimed at 
my chest before I turned away, not wanting him to see my anger 
and contempt.

"All right, Joey, I take it from here. Go to the bar, get yourself a 
drink, and relax. Go, Joey."

Interestingly enough, Iceman's piece was leveled at Joey, not me. I 
couldn't help wondering about these two mismatched gunmen. 
Iceman, with his mysterious accent, refined manners, and absolute 
authority. Joey--a rude, not-too-bright bully who very obviously 
resented taking orders. Was this their first hit together, or was I 
seeing the quirks of a long-established partnership? If Starsky and I 
were going to get out alive, I needed to observe them closely for 
any sign of weakness.

"How is he?" Iceman asked me.

I made my reply flat and cold. "He's still alive."

No thanks to you and your trigger-happy partner.

"Too bad all this had to happen." No sympathy colored his voice.

"Yeah." If he expected me to be impressed, I wasn't. In my book a 
killer for hire is a sub-human life form. "Where do you want me?"

"Take a table up front. I want you visible from the front door."

The guy was sharp, I'll give him that. Outsmarting him wouldn't be 
easy. I knew exactly what he was up to, and I didn't like it.

"So if Vic Monty comes in here, sees I'm a cop, he'll think he's 
safe." I raised my eyebrows--not exactly a sneer, but a challenge to 
let him know I understood his game.

"You're so intelligent, you put it together." The guy even delivered 
sarcasm with a stone face.

That's right, you smug bastard. And I'm gonna put you away.

"Oh, it doesn't take much intelligence."

"Go." Iceman gestured with the gun to a table near the door.

What could I do? Starsky was lying on a couch, bleeding and 
barely coherent. Without back-up, surrounded by civilians, less 
than an hour from what could turn into a massacre--I had to plan 
my moves very carefully. I took a seat at the table, hoping Iceman 
would think me sufficiently intimidated. But my brain was running 
in overdrive.

The storm had picked up outside. Occasionally, thunder rumbled 
and raindrops hammered on the roof. It would be too much to hope 
that ol' Vic would decide to stay in and order pizza. I glanced 
around at my fellow hostages. A muscled, football-player type 
hunched over the bar, and a mismatched couple sat stiff and silent 
at a table adjacent to mine.

I sat at my table, staring at the clock and racking my brain for a 
plan. One that would not only stop the hit on Monty, but save our 
skins and land Iceman and Joey behind bars. The problem was, my 
mind kept wandering back to my partner. Every tick of the clock 
meant a longer delay until he got the medical treatment he 
desperately needed. I was no doctor, but I knew enough to 
recognize that the position of the bullet was deadly. Time was 
running out for Starsky, as much as it was for Vic Monty.

An uncomfortable memory popped into my head, and I couldn't 
shake it. Lounging around my apartment, not long after Starsky 
and I made detective. We'd just wrapped up an exceptionally 
unpleasant case--a killer with a grudge against the police. Before 
we caught the guy, he'd blown away three good cops and critically 
wounded a fourth. The survivor, Pete Briscoe, was a buddy of 
Starsky's from his time in uniform. After booking our killer, we'd 
visited Pete in the hospital where he lay in a deep coma, 
surrounded by machines. Then we'd gone back to my place and 
started on a six-pack.

"Hey, Hutch."

"Yeah?" I had my guitar and was picking out a melody that had 
been running around in my brain.

"What happened to Pete..."

I looked up when he didn't finish. For the first time it, dawned on 
me that he was just sitting there. Not looking through my books, or 
flipping through channels on the TV, or raiding my refrigerator. 
"What is it?"

"Seein' Pete like that..."

"Yeah, I know. It was hard for me, too." I strummed a chord. "Pete 
Briscoe was a good cop. He deserved better."

"Anybody'd deserve better." Starsky stood up and walked over to 
the window. "I ain't gonna wind up that way, Hutch."

If he was looking for my attention, he had it. I set the guitar aside 
and leaned forward with my elbows on my knees. "Nobody plans 
for something like that, Starsk. The risks come with the badge, you 
know that."

A shake of his head was the only answer I got for a few minutes. 
When he finally did speak, his voice was very soft. "I can accept 
takin' a bullet." He chuffed a little laugh. "'Course I'd rather avoid 
it." Another shake of his head. "I guess on some level the idea 
gives me the jitters, but I don't let myself think about it. Like ya 
said, it comes with the territory. But what we saw today in that 
hospital room... That scares the hell outta me, Hutch."

I understood what he was saying--I'd had similar thoughts after 
seeing Pete hooked up to all those wires and tubes. The doc told us 
he was beyond hope, that machines were all that was keeping him 
alive, but his wife couldn't bring herself to terminate the life 
support. Brain dead--an ugly term for an even uglier condition. 
Yeah, I understood what Starsky was saying. I just didn't have 
much of an answer.

"Me, too, buddy."

Starsky turned around then and pinned me with a look I'll never 
forget. There was grief and stubborn determination, but most of all 
a sense of complete trust that stole my breath. "You gotta promise 
me, Hutch. Right here. Right now."

"Promise? Promise what?" I was pretty sure I knew what he was 
getting at, and I didn't want to hear it.

"If the time comes..." He swallowed, his throat so dry I heard a 
click. "If the worst should happen and some day it's me in that 
hospital bed, I want you to make sure they pull the plug. Ma won't 
be thinkin' straight. I need to know you'll take care of it for me."

I lurched to my feet, hoping that movement would loosen the 
boulder stuck in my gut. Starsky's words had managed to conjure 
up the terrible image of him lying in Pete Briscoe's place, 
something I never wanted to consider.

"Stop talking crazy! You aren't gonna wind up like Pete, not with 
me watching your back. So there's no reason to be having this 
conversation." I walked into the kitchen and yanked open the 
refrigerator door, even though I wasn't thirsty and the rock in my 
belly made eating unthinkable.

I was just standing there, staring at a carton of milk, when I sensed 
Starsky behind me. My fingers tightened on the handle but I didn't 
turn around.

"Pete was into car racing--didya know that? He's dragged Sandi 
clear across the country, to Indianapolis, Daytona... He has this 
hotrod that's straight outta the fifties up on blocks in his garage, 
and he tinkers with the engine every chance he gets."

Starsky's voice, which had grown progressively thicker as he 
spoke, faltered. I turned slowly to face him, the refrigerator door 
closing with a soft thunk and a puff of cold air.

"That guy we saw today, Hutch. That wasn't Pete. Pete would've 
been talking our ears off about the last race he'd seen, or flirting 
with the nurses when he thought Sandi wasn't lookin'. The guy in 
that bed, Hutch... He's dead, his body just doesn't know it yet." His 
eyes skittered away from mine. "I'm not goin' down that road, not 
if I can help it. Understand?"

I sighed. "Yeah. You can count on me."

All the stiffness went out of his shoulders, and one corner of his 
mouth turned up in that lopsided grin he's perfected. "I always do, 
Blondie."

I pried my eyes from the clock and shoved the memory back into 
its box. Starsky was still very much alive, and I had every intention 
of keeping him that way.

While I worried over Starsky's health and Monty's imminent 
arrival, Joey had been entertaining himself by baiting the couple at 
the table beside me. Turned out the guy was a comic--Sammy 
something--and they'd been headed to Vegas in the morning. I only 
hoped they'd be able to make the trip. Joey's delight in ridiculing 
the man just served to reinforce my opinion of him as cocky and 
unstable. Definitely the weak link.

When Theresa walked out of the office, I had to restrain myself 
from leaping to my feet. I searched her face as she crossed the 
room, relieved to see no evidence of alarm or panic.

She propped her hands on the table, the ghost of a smile on her 
lips. "I think he needs you."

Charming the ladies even now, huh, Starsk?

It was a reflex--my body started moving without conscious 
thought. Then I remembered Iceman at the table behind me. I 
hesitated, half-expecting him to stop me, to order me to stay put, 
but the warning never came. I actually felt a rush of gratitude, as if 
he'd done me a favor, and that pissed me off. 

Theresa tagged after me as I made my way to the office, babbling 
that everything was going to turn out all right. I brushed her off a 
little impatiently, more concerned with my partner.

Starsky was lying just as I'd left him, looking even worse, if that 
was possible. He must've heard my voice, because his hand 
immediately reached for me. I eased down onto the couch, careful 
not to jostle him.

"Hey, buddy, how ya feeling, huh?"

"Hey." His voice was as pale as his face, but that hand fastened 
onto my leg with as much grip as he could muster.

A simple touch, but the vulnerability and trust it communicated 
made my throat tighten. I ran my own hand comfortingly up his 
arm. "Yeah, babe, right here."

"What's happening?"

His question cheered me just a little. If Starsky was asking 
questions, he couldn't be too far gone, despite his appearance.

"Let me check this out." I gingerly moved aside my makeshift 
bandage to get a look at the wound, continuing to talk as a 
distraction. "Well, looks like we're sitting on a bit of a powder 
keg."

Starsky made a mumbled sound of interest.

"Yeah. Vic Monty," I told him, trying to rearrange the cloths. 
There was still way too much blood, but the flow seemed to have 
slowed.

"Vic Monty?" His words were slurred, but still managed to 
communicate his surprise.

"Those two guys out there are planning to surprise ol' Vic with his 
linguini." I picked up the pitcher of water and a fresh cloth.

Starsky's eyes were shut but he was with me. "That's not too 
good."

"Yeah, and then when they're finished with him, we're next." I 
poured the water onto the cloth until it was soaked, intending to 
wipe Starsky's sweaty face.

"You really know how to cheer a guy up, doncha?" His eyes 
cracked open just a bit.

I'd never been so happy to hear Starsky's sarcasm. "Well, I do my 
best." 

I'm not sure what came over me then. Maybe I was giddy with 
relief, or maybe I'd just let Starsky talk me into watching too many 
old cowboy movies. Instead of using the wet cloth to bathe his 
face, I held it to his lips. "Here, take a bite of that."

He actually did as I asked, but his face screwed up. "Ugh." He spit 
it out and shoved my hand away. "That's awful."

I chuckled a little at the disgust in his expression, so damn glad to 
see a spark of Starsky, and not the limp, passive man I'd carried 
into the office. "Yeah? Okay." I blotted the perspiration from his 
cheeks and brow.

"What're we gonna do?"

We. That was my partner, a fighter even when he could barely 
keep his eyes open. It didn't even cross my mind to deny him. I 
needed all the help I could get, and I hoped that giving Starsky a 
role in our plan would help him to hold out against the pain and 
blood loss until I could get him to a hospital.

I stood and pulled out my pocket watch. "What time you got?"

I flipped open the cover. The wall clock out in the restaurant read 
11:35 when Theresa brought me to the office. I figured no more 
than two minutes had passed, and adjusted my watch accordingly. 
Realizing Starsky had never answered me, I looked down. Face 
tense with concentration, he was trying doggedly, but 
unsuccessfully, to raise his arm enough to see his own watch.

My stomach twisted in sympathy, and I mentally kicked myself for 
not remembering how weak Starsky was. Maybe I just didn't want 
to. I quickly crouched down beside him. "Hey, buddy."

"No, that's all right, 's all right."

"Listen, here. Take my watch, huh?" I placed it carefully into his 
hand, chain first.

"Okay." His fingers closed around it and he squinted at the time.

"Now, I've synchronized it with the wall clock out there."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"What're we gonna do with it?"

Hutchinson, I hope you know what you're doing. The man can't 
even lift his arm far enough to see his watch, and you're still 
making him a part of your crazy scheme?

"All right, it's a long shot. But it's the only chance we got right 
now."

"Yeah." Starsky's response was a faint mumble, but his eyes 
gleamed.

"Um, Joey--the wild man out there? He's wound up tighter than a 
drum, he's ready to explode any minute." I picked up the metal 
pitcher, now mostly empty. "Think you can handle this? Heave it 
against that wall over there? Huh? Huh?" Starsky started to laugh, 
evidently seeing the irony in my request as clearly as I did. "Huh?"

His face crumpled as the laughter triggered a spasm of pain.

"Easy, easy," I soothed.

"Give it to me. Jus' give it to me."

I tucked the pitcher against his chest and he managed to curl his 
arm around it. "All right, now do it, and make a lotta racket."

"Lotta racket, lotta racket," he agreed. "Hey, hey, listen." He 
chuckled a little. "You know this...this reminds me of a film I 
saw."

"Yeah? What?"

It should all have been so normal, so comforting. Starsky's always 
regaling me with the plot of one movie or another. If not for the 
demands of our job and his fondness for the ladies, I think he could 
easily turn into a couch potato. He's got a weakness for creature 
features, westerns and anything with Bogart in it. Listening to one 
more description of some late-night classic would be nothing new-
-except for the sweat drenching his face and his glassy eyes.

"Yeah, there's a...you know, the bad guy. Ya...ya trip him and his 
gun slips out of his hand, you grab..." Starsky broke off, winded.

I snickered, trying hard not to think about how weak and breathy 
his normally strong voice had become. If he was brave enough to 
be joking, the least I could do was reward him with laughter.

He cracked an eye open. "Hey."

"Yeah?"

"You got any plans after this is all over?" He glanced up at me 
from the corner of his eye.

Buddy, we get out of this one alive, and you can write your own 
ticket.

"It's up to you."

"After we get this all wrapped up? We'll go down and knock off a 
couple of banks in Bolivia." 

Starsky snickered at his own humor and I couldn't help but join 
him. It was a running gag between the two of us--Butch and 
Sundance, watching each other's backs and dodging the bad guys. 
We just happened to operate on the right side of the law.

He sighed and squinted at my watch. "Okay. Wh...when do you 
want me to throw the first pitch?"

I explained exactly what I needed from him, careful to keep my 
words clear and easily understood. Despite the jokes, I knew 
Starsky was battling pain and exhaustion, and I hadn't forgotten 
how fuzzy he'd been earlier. My plan was piecemeal at best, and 
timing was everything. Unless my partner and I coordinated our 
moves down to the minute, all I'd accomplish would be riling up 
my buddy, Joey, and possibly getting myself killed.

When I felt certain Starsky was ready, I got up to return to my 
table. Frankly, I was amazed we'd been left alone for so long, 
without Joey bellowing threats or Iceman coming to investigate. I'd 
just reached the door when Starsky's faint voice stopped me.

"Hey, Hutch. Hey. Next time you want scrambled eggs, don't let 
me talk you out of it. Huh?"

I stood there, awed by his courage, blessed by his friendship, and 
terrified by what the next few minutes might bring. I wanted to say 
something, anything, to let him know what I was feeling, but the 
words couldn't squeeze past the lump in my throat. In the end I 
kept silent, trusting that Starsky already knew.


~~~~~~~~~~~~
   Starsky
~~~~~~~~~~~~


I drifted for a little while after Hutch left, caught in a gray place 
that wasn't exactly asleep or awake. The girl, Theresa, slipped in 
and out. One minute I'd feel her fingers touch my shoulder, my 
back; the next a cool cloth would wipe my face. It'd be hard to say 
which was worse--the jackhammer in my head or the tiger gnawin' 
on my shoulder. I'd tried real hard, for Hutch's sake, to keep track 
of what was happening around me. Without him, though, it was 
awful temptin' to let go.

I'm not sure what brought me back, an unusually loud clap of 
thunder or a particularly nasty cramp in my back. All I know is one 
minute I was in the Twilight Zone, and the next I was whimperin' 
like a baby and clutching Theresa's hand hard enough to break her 
fingers.

"Shh. Try to relax. It's going to be okay..." She trailed off and 
chuffed a weak laugh. "I don't even know your name."

I mustered an answer between gulps of air. "Dave...Dave Starsky."

"I'm Theresa. It's nice to..." She faltered, and laughed again, but it 
didn't sound like she thought anything was funny. "I can't believe 
this is happening. I'm so sorry, really, no one was supposed to get 
hurt. They promised me, promised no one else would get hurt."

That's nice, sweetheart. Now could you shut up so I can ask about 
Hutch?

"Hutch?"

Man, I couldn't believe how pathetic my voice sounded. Whine 
like that out on the street and the wiseguys'd laugh themselves 
silly.

"He's okay, he's sitting out front." She ran the cloth across my 
forehead, then the back of my neck, her touch gentle.

Out front? In the restaurant? What the hell's he doin', eating 
dinner?

"He wanted scrambled eggs, ya know. Talked him into Italian 
instead. 'S never gonna let me forget it." I ran outta breath, then 
sucked in air too fast. It caught somewhere in my chest, and I 
started hacking like I was gonna cough up a lung.

"Easy, easy. Deep breaths." The cloth disappeared and all of a 
sudden I had a pair of arms around me, supporting my back and 
ribs. She was a lot stronger than she looked, and boy, was I glad. 
Every time I coughed, it felt like my insides were comin' apart.

"Scrambled eggs, hm? I'll tell you what. When this is all over, you 
bring your friend back and I'll make sure he gets some of Angelo's 
veal, on the house. He'll see you were doing him a favor." She kept 
her voice light, but I could feel her tremble.

The grin I wanted to give her turned out to be just teeth. "Got 
yourself a deal...darlin'."

I heard water sloshing in the pitcher and then the cushions dipped. 
"You and your friend--have you been partners long?" Cool wetness 
across my face, down my neck, soothing away the heat.

"More'n four years. He's a good cop. The best."

The hand on my arm tightened, and when I slit open an eye her 
face looked pale. "If he's smart he'll forget he's a cop tonight. It'll 
only get him hurt or..." She bit her lip and clammed up.

My stomach, which had pretty much settled once Hutch got me to 
the couch, started doin' flip-flops like there was a whole 
gymnastics team inside it. I like to think I know my partner, and it 
wasn't too hard to imagine what was goin' on inside that blond 
head.

Hutch and me are cops. Yeah, I know, tell ya something ya don't 
know, right? What I'm trying to say, is that unlike the other 
unfortunate slobs caught up in that mess, we knew the score. I still 
wasn't sure what the hell was goin' down out there, but I figured 
me taking a bullet was just the warm-up. The real fireworks hadn't 
started yet. And once they were over, once those goons got 
whatever they came for...

We'd all seen their faces.

Hutch was probably out there right now, cookin' up some crazy 
scheme. Alone, no one to watch his back. I hoped to God he hadn't 
tried anything yet.

"Dave? Are you all right?"

Theresa's voice cut through the buzzing in my ears, and I realized I 
was gulping air like one of those poor fish Hutch likes to catch. I 
managed a nod while I forced myself to relax.

"'M okay." I squeaked the words out in between gasps. "Just...need 
to see...Hutch."

All the panting for air triggered spasms in my back muscles and I 
couldn't help moaning. Something soft brushed across my 
forehead, pushing the hair back outta my eyes. Took me a minute 
to realize it was Theresa's fingers, easing the pain.

"Shh. Take it easy. I'll get him, okay? Just hold on."

The cushions moved and she was gone. I fought hard to stay 
awake, to listen for some clue about what was happening out in the 
restaurant. Felt like a big, fuzzy quilt was on top of me, pushing 
me down, muffling everything around me. Then Hutch's voice was 
there, nearby, and I automatically reached for him.

"Hey, buddy, how ya feeling, huh?"

My fingers found the solid warmth of his leg and I grabbed on. 
"Hey." My mouth felt dry and full of cotton.

A hand stroked up my arm--Hutch's hand, the fingers rough-gentle. 
"Yeah, babe, right here."

"What's happening?"

I gritted my teeth and struggled to concentrate, while Hutch fiddled 
with my bandages and brought me up to speed. Vic Monty? All I 
wanted was to drag my partner out for a little R&R over a plate of 
linguini and instead I'd landed us in the middle of a major hit. 
Some days it just don't pay to get outta bed.

"You really know how to cheer a guy up, doncha?" Ma used to say 
that sometimes you gotta laugh or else you'll cry.

"Well, I do my best."

I don't know what got into Hutch then, but he had me bite on a wet 
cloth, like something straight out of an old John Wayne movie. I 
was punchy enough that I actually let him put it in my mouth, 'til I 
realized what he was doing and spit it out. Tasted like wet socks. 
Hearing Hutch laugh was worth it, though.

"What're we gonna do?" I asked him.

WE. Not YOU, Hutch. Long as I'm still breathin', we're in this 
together.

Hutch put down the cloth he'd been using on my face and stood up. 
"What time you got?"

Good question. I got a great watch--not only will it give you the 
time, it has a built-in alarm and it's waterproof to a depth of 500 
feet. 'Course, a watch is no damn good if you can't see it. 
Somehow my arm had gained about fifty pounds, and no matter 
how hard I tried, I couldn't seem to lift it. Not that it really 
mattered, since my eyes refused to stay open long enough to see 
anything.

Hutch eventually caught on. "Hey, buddy." 

I could hear the guilt and worry in his voice as he crouched down 
next to me. Last thing I needed was for him to think I couldn't pull 
my own weight in this plan.

"No, that's all right. 'S all right."

"Listen, here. Take my watch, huh?"

A long chain trickled into my palm, followed by the smooth, 
roundness of Hutch's pocket watch. "Okay."

Then Hutch told me his plan. A longshot, he called it. When he 
was finished, I was sure he'd been watchin' too many movies. First 
that whole "bite the bullet" routine, and now we were gonna try the 
oldest trick in the book on a couple of pros who got paid to whack 
people. Some longshot. More like a lost cause--not that I had any 
better suggestions.

And my part in this great plan? Throwin' a metal pitcher against 
the wall. Me. The guy who couldn't even lift his arm enough to see 
his watch. I started to laugh.

Big mistake.

My back and my head evidently didn't get the joke.

"Jus' give it to me. Give it to me." I curled one arm around the 
pitcher.

"All right, now do it, and make a lotta racket."

"Lotta racket, lotta racket," I repeated, just so Hutch'd know I was 
takin' the plan seriously--even if it did have a snowball's chance in 
hell of working. "You know this...this reminds me of a film I saw."

"Yeah? What?"

See, that's why Hutch is my friend. He didn't really care about 
some old movie from the late, late show. But he was willing to 
listen, 'cause he cares about me.

'Course, he's not always as patient if I'm not slowly bleedin' to 
death.

"Yeah, there's a...you know, the bad guy. Ya...ya trip him and his 
gun slips out of his hand, you grab..." I quit, too tired and winded 
to keep explaining.

I listened to Hutch snicker a little, under his breath, and I thought 
about friendship. How after a short (thanks to Ma) membership in 
a street gang and a tour in Vietnam, I hadn't even touched the tip of 
the iceberg. What I got with Hutch--knowin' he'll put his life on the 
line for me, and being just as willing to do the same for him--I 
guess most people will never understand, let alone experience it. 
Heck, if Hutch jumped off a cliff, I'd probably be right there 
behind him. Or maybe I'd go first, just to see if I could break his 
fall. Which reminded me...

I pried an eye open. His face was kinda blurry, but I could see 
those baby blues, watchin' me. "Hey."

"Yeah?"

"You got any plans after this is all over?"

Hutch smiled a little. "It's up to you."

"After we get this all wrapped up? We'll go down and knock off a 
couple of banks in Bolivia."

He got it, just like I knew he would. Butch and Sundance. Huh, 
more like Stanley and Ollie. I risked a little laugh and this time my 
back let me off the hook. It was good to hear Hutch snickerin' right 
along with me.

"Okay, wh...when do you want me to throw the first pitch?"

You can do this. Think positive, Starsky.

"Okay. Five minutes. Five minutes. Now that's gonna give me 
enough time to get back to that table and get into position without 
those guys knowing that anything's coming down."

I squinted at the watch, tryin' to make sense of numbers that kept 
dancin' around. "That's...fourteen minutes before...twelve." 

"Fourteen to twelve. Okay."

He got up to leave, and all of a sudden I was a scared little kid. I 
didn't want him goin' out there with the bad guys and the guns. I 
wished he could stay with me, where it was safe.

Except it wasn't.

And I had this terrible feeling looming over me like a dark cloud. 
A feeling that once he walked out the door I'd never see him again. 
And I wanted him to know...

But he did.

"Hey, Hutch?"

We got a kind of radar when it comes to each other. Saved both 
our butts on more than one occasion. I could feel him stop in the 
doorway and turn back to me.

"Hey. Next time you want scrambled eggs, don't let me talk you 
out of it. Huh?"

I'm sorry I got ya into this, partner. For God's sake, don't get 
yourself killed.

After another few seconds I heard him leave.


Chapter 5

~~~~~~~~~~~~
    Hutch
~~~~~~~~~~~~

Going back out into the restaurant was harder than I thought it 
would be. Every time I walked away from Starsky I left another 
piece of myself behind. I wanted to be right there by his side when 
he reached for me, not stuck in a front row seat for Vic Monty's 
execution. I was wired, counting the minutes until I could make 
my move to take out Joey and Iceman. It took every ounce of my 
questionable acting skills to keep those feelings from showing on 
my face.

I held up my hands, keeping them in plain sight, as I walked 
slowly back to the table Iceman had assigned me. He and Joey still 
lounged at an inconspicuous table off to the side where they had an 
unobstructed view of the office, the hostages, and the front door. I 
sat down, stealing a quick look at the wall clock. Minutes, just 
minutes, and I could finally DO something instead of sit on my ass, 
faking cooperation.

I hoped Starsky was up to the task I'd given him. Whether he knew 
it or not, I was very aware of how much I was asking. He was 
weak as a kitten, barely able to stay conscious, let alone 
concentrate. He could pass out before the five minutes were up, 
aggravate his injuries trying to toss the pitcher--he might not even 
have the strength to slam it against the wall. The plan had a 
snowball's chance in hell of working, but I had to give it a try. And 
Starsky needed to be a part of it. Because if the worst were to 
happen, if my friend Joey got the chance to waste me as he'd been 
threatening... Starsky would never forgive himself if I bought it 
without him doing his damnedest to stop it.

Sammy the comic's sidekick, a redhead built like a brick house, got 
up and walked over to sit with Iceman and Joey. My eyes watched 
them, watched the clock, but my thoughts drifted to a recent 
memory. 

I'd just recovered from my ordeal at the hands of Forest and his 
goons, and I was still pretty shaky. The overwhelming need for the 
heroin was gone, but just like someone on a diet, I'd get cravings 
that were hard to resist. Starsky and Huggy were my lifelines 
during those days, and it was a thankless job. My patience was 
practically nonexistent, my temper explosive. If my words had 
been fists, Starsky and Huggy would've looked like the casualties 
of a few rounds with Muhammad Ali. Starsky, I'm sorry to say, 
bore the worst of my anger and frustration. The sad fact is, no one 
can hurt you as badly as the one who loves you the most. And in 
this boxing match, there was no referee to keep me from hitting 
below the belt.

Finally, after what seemed like forever but was only a couple 
weeks, I crossed through hell and came out the other side. I'd been 
released for active duty beginning the following morning, and I'd 
never been happier at the thought of hitting the streets. I was still a 
little weak, a little shaken, a little wary. But I could look in the 
mirror and see Ken Hutchinson, not an addict ready to sell his soul 
for a fix. For the first time, I was clear-headed enough to look back 
on the previous two weeks. And what I saw made me cringe.

I showed up on Starsky's doorstep that night with a pizza and a 
load of guilt. I had to hit the bell three times before he answered, 
but his eyes lit up when he saw what was in my hands.

"Hey. Whatcha got there?" He swung open the door to let me pass, 
sniffing appreciatively.

I walked through the living room, illuminated only by the flickering 
of the television, and flipped on the kitchen light.

"Dinner. You didn't eat yet, did ya?" I set the box on the table and 
turned to face him.

He leaned against the counter, barefoot, wearing the worn sweats 
and T-shirt he frequently sleeps in, that curly mop of hair even 
more rumpled than usual. "Nope. Hadn't gotten around to it yet."

Hadn't gotten around to eating? Starsky? I looked at him, really 
looked at him, this time noticing the shadows under his eyes and 
the lines around his mouth.

"Starsky, were you sleeping?" I couldn't quite keep the note of 
disbelief out of my voice. My partner, king of the late, late show, 
asleep at seven-thirty?

He folded his arms and hunched his shoulders, his eyes 
everywhere but my face. "Nothin' good on TV these days. Guess I 
must've dozed off."

While I tried to come up with a reply, Starsky brought plates and a 
couple of beers to the table. When he flipped open the box to reveal 
the pizza, his jaw dropped.

"Anchovies?" Delight turned to bewilderment. "You hate 
anchovies, Hutch."

"But you love them." I smothered a grin. "Don't get too excited, 
they're only on half."

We settled down to eat, my partner digging into the pizza with all 
the finesse of a starving wolf. I thought about the last two weeks. 
How he was right there, whenever I needed him, day or night. 
How, though I knew he must have eaten and slept, I couldn't really 
remember him doing either one. Coaxing food into my finicky 
stomach when I'd've sworn I couldn't keep it down.  Soothing me to 
sleep when I felt like crawling out of my own skin. So much 
patience and love spent on me, and all I'd been capable of 
repaying it with was bitterness and anger.

Until now.

"Thanks, Starsk."

He paused in the midst of chewing, eyebrows drawn together. "You 
brought the pizza. It's me that oughta be thanking you. Unless 
you're talking about the beer, of course. Or the paper plates. Or 
maybe my sparkling personality. In which case..."

"Would you shut up a minute! That's not what I meant, I..."

He was laughing at me. Not out loud, maybe, but his mouth was 
twitching and he kept wiping it with a napkin. When I glared at 
him, he shook his head.

"I know what you meant, and you can save your breath, Hutch. I 
didn't do anything you wouldn't've done in my place. That's what 
partners are for." He shoved back his chair and stood up. "Want 
another beer?"

I knew he wanted me to drop it, but I couldn't let it go. "Yeah, 
well...I was pretty rough on you. Said a lot of things I didn't mean."

Starsky grabbed two more cans from the fridge and dropped back 
into his chair, shoving one across the table at me. "You think I 
can't tell the difference between you and the smack talkin'? Why 
are you makin' such a big deal outta this?"

"Because it is a big deal!" I was getting frustrated. It wasn't easy 
for me to apologize, damn it. The least he could do was accept it.

He fiddled with his pizza, picking off anchovies and lining them up 
on the plate. "Taking care of you 's never a big deal, Hutch. 
Knowin' you're in trouble--hurt, or maybe even dying--and not 
being able to do a thing about it? That's a big deal."

I stared at him, not sure what he was trying to say.

"All those days." His eyes finally locked onto mine, so intense I 
had to fight the urge to look away. "Looking everywhere I could 
think of, shakin' down every snitch we got. Too little, too late. I 
should've been there, Hutch, covering your back. You never 
should've had to go through what you did."

I couldn't believe my ears. "Starsky, you did everything you could. 
You found me."

He propped his chin on his fist and smiled, but I only saw regret. "I 
was spinnin' my wheels, getting nowhere. You found me, Hutch."

I nodded as jumbled, confusing memories of my escape flitted 
through my head. Scared. Cold. Hurting. Alone. Until strong arms 
and a familiar voice cut through it all and I knew somehow, some 
way everything was going to be okay.

"Maybe so." The words caught in my throat and I forced them out. 
"But you saved me."

Starsky's eyes cut away to the wall, but his hand crept across the 
table, palm up. I grasped it, squeezing hard. He cleared his throat, 
but his voice was still a little raspy.

"It ain't gonna happen again, Hutch. Come hell or high water, next 
time I'll be at your back."

I listened to the redhead come on to Joey in a pitiful attempt to 
save her own skin, the memory clinging to the corners of my mind 
like a cobweb. I had no doubt Starsky would throw that pitcher if it 
killed him. Which was exactly what had me worried.

Humiliated by Joey and rejected by her buddy Sammy, Red ended 
up parking herself in the chair next to me. Listening to her whine 
about her hard luck with men set my teeth on edge. My partner lay 
in that office, hurting more than he'd ever let on, yet willing to give 
everything he had to save all our skins. Red, on the other hand, had 
jumped ship the moment the water got a little rough.

"Maybe you have to give a little." I wasn't sure why I bothered, 
since all I really wanted her to do was shut up. On the other hand, 
no one deserved the kind of treatment Joey dished out.

"Give a little. That's funnier than Sammy," she sneered, but then I 
heard her sigh. "It's not so funny when it's true, is it?"

My eyes shifted from the clock to the open office doorway and 
back again, Red's voice just an annoying buzz in the background. 
One minute to go. I prayed that Starsky was ready, that luck would 
be with us and somehow my pitiful excuse for a plan would work.

It had to.

Then another voice cut through my thoughts, drawing my 
attention. The linebacker had been camped out at the bar, talking 
quietly to Theresa. But whatever they were discussing had 
obviously gotten under the guy's skin. One look at his clenched 
fists and stiff back told me he was headed for trouble. And it was 
nearly time for Starsky to make his pitch.

"Whatever happens in the next minute, try to stay out of the way, 
huh?" I got ready to move. My partner was going to deliver a 
distraction or the big guy was gonna blow--either way I had to be 
ready, and I couldn't afford Red interfering.

"Jimmy, don't!"

Theresa's cry settled the matter. Jimmy, aka the linebacker, 
charged toward Joey and Iceman. No weapon but his fists, 
operating strictly on anger, he might as well have been wearing a 
sign that read "shoot me." And his timing couldn't possibly have 
been worse.

I lunged into his path, grabbing hold of his arms and shoving him 
up against the wall. "Go back and sit down! Cut it out!"

"Let go!" He shoved me away, his strength, fueled by anger, 
enough to send me staggering back several steps.

I swung hard, fist catching him in the belly and doubling him over. 
Joey seized the opportunity to bash him over the head with his 
piece, and Jimmy dropped to the floor, dazed but still conscious.

"Hey!" Wild-eyed, Joey leveled his gun at my head.

Starsky, God bless him, chose that exact moment to do as I'd 
asked. Joey's head jerked toward the noisy crash of the pitcher and 
I lashed out, knocking his arm aside. His finger reflexively 
tightened on the trigger, squeezing off a round that emptied 
harmlessly into the wall, narrowly missing an elderly couple 
coming through the front door. The woman's screams could've 
awakened the dead.

What in the hell were they doing in an Italian restaurant at that 
hour anyway? They belonged at home, watching Lawrence Welk 
reruns over a glass of warm milk.

Iceman grabbed his twitchy partner's gun arm with his free hand, 
his own weapon never wavering from my chest. I don't think the 
guy ever broke a sweat.

I listened with only half an ear as Joey ranted at Jimmy, the same 
old attitude, the same old threats. My little plan hadn't been much, 
just a glimmer of hope in the darkness surrounding Starsky and 
me, and now that was gone as well. We were down to the wire, 
what Starsky and I would call "who do we trust" time. Except the 
man I trusted most in the world was bleeding to death, barely able 
to lift his head, let alone back me up.

In the moment of confusion, as Joey manhandled Jimmy off to be 
locked in the cellar, I walked over to Theresa. She was all I had left 
now, my only hope for pulling our butts out of the fire before we 
got burned right along with Monty. I just hoped that seeing her 
boyfriend roughed up would snap her out of the fantasy world 
she'd been living in.

We either stopped the hit on Monty, or we died with him. Simple 
as that.

I grabbed her around the waist, my back to Iceman, restraining her 
from following after Jimmy. "Theresa, stay out of this."

She struggled a little. "He's hurt!"

"Listen, there's no more time to make choices--you understand? 
Either you're gonna help me, or you're not." I hadn't the time, or 
the patience, to soften my words.

She resisted for only a moment, then her shoulders slumped. 
"What do you... What do you want me to do?"

I want you to stop giving in to these bastards and fight back. I'm 
just not sure you're capable of it.

"Is there a gun in this place?"

"I don't know." She glanced away, nervous.

Iceman must have noticed. "Theresa, get away from there. Get 
these people some food."

I leaned in close and talked fast. "While you're in the kitchen, 
check the wine cellar. Find out if the old man has a gun, and if he 
does, where he keeps it."

"Theresa!"

"Yeah." She hurried off, rattled by the steel in Iceman's voice.

He glared at me, gun aimed at the ceiling but finger on the trigger. 
"I told everyone to sit down. What are you whispering about?"

I was so damn tired of taking orders from both of them. It wasn't 
easy to hide my irritation, but I tried. I put on the innocent face 
Starsky and I show Dobey when we're in trouble. "Well, before 
your trigger-happy pal got so excited, I thought I heard something 
fall back in the office."

He nodded, staring at me with those flat, reptile eyes.

"I'd like to go check my partner out."

Again, the slight smile, as if my concern for Starsky amused him. 
"All right. But first, that empty holster--get rid of it. Now."

I stretched my lips into a smile, but let my contempt seep through. 
If Iceman thought I could actually turn an empty holster into a 
weapon, maybe I should feel flattered. Funny--it just pissed me off. 
I unsnapped the holster and tossed it onto the bar. At least he was 
allowing me to see Starsky. I'd play his game--for now.


~~~~~~~~~~~~
   Starsky
~~~~~~~~~~~~

Funny things go through your head when you're forced to think 
about your own mortality. I could feel how weak I was getting, and 
it was harder and harder to keep my mind from wandering. Alone. 
Hurting. Scared.

So tired.

I could sense death, the same way I can recognize danger when 
Hutch and me are tracking bad guys through a dark alley, or 
warehouse, or some roach-infested dive. An impression, a feeling 
that makes those little hairs at the back of your neck stand up. It 
wasn't beside me, not yet. But it was in the room, hangin' around 
just outta sight.

So tired.

I'd stare at Hutch's watch, waiting for that minute hand to hit the 
nine, for my cue to throw the pitcher... And next thing I knew my 
brain would've strayed someplace completely different.

Hutch. Me. All the jams we've gotten ourselves into--and back out 
of--over the last four years. Lotsa jams. One thing about Hutch and 
me, we don't do things halfway. Drives Dobey nuts. 

The thing is, Dobey probably thinks I've corrupted Hutch. I mean, 
look at us. You got Hutch, whose clothes look like he stepped outta 
the pages of a high-class fashion magazine most of the time--not to 
mention the fancy manners and boy-next-door good looks. And 
then you got me. I dress strictly for comfort--hell, I wouldn't know 
an iron if it bit me in the ass. And though I got plenty of brains and 
street smarts, I get completely confused if I see more than one fork 
and spoon. And attitude? Well, I've always had more than my 
share.

So most people probably think I'm responsible for teachin' Hutch 
to give the rulebook a drop kick into the trashcan. That I took a 
nice, respectful team player and turned him into a renegade just 
like me. 

Oh, man, are they ever wrong.

You see, behind that innocent face and underneath all the "sirs," 
beats the heart of a guy just as willing as me to do whatever it 
takes to finish the job. I'm tellin' ya, he comes up with schemes I 
never would've dreamed up in a million years.

Why do you think he's my best friend? 

Guess we're just...what do you call it? Kindred spirits. Just goes to 
show that the outside of the package don't mean squat.

I jerked myself back from sleep, prying my eyes open and 
checking Hutch's watch. 11:42. Four minutes to go. 

Gotta stay awake. Hutch needs me. Can't let him down.

The numbers started running together and I blinked hard, twisting 
a little to see the watch better.

Oh, God. Big mistake.

Pain knifed through my back until sparks burst in front of my eyes, 
and the wasps were back in my ears, buzzing so loud I couldn't 
think. Somebody was makin' this really annoying whimpering 
sound, and I wished they'd shut up. After a couple minutes I was 
kinda embarrassed to realize the somebody was me.

A memory popped into my mixed-up, loopy brain. Hutch and me. 
An abandoned warehouse full of boxes and old packing crates. 
And a couple of drug dealers making a big score. A time, like a 
million others, when Hutch was there for me, no matter what.

"You see 'em?" I kept my voice to a whisper. I could hear the soft 
shuffle of Hutch's feet off to my left, but it was too damn dark to 
make out much else.

"Heard something. Hard to tell with the echoes."

I moved cautiously around a stack of crates, wishing for a 
flashlight even though I knew it'd make me a sitting duck. 
Something skittered out from under my feet and I bit back a yell, 
nearly dropping my piece.

"Starsk? You okay?"

The worry warmed my heart even while I was cussing under my 
breath.

"Rat. Almost stepped on it," I hissed, shuddering.

Muffled laughter. "'S okay. They're not armed."

"Very funny."

Soft, rapid footsteps up ahead to my left. I tightened my fingers on 
my weapon and got ready to sprint after them, but a loud crash 
stopped me cold.

"Hutch? Hutch!"

I ran toward the sound and saw Hutch sprawled on the ground 
under a crate. A dark figure bent over him, grabbing for his gun.

"Freeze, turkey, or I'll blow your head off!"

Guess the anger in my voice convinced him I meant it, because he 
stopped and immediately raised both hands. I came up behind, 
identifying him as Tony Espinosa, one of our two dealers.

"Down on the ground. Spread 'em."

I snuck looks at Hutch as I took Espinosa's gun, patted him down, 
and cuffed him. He still wasn't moving, not even a twitch. When I 
was sure the creep wasn't going anywhere, I crawled over to my 
partner.

The little bit of moonlight coming through a few dirty windows 
made Hutch's face look white, the blood pooled beneath his head, 
black. Evidently Espinosa had shoved several crates down on top 
of him, one hitting him just above his right eye. I was both relieved 
to see that he didn't look hurt anywhere else, and scared that he 
still wasn't coming around.

"Hutch. C'mon, partner, give me a sign here."

I pulled him into my arms and patted his cheeks. He moaned and 
swatted my hand away, his eyes fluttering open, then squeezing 
shut.

"Didja get the number?" His words ran together and I had to lean 
in close to understand them.

"Number?"

"Of the truck...that hit me."

I chuckled, and it felt like an elephant moved off my chest. "Got 
him, cuffed him, and I'm ready to find his friend. You gonna be 
okay here for a few minutes?"

He pushed himself upright, shrugging out of my hold, only to 
groan and drop his head onto his knees. His face was all screwed 
up in pain, but he waved one hand in the air.

"Go."

I hated to leave him but we couldn't afford to lose Caterra, 
Espinosa's supplier. The set-up had taken months of careful 
groundwork, and we wouldn't get a second chance. I picked 
Hutch's Python off the floor and pressed it into his shaky hand, 
curling the fingers around the grip.

"Keep an eye on your buddy, the truck driver. I'll be right back."

I'd only gone a few steps when Hutch's weak voice called me back.
"Starsk?"

I turned. "Yeah?"

"Be careful."

I grinned at him. "Ain't I always?"

He tried to roll his eyes, which wasn't too smart, judging from the 
moan. I continued through the warehouse, my ears tuned to any 
sound. I'd almost reached the back door when I heard a scuffling 
sound, followed by the creak of a crate. I flattened myself against a 
stack of boxes and inched forward down the aisle until I could 
poke my nose around the corner. Several feet away, behind a large 
dumpster, I could just make out the toes of two shiny black shoes. 
Looked like my mouse was playing cat.

I pulled back and circled around, figuring I'd give Caterra a little 
surprise. I got into position, counted to three, and lunged around 
the corner, my gun aimed at his back.

At least, that's what was supposed to go down.

What I found, was that I was pointin' it at two shoes...and a lotta 
empty air.

Cold metal pressed to the back of my skull told me I'd just made a 
really big mistake.

"Well, lookee here. Amazing what you can catch with a pair of 
Hush Puppies." Hot breath, reeking of garlic and cigarette smoke, 
puffed against my cheek. "Drop it, pig."

When your back's up against the wall, there ain't many places you 
can go. I did like Caterra told me, raising my hands in the air as 
he moved around to stand in front of me. He flashed impossibly 
white shark's teeth at me and kicked my piece so that it skittered off 
into the dark.

"You messed up a sweet deal, pig. Cost me a valuable associate. 
I'm gonna enjoy wasting you." He laughed. "Who knows? Maybe 
when I'm done I'll go fishing for that blond partner of yours."

I perfected my poker face back when I was a kid dodging Eddie 
Cooper, the neighborhood bully who liked shakin' us down for our 
lunch money. I looked Caterra right in the eyes and shrugged, 
though my heart was thumpin' in my chest.

"Won't do any good. He's probably halfway to the station with 
your buddy, Espinosa."

Caterra bared his teeth, raised his gun until the barrel pointed 
right between my eyes, and clicked his tongue. "Imagine his 
surprise when you never show." He thumbed back the trigger of his 
weapon and all the spit left my mouth. "Adios, pig."

The gunshot was louder than I expected and my eyes slammed shut 
out of reflex. I waited for pain, for...I don't know...a bright light? 
When none of that happened, I cracked open one lid. Caterra lay 
on the floor, a bullet hole in his chest and a look of wide-eyed 
surprise permanently frozen on his face.

"Told ya...to be careful."

I snapped my head up and turned around, pantin' a little from the 
shock. Hutch was propped against some boxes, squinting at me 
through the trickles of blood that ran down his face. His gun still 
dangled from his fingers, but he looked like he wouldn't be able to 
hold onto it much longer. As I was gapin' at him like a dead fish, 
he started to slowly slide downward, his legs folding up under him. 
I caught him right before he hit the cement.

He blinked at me, his eyes sliding in and out of focus but his mouth 
curved in a faint grin.

"Where you goin'?" I pulled him against me, brushing away drops 
of blood with my still-trembling fingers and giving his sweaty back 
a gentle rub.

"Thought I'd sit down a minute."

"Good idea." I peered into his eyes. "Thought you were watching 
Espinosa."

He tried to look up at me, but his chin kept slipping down onto his 
chest. "Had more important things to watch."

"Yeah?" I stared at Caterra and felt sweat break out on my 
forehead. "Like what?"

He chuffed a little laugh that turned into a groan. "Your back, 
Gordo. What else?"

I tipped my head against the boxes and told myself it was dust in 
my eyes.

A flash of lightening, followed immediately by a rumble of 
thunder, brought me back. 11:44. I carefully set Hutch's watch on 
the floor and reached for the pitcher. Felt like it was filled with 
cement, but I got a good grip and waited, watching the second 
hand creep slowly around the dial.

11:46

Can't watch your back, partner. But I'll do my damnedest to make 
this pitch count.

Gritting my teeth against the pain, I leaned up on one elbow and 
gave it everything I had. I enjoyed a split second of satisfaction 
when the pitcher crashed into the wall and toppled to the floor with 
a clatter. Then white-hot agony shot through my back and down 
my arm, and my head exploded like a firecracker. I felt myself 
falling into a long, dark tunnel, and I was more than happy when it 
swallowed me up.


Chapter 6

~~~~~~~~~~~~
    Hutch
~~~~~~~~~~~~

I froze in the doorway for a minute, unable to tear my eyes away 
from my partner's motionless body, but equally unable to move. 
He was sprawled face down on the floor, right hand flung out from 
his body and fresh blood oozing through my tablecloth bandage. 
The silver pitcher lay about five feet from his fingers, a black 
streak and trickles of water marking its collision with the wall. I 
sucked in a slow, calming breath and crouched down beside him.

"That must've been some throw, partner." I muttered the words 
more to myself than to Starsky, who appeared to be out cold. At 
the sound of my voice, however, his forehead creased and his 
fingers twitched.

I gently gathered him into my arms. It was odd to be treating 
Starsky, one of the toughest people I know, like fine china, but his 
white face and ragged breathing reminded me things had changed. 
As I struggled to pull his dead weight into my lap, he began to 
come around.

"Hutsh?" My name was mostly breath and few consonants, but that 
hand, the one that had reached for me earlier, crept up to touch my 
face.

"Yeah, I'm right here."

"Hutsh?" Groggy, his eyes still closed and his body limp.

"I'm right here," I muttered. I moved his hand from my face and 
folded his arm across his chest, lacing my fingers around it. "Right 
here. I'm right here."

Starsky finally looked up at me, his eyes glassy and unfocused. "I 
thought they killed you."

I laughed, but for a moment I had to look away from the naked 
love and relief in his gaze. Even now, he was worried about me 
and not himself. Swallowing grief until my throat ached, I smiled 
down at him. "Is that what you're doing on the floor? Huh?"

I turned toward the couch, silently asking myself how I was going 
to get him back onto it without hurting him further. When I 
unconsciously loosened my hold, his left arm slithered out of my 
grasp and thumped to the floor, but Starsky didn't seem to notice. 
His answering chuckle was thin and raspy, more like wheezing 
than laughter. 

"I thought I'd tunnel out. Go for help."

I stared at that arm, his words fading into the background. 
Snagging his sleeve, I tugged it up until I could curl my fingers 
around his wrist, then slid my hand up his forearm. It was limp, 
pliant, the skin cool and clammy to my touch. Starsky's head lolled 
against my chest, and his eyelids drooped until only a hint of blue 
peeked through. 

"How's your arm, huh?"

I probed and squeezed my way up to his elbow, gently at first, then 
harder. Starsky sprawled bonelessly against me, oblivious to what I 
was doing.

"It's fine. Hey, didja get the bad guy? Hm?"

"I think we still got 'em with us," I answered, distracted by the 
results of my less-than-expert examination.

"Oh, terrific."

I struggled to concentrate, my thoughts blotted out by a fresh flood 
of worry. Starsky wasn't complaining about pain, wasn't even 
reacting to my touch. Loss of circulation. Nerve damage. Paralysis. 
Ugly words that flitted through my head, made all the more serious 
because we were talking about my lefty partner's gun hand.

"You sure your arm's all right? Huh?"

"Couldn't be better. I told you, Gene Autry gets it there all the 
time."

The arm slipped out of my grasp and hit the floor again, but 
Starsky spoke without even a pause or a grimace. I continued my 
exploration, probing and prodding along his side from waist to 
ribs.

"How do I look?"

It's a joke between Starsky and me, a running gag that dates back 
to the first time he got into a fistfight with a fleeing suspect--and 
lost. The guy, 250 pounds and roughly the size of King Kong, 
jumped him as he came around a corner, catching him completely 
off guard. By the time I came along, hauled him off my partner, 
and cuffed him, Starsky had a hell of a black eye, a bloody nose, 
and a loose tooth. His first words to me, after growling some 
inventive obscenities and spitting blood?

Yeah, you guessed it.

"You look terrific...terrific," I told him, then and now.

"I bet I do." Dry sarcasm in his voice, despite the weakness.

I looked down at him, helplessness pressing down on me until I 
could barely breathe. I shook off the numbness. "You want me to 
sit you up?"

Starsky's mouth twitched and a faint sparkle lit up his eyes. "Think 
you can?"

"I can try, you big lug. C'mon."

I grasped him under the arms and gritted my teeth, trying to lift 
slowly and carefully.

"I'll try to help." In spite of good intentions, his body remained a 
dead weight.

"Move your legs a little for me if you can," I suggested, my voice 
tight from the strain.

Starsky's muscular and solid as they come. It was no small task, 
fighting gravity and his weight to haul him upright. Finally I had 
him vertical against the couch, his head sagging drunkenly and his 
eyes closed. I was both grateful and frightened that he never made 
even the slightest squeak of pain.

"Okay, now, just hold it right there...hold it right there."

It was painfully obvious that he could topple over at any moment. I 
propped him up with one hand while I shifted position, getting on 
my knees so I could settle him a little more comfortably and 
securely. 

"Yeah. What do want me to do now? Huh?" He was like an 
oversized rag doll, allowing me to manipulate him without 
complaint. Even the hand that had searched for me so determinedly 
remained still.

"I'll let you know, okay? Right now I think we've got 'em on the 
run."

I covered him again with the tablecloths and coat, then tucked a 
couple pillows behind his head to keep it from tipping backward. 
"There you go."

He looked awful. His normally tan skin tone had gone positively 
gray, and I could see he was fighting hard just to stay conscious. I 
tugged the coat up a little higher, tucking him in like a small child. 
"Just stay right there, and you take it easy."

His eyes cracked open briefly before sliding shut. "I ain't goin' 
nowhere."

I scooped up my watch and got to my feet, panting--not only with 
the effort it had taken to move him, but with the fear, heartache, 
and anger I couldn't let Starsky see. I glanced at the time before 
slipping the watch into my pocket. 11:50. Ten minutes to go, and 
that was assuming Vic didn't decide to show up early. I took a few 
steps and braced my hand against the wall, my legs weak and 
wobbly. Tears filled the back of my throat and burned my eyes. I 
screwed up my face and willed them away, a talent my father 
taught me many years ago.

Oh, God, Starsky. What am I doing? You're slipping away and I'm 
standing here watching.

Theresa came through the door, sparing a glance for Starsky before 
raising her eyebrows at me. "How is he?"

I grabbed her arm, drawing her further into the room and away 
from my partner. I kept my voice to a whisper, not wanting to 
alarm him. "He can't feel a thing. How 'bout the gun?"

"Oh, the old man says there is a--well, there's sort of a gun."

Sort of a gun? What the hell is that supposed to mean?

My frustration with the gunmen and my worry for Starsky 
obliterated any patience I had left. Still, I realized that going off on 
Theresa would alienate my only ally. I gripped her arms and forced 
myself to stay calm.

"What do you mean, 'sort of a gun'?"

"Well, the part where you put the bullets...?"

"The clip?"

A quick nod. "...is in the back of the cash register. And the gun is 
under the bar near the cash register. But I don't know if it's going to 
do any good, he hasn't used it in years, he hasn't cleaned it in 
years." 

She looked at me, wide-eyed, cheeks flushed, and I wondered how 
it was possible that Iceman hadn't figured out she was up to 
something. I could only pray that my buddy, Joey, would keep him 
sufficiently distracted.

"There's no way to find that until we try it, huh? If we work 
together, I think I can get the clip. But you're gonna have to get 
the gun and bring it back here. You understand? Can you do it?"

She licked her lips. "Yeah, I think I can. Yeah."

I stared at her, trying to judge if she was leveling with me. If she 
really could deliver, or if she'd panic at the first glimpse of trouble. 
The men sitting out in the restaurant might have their quirks, but 
they were pros. If Theresa fumbled the ball, if she crumbled under 
pressure, we were as good as dead. 

My eyes automatically turned to Starsky. He sat just as I'd 
positioned him, eyes glazed and breathing labored. I could see he 
was only halfway there, his tether to what was going on around 
him stretched thin. Normally determined to be included in any 
strategy, he hadn't even attempted to overhear our conversation. 
His apathy, even more than his appearance, told me just how fast 
he was sinking.

Could Theresa pull it off? Dear God, what choice did I have but to 
let her try? It certainly wouldn't be the first time Starsky and I beat 
overwhelming odds.

Crouching behind a dumpster in a dirty back alley that reeked of 
garbage, vomit, and piss. Pinned down, caught in the crossfire 
between two gunmen from a liquor store hold-up gone sour. No 
back-up in sight, our weapons no match for the machine guns the 
bad guys carried.

"Any brilliant ideas?" Starsky popped his head around the corner 
and fired off a couple of rounds, ducking back just in time to avoid 
the barrage of bullets that followed.

"Huh?" I was busy reloading, trying not to notice we were both 
nearly out of ammo.

"Brilliant ideas. You know, those brainstorms you come up with 
when we get into a jam? Right about now'd be a good time for 
one."

"Yeah? Well, I'll see what I can do." I glanced over at Starsky, 
nodded, and we both lunged around our respective corners, firing.

A spray of bullets erupted, one nearly catching Starsky between the 
eyes. We both dove for cover, my partner crashing into the steel 
hard enough to send the dumpster several inches to the left. He lay 
on the pavement, cursing as only Starsky can, and holding his now 
sprained shoulder.

"You all right?" he finally ground out, hauling himself upright.

I vaguely heard the question, mesmerized by the large wheels 
providing the base for what was essentially a giant garbage can.

A hand latched onto my arm. "Hutch! I said..."

I looked up at him, a grin slowly spreading across my face. "Have 
you noticed the bullets don't pierce this dumpster? Must be solid 
steel."

Starsky stared at me, cradling his sore arm. "That's nice. Have you 
noticed we're nearly out of ammo and those guys shoot to kill?"

"Got it covered," I assured him.

Both eyebrows lifted. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. And seeing that you're injured, you get the cake job."

Those blue eyes narrowed instantly. "Which is?"

I showed him my teeth. "You get to take a little ride."

Starsky's face screwed up in confusion. I knew the moment he 
figured it out by the scowl that took over his face. "Uh-uh. No way. 
You know what kinda disgustin' stuff could be in this thing? How 
come I gotta be the one to climb in there?"

"It only makes sense, Starsk. It's going to take a hard push to get 
this thing rolling. With that shoulder, you'll never be able to pull it 
off." I used a patient, reasonable tone of voice; the one that says I 
know what's best so he should just quit arguing.

He glared at me for a minute, but he knew I was right. When his 
shoulders slumped and he started to whine, I knew I'd convinced 
him. He muttered under his breath as he stripped off his leather 
jacket.

"Don't know why your brilliant ideas always wind up with me doin' 
the dirty work. Be lucky if I don't pass out from the smell before I 
can get a shot off."

He paused, fingers curled over the lip, and gave me a puppy dog 
look. "Promise me if I buy it from one of their bullets you won't 
leave me in there."

"Starsk, if they get you, it stands to reason I won't be far behind." 
When he just glared at me, I shrugged. "Okay, okay. I promise. On 
the count of three, all right?"

"One."

"Two."

"THREE!"

I laid down cover fire while Starsky vaulted over the edge of the 
dumpster. Once he was safely inside, I put my shoulder against the 
metal and heaved. The alley sloped downhill, so once I got the 
thing moving I was able to jog alongside it, using it for cover while 
I fired my own piece. 

A few minutes later I had a bullet riddled dumpster, two cuffed 
suspects, and an extremely smelly partner. Starsky moaned and 
groaned all the way to Metro--how he was gonna send me the 
cleaning bill for his clothes and the Torino. How the next time I 
had one of my brilliant ideas it better not involve garbage. That 
he'd never be able to look at a pizza quite the same way again. Add 
to that the fact that our little escapade made him the butt of 
countless jokes for the next several weeks, and I had a very 
grouchy partner.

Grouchy, but alive.

I pressed my thumb and forefinger to my temples, then ran my 
hand down my face. Time for another brilliant plan.

Please, God, let me wind up with a very grouchy, very alive 
partner.

~~~~~~~~~~~~
   Starsky
~~~~~~~~~~~~

I thought I was dead.

The pain had disappeared--to tell you the truth, I wasn't feelin' 
much of anything. Everything was pitch black, but it was kinda 
peaceful that way, and I sure didn't want to move or do anything to 
wake up the little guy who'd been drilling a hole in my back.

A voice brought me the rest of the way back--a voice, and those 
hands. I couldn't understand the words, but they didn't really 
matter. The last thing I could remember--besides feeling like my 
insides had been twisted into knots--was the sound of gunfire. The 
quiet voice and the gentle touch of those hands told me that my 
partner was still with me.

"Hutch." It came out all mushy and blurred.

I tried to reach for him, but my arms weren't cooperating too well 
and my eyelids felt like they were stuck shut. With a lot of hard 
work, I got one hand up to touch his face. His cheek was warm, 
and he needed a shave--little details that reassured me I wasn't 
dreamin'.

"Yeah, I'm right here."

"Hutch." I wanted to say something, to let him know how glad I 
was to know he wasn't dead. Unfortunately, my mouth wasn't 
cooperatin' any better than my arms or my eyelids.

"I'm right here." Fingers curled carefully around my wrist, and my 
arm was tugged down to my chest. "Right here. I'm right here."

I knew then that he must be pretty worried about me. Normally, 
Hutch isn't one to talk unless he's got something to say. One of the 
things I like about our friendship is that we can spend long 
stretches of time together in complete silence. I mean, yeah, I can 
run off at the mouth sometimes. But there's also plenty of times I 
like a little peace and quiet, and so does Hutch. So if he starts 
stuttering or babbling, I know he's on edge.  

Concentrating hard, I pried open my eyes. I squinted up at the pale 
blob that was supposed to be Hutch's face, and it was the most 
beautiful thing I'd ever not seen.

"I thought they killed you."

He laughed. It was great to hear, even though I didn't really 
understand what was so funny. Sure, I've occasionally been known 
to tell him I'm gonna kill him. But that's just a figure of speech, ya 
know?

He grinned at me. "Is that what you're doing on the floor. Huh?"

For the first time, it hit me. I wasn't layin' on the couch, I was 
down on the floor.

How the hell did I get down here?

Maybe I was a little punchy by that point, because all of a sudden 
the whole situation struck me as funny. I mean, there I am, 
swearing to Hutch that I can heave that little pitcher against the 
wall, laughin' at him for even doubting me, and what do I do? Toss 
myself onto the floor along with the pitcher. And if that ain't 
pathetic enough, I don't even realize I'm gettin' friendly with this 
ugly carpet until Hutch spells it out for me. I started to snicker.

"I thought I'd tunnel out. Go for help."

Man, I was tired. A little voice in my head reminded me I was 
layin' on top of Hutch and should probably try to move, but I 
couldn't scrape up the energy. I just lay there like a big baby in his 
lap and tried to keep from nodding off.

"How's your arm, huh?"

Why was he worried about me--he was the one facing down those 
two hired guns. I thought again about the shots I'd heard and what 
they might mean. Just the fact that it took me so long goes to show 
how loopy I was. There had definitely been gunfire, but Hutch was 
here with me. Could that mean...?

"It's fine. Hey, didja get the bad guy? Hm?"

Hutch wasn't even looking at me; he seemed real preoccupied 
about something. "I think we still got 'em with us."

"Oh, terrific."

So we were back to square one. For some strange reason my brain 
wandered off on a completely different track. I started thinkin' 
about all the westerns I've watched on the late, late show. Those 
cowboys could be fulla holes, bleeding all over the place, and 
they'd still get the cattle rustlers in the end. Me, I might not be able 
to pick myself up off the floor, but at least the pain had backed off. 
So maybe I wasn't doin' too bad.

"You sure your arm's all right? Huh?"

Did I ever mention what a worrier Hutch is? Sometimes, when I'm 
sick or hurting, he gets down right fussy over me. It'd be annoying, 
'cept I understand just how special that treatment is. See, Hutch 
didn't grow up with a whole lot of TLC. Don't get me wrong, his 
parents are basically good people, and I'm sure they loved him in 
their own way. It's just that their way didn't include much hugging 
or touching. And if there's one thing I've learned during my years 
as a cop, it's that all the love in the world don't mean nothin' if you 
can't show the person.

So--considerin' Hutch didn't exactly have great role models--I 
figure I'm pretty damn lucky to be on the receiving end of that 
much caring and affection. Most of the time I'm grateful to have 
someone wanting to take care of me. And the rest of the time I just 
grit my teeth and try not to pull my gun. 

"Couldn't be better. I told you, Gene Autry gets it there all the 
time." I thought of the perfect way to lighten Hutch up. "How do I 
look?"

It's a joke between us. Goes all the way back to a time when I got 
the hell beat outta me by a guy twice my size. Hutch got a big 
laugh from me asking him how I looked.

"Starsky, King Kong here nearly ate you for lunch. You're lucky 
you got off with only a loose tooth and a bloody nose. Who cares 
how you look?"

I wiped my nose with the handkerchief he'd handed me and spat a 
disgusting wad of blood onto the pavement. "Look, you might not 
care how I look, and Dobey might not care how I look, but I can 
guarantee ya that the pretty little stewardess I'm takin' dancing 
tonight'll care. And I hate to break it to ya, Blondie, but she's the 
one that counts."

Hutch rolled his eyes and gave me that face. The one that says he 
can't figure out why he puts up with me. "You look terrific."

I spat more blood. "I bet I do."

"You look terrific...terrific."

Hutch's voice yanked me back from the daydream I didn't know I 
was having. For just a second I felt all mixed up, like I wasn't sure 
where--or when--I was. Then it all clicked back into place.

"I bet I do."

"You want me to sit you up?"

Tired as I felt, I had to smile a little. I was spread over Hutch like a 
blanket--a very wet, very heavy blanket. Getting me vertical 
seemed like a pretty big job, and I wasn't exactly feeling ambitious. 
"Think you can?"

"I can try, you big lug. C'mon."

Hutch started to lift, and I could tell how careful he was being. I 
could also feel his arms quivering from the effort.

"I'll try to help."

And I did. But nothin' much happened. My arms felt like noodles 
and my eyes kept wanting to slide shut. The more Hutch hauled me 
up, the more blood rushed outta my head and I felt real woozy.

"Move your legs a little for me if you can," he grunted. His breath 
was coming in short, hard puffs.

I gave it my best shot, but it was all I could do not to black out. 
When I cracked my eyes open, it was like lookin' through a 
negative from one of the photos I like to take. I gritted my teeth 
and shut them.

"Okay now, just hold it right there...hold it right there." Hutch's 
voice--calm, reassuring--anchored me.

"Yeah. What do want me to do now? Huh?"

Please say nothing, Hutch, 'cause it's taking all I got just to stay 
with you.

"I'll let you know. Right now I think we've got 'em on the run."

Hutch's voice sounded like he was standing at the end of a long 
tunnel, hollow and far away. I sank back against the couch, letting 
him tug and move me into a more comfortable position. I wanted 
to sleep, and I wanted it with the desperation of a junkie after a fix. 
I needed the relief, ached to let go just for a little while. But a 
corner of my mind recognized the danger and a nagging little voice 
wouldn't let me give up.

Did I ever mention the nagging little voice in my head sounds just 
like Hutch?

"There you go." I felt him fussing with the tablecloth he'd thrown 
over me and at least three wisecracks danced around in my brain, 
but I couldn't catch 'em. It felt too good just to sit there and 
breathe.

"Just stay right there, and you take it easy."

No problem, partner. Try asking something hard.

"I ain't goin' nowhere."

I sensed Hutch move away from me and Theresa come into the 
room. A tiny corner of my mind wondered where he was going and 
what we were gonna do about Mutt and Jeff in the next room. The 
rest of me was just too tired to care. Hutch'd fill me in when he had 
the details worked out. Until then I figured it wouldn't hurt to get 
some rest.

I listened to the murmur of Hutch's voice without trying to process 
the words, telling myself the game wasn't over. The home team 
was down a few points--okay, so the visitors were kicking the crap 
outta us. We still had an inning or two left, and our star player was 
up to bat.

Hazy memories of baseball, beer, and a hot summer days followed 
me down into the dark.


Chapter 7

~~~~~~~~~~~~
    Hutch
~~~~~~~~~~~~

I walked out of the office with both hands raised like a good little 
hostage. My mind worked frantically on the problem of getting 
into that cash register without Iceman and Joey knowing what I 
was up to. Theresa perched on a barstool and I stood beside her, so 
close and yet so far from where I needed to be.

"Hey, Cop!" I looked over to see Iceman gesture with his gun. "Get 
back to your seat."

Think fast, Hutchinson. You're running out of time.

I hesitated, my brain racing. If I went back to my seat now, I'd 
never get back to the register in time. It was six minutes to 
midnight. Monty and his goons would arrive soon.

And then it clicked. One of those brainstorms Starsky ribs me 
about. If I'd been working with my partner, I would've been certain 
I could pull it off. We're nearly psychic at times--Starsky can sense 
where I'm headed without me spelling it out for him. But Theresa... 
If she didn't pick up on what I was trying to do, my plan would 
never work.

I slowly reached across the bar for a glass.

"Don't push me." The flat, cold voice let me know Iceman was 
deadly serious.

I showed him the glass and pasted on a smile. "I just want a beer. 
My mouth is dry."

Joey, lounging with his feet on the table, got a big kick out of that. 
"I'll bet it is!" he hooted.

I reached across the polished surface a second time and carefully 
filled the glass from the tap. As I straightened and took a sip of the 
beer, I stared at Theresa.

Come on, lady. Read my mind, just this once.

Her eyes widened but she kept a stone face. "You want a beer, you 
pay for it." She tipped her chin up and gave me a steely glare 
worthy of an Oscar.

I could've kissed her.

Ignoring Joey's jeers, I smiled at her with exaggerated politeness. 
"How much?"

"Fifty cents."

I walked around the bar to the cash register, set my glass on top, 
pulled a single from my pocket, and showed it to Iceman. 
Punching the button to open the money drawer, I slipped the bill 
inside. The clip was there, just as the old man had told Theresa. 
Sweat trickled between my shoulder blades and down my back, 
and my heart thudded against my ribs. As casually as possible I 
slid the clip up my sleeve, grabbed two quarters, and shut the 
drawer.

I waved the quarters in Iceman's direction as I rounded the bar. I 
knew I was walking a thin line with my sarcasm, but it was all I 
could do to keep my temper in check. When both Iceman and Joey 
merely watched me without comment, I put the next part of my 
plan into play.

"My partner's getting the chills. I'd appreciate it if you'd get him 
something warm to drink," I told Theresa.

"There's some soup already made out in the kitchen."

Good girl.

I couldn't resist a little more sarcasm. I looked at Iceman. "I'll pay 
for it."

She glanced over at him for permission. "Okay?"

"Okay, but make it fast."

I walked over and took a seat at "my" table. Nonchalantly sipping 
my beer, pretending to be the picture of calm, when inside my guts 
were churning and my nerves were jangling. The ball was in 
Theresa's court now. There wasn't really a thing I could do to help 
her. 

"I bet the piggy put in a buck in the till and pulled out a tenspot, 
huh?"

Joey's voice, sneering at my back. Oh, how I wanted to walk over 
and teach that slimeball a lesson. Instead, I clamped my mouth 
shut and stared at the red-and-white checked tablecloth. I thought 
about Starsky, back when we finally caught up with Crazy George 
Prudholm. How the desire, the need, to pull the trigger was so 
strong I could see his whole body shaking. I figured if my partner 
could control himself under those circumstances, then I could now.

Starsky's temper is legendary around Metro but personally, I don't 
really think his reputation as a hothead is deserved. Starsky has an 
incredible amount of patience under most circumstances. We've 
got two or three regular customers at the station--old folks with too 
much time on their hands and no one to spend it with. They like to 
come down and swear out complaints. Sometimes it's a purse that's 
been snatched, sometimes vandalism--once it was even a peeping 
Tom. Of course, Starsky and I know none of it really happened. 
They're stories invented by lonely people who just want someone 
to talk to. More specifically, who want to talk to Starsky. 
Especially Hazel Wilmington.

"All right, Hazel, I've got your name and address all typed in here. 
Now, what exactly is the nature of your complaint?"

She peered sideways at me through her lashes before answering 
my partner. "I'm the unfortunate victim of a lewd and lascivious 
act, Detective Starsky."

Starsky gave her a look of concern and never cracked a grin. "A 
lewd and lascivious act?"

Hazel nodded and leaned in closer. "A peeping Tom. Staring right 
in my bedroom window as I was undressing for bed."

Starsky pursed his lips. Someone who didn't know him as well as I 
do probably wouldn't've noticed he was struggling with a smile. 
"That must've been very…unsettling."

"I'll say it was! I screamed and threw a shoe at him. He ran away, 
of course." Hazel raised an eyebrow and nodded knowingly. 
"They're all terrible cowards. That's why they hide in the shadows 
and stare at innocent women, instead of finding a girlfriend like 
any normal man would."

Starsky typed for a moment and then looked up at Hazel. "Can you 
describe this…uh…peeping Tom?"

"Weeeell." Hazel shifted in her chair and ran her fingers over her 
purse. "It was terribly dark, and I was startled. By the time I 
realized what he was doing he'd disappeared." Her chin tipped up. 
"Into the night, probably off to terrorize some other poor, 
unsuspecting woman."

"I see." Starsky's fingers danced across the keys for another 
minute. Then he leaned an elbow on the desk, propped his chin on 
his fist, and gave Hazel a 1000-watt grin. "Hazel, I want to thank 
you for doing the responsible thing and reporting this crime. We'll 
keep our eyes open for this guy, but I doubt he'll be bothering you 
again."

Hazel reached over and patted my partner's hand. "Thank you, 
David. I feel safer just knowing you're out there, doing your job. 
Both of you." She turned a sunny smile on me and I couldn't help 
returning it.

Starsky stood and began gently ushering her to the door. "Well, 
you know, the guy is probably just lonely. He sees a beautiful 
woman, and he just can't help himself."

Hazel giggled like a schoolgirl. I nearly swallowed my tongue.

Once Hazel was safely on her way, Starsky plopped down into his 
chair, ripped the arrest form from the typewriter, and tossed it into 
the trash. I settled myself across from him.

"You know, you probably could've caught up on those reports you 
owe Dobey if you'd spent less time on Hazel's imaginary peeping 
Tom," I pointed out.

Starsky shrugged. "I'll get 'em done before I leave tonight. 'Sides, 
Dobey'd probably have a heart attack if I actually turned 
something in on time." When I didn't say anything he sighed. 
"She's a nice lady, Hutch. Her husband's only been dead about a 
year, and both her kids live out East. If comin' down here to report 
an occasional crime makes her happy…" He shrugged again.

I couldn't tell him what I was really thinking--that little things like 
his patience and kindness to Hazel made me proud to be his friend. 
So I shoved back my chair and stood up.

"C'mon."

Starsky gave me that blank look he does so well. "Huh?"

"I'll buy ya a soda. Then you can give me half that stack of reports. 
At the rate you type, you'd still be here tomorrow morning."

The kitchen door swung open and Theresa emerged, carrying a 
tray with a bowl on it. She crossed the room and reached over the 
bar, her movements calm and unhurried. She'd just straightened up 
with a napkin and--I assumed--the gun in her hand, when Joey got 
up and approached her. My heart gave a lurch and stopped beating.

"Hey. Hey! What do you got there?" He peered over her shoulder. 
"Theresa. I'm ashamed of you."

I tensed, watching helplessly as Theresa set the tray on top of the 
napkin and turned to face Joey, her eyes huge and innocent.

"Why? What's the matter?"

Joey put on an exaggerated pout. "It smells so good. Why didn't 
you bring me some, huh?"

Theresa started toward the office, her rigid back a not-so-subtle 
slap in the face. "There's some more in the kitchen. You want 
some, you gotta get it yourself."

I let out a long, slow breath of air, feeling like the guy who 
narrowly missed the plane that just crashed. I expected Theresa's 
rejection to set off Joey's temper, but it never happened. He just 
smirked and sauntered back over to his table, as if he'd just told the 
funniest joke in the world.

I sipped my beer, watched the office doorway, and thought about 
how people can surprise you. I never would've thought Theresa 
had it in her--I'd've sworn she'd fold under pressure. Thank God 
I'm not always the best judge of character.

Behind me, Iceman and Joey were getting ready for the big 
moment.

"Three minutes to twelve." Iceman's voice was soft, calm.

"Yeah, well, this time I won't miss."

C'mon, Theresa. Where are you?

"I think you'd better get in here."

Though I'd been expecting her to call for me, my chest still 
tightened and my heart sped up. I scrambled to my feet and was 
around the table before Iceman's voice pulled me up short.

"Hold it, Cop. I want you where I can see you."

The camel's back broke. I'd swallowed my anger and frustration 
one too many times, and I damn well couldn't eat another bite. "I'm 
going back there and you're not gonna stop me."

No sign of anger, just that cool stare and a gun pointed at my chest. 
Iceman deliberately pulled back the hammer.

It was a bluff and I knew it. There was no way they'd do anything 
to jeopardize the hit. Not now. "What are you gonna do now, blow 
me away? There's not gonna be time to pick up the pieces before 
Vic Monty gets in here."

When Iceman continued to stare me down, I gave him the finger. 
No, not that one. I gave him my dad's finger. Dad never spanked us 
when my sister and I were kids. He didn't have to. He could be one 
scary guy when he was mad. If he glared at you, you knew you 
were in trouble. But if he held up his index finger… Well, I never 
waited around to find out what happened next. That finger was a 
warning, and I was smart enough to take it.

I'm sure I didn't have nearly as powerful an effect on Iceman, but 
he did let me go without any more arguments. I stalked into the 
office, Theresa on my heels. As soon as we were inside, she pulled 
out the gun.

"Oh, beautiful." I took it from her and eased the clip out of my 
sleeve. It might have been old and in need of a good cleaning, but 
the weight of that gun felt wonderful in my hands. I crouched 
down beside Starsky, still propped against the couch with his head 
sagging onto his shoulder.

"Hey, buddy, look what I got. Huh?" I could barely contain the 
excitement in my voice as I loaded the clip.

Starsky slit his eyes open. "Last go around, huh?" He chuffed a 
breathy little laugh.

I chambered a round. "Yeah. From what I understand, this thing is 
liable to go off in my face as anything."

"Well. You always did want an excuse to get your teeth capped."

Like I said before, he can make me laugh when I'd swear it was 
impossible. I laid my hand carefully on his shoulder and chuckled, 
a few of the knots in my back loosening a bit. My friend. He 
refuses to throw in the towel, even when the odds are looking grim. 
I just hoped I wouldn't let him down. Despite the joke, it was 
obvious he was weakening fast.

I leaned in closer, hoping to return the gift he'd given me. "You 
know something?"

"What?"

"You look terrible."

One corner of his mouth twitched. "Hey. Don't let me fool you. I 
played Camille in high school."

I smiled, but it felt brittle. "Yeah."

Time for business. I stood and moved back over to where Theresa 
was waiting. "Now there's one more thing I want you to do. When 
I walk out of this room, those guys watch me like a hawk."

"What can I do?"

Was this really the same woman who had been nearly hysterical 
after Starsky was shot? Who'd defended Iceman and Joey as the 
avengers of her brother's death? It was hard to reconcile that 
person with the one who stood so calmly and resolutely in front of 
me now. 

"Well, I can't walk out with a gun in my hand. And I can't get a 
clear shot at them because there are two people sitting at this table, 
so what I want you to do is to give me a couple of seconds to get 
into position."

She was nodding before I finished speaking. "You want me to 
create a diversion."

Dear God, Starsky. Maybe we can actually pull this off.

"Yeah, drop a glass, throw a tray--anything."

Theresa bobbed her head and slipped out of the office. I stood 
there, momentarily paralyzed by the implications of what we were 
about to do. Starsky was right when he called it our "last go 
around." These were all or nothing stakes. It's one thing to risk 
your own life, but I was gambling on the lives of every man and 
woman in the restaurant as well. Including Starsky's.

"Hey, Hutch. Hey."

Weak. Breathless. But it brought me back as effectively as if he'd 
screamed. I turned and dropped back down beside him.

"Yeah."

"C'mere."

I rested my arm on his shoulder and leaned in close, not only to 
comfort him, but to hear better. "Yeah?"

Starsky wouldn't look me in the eye as he struggled to speak, and I 
could tell he was fighting his own emotions. "I was just kidding 
about the teeth."

Have you ever had someone try to strangle you? Just wrap their 
fingers around your throat and squeeze? Starsky's words choked 
the air from my lungs just like that, so it was impossible for me to 
answer. I rested my forehead against his and tightened my fingers 
on his shoulder.

Me, too, buddy. Me, too.

I felt the brush of Starsky's eyelashes against my cheek, heard him 
swallow hard. "See ya."

After a final pat, I forced myself to stand up. To move away from 
him without looking back.

Last go around.

God help us all.


~~~~~~~~~~~~
   Starsky
~~~~~~~~~~~~

"You're up next, Blondie."

Hutch glared at me from the corner of his eye. "I know the batting 
order, Starsk. You don't need to remind me."

I didn't let his snapping bother me. I knew the real problem, and it 
didn't have anything to do with me. Bottom of the ninth, one out, 
and the tying run on base. First time our humble little team from 
Metro had ever come within spittin' distance of beating the sharks 
from the South side. There was an awful lot ridin' on this ballgame, 
and we all wanted to win.

Hutch was nervous, plain and simple.

"Pitcher's losin' his edge." I pulled off my cap and swiped my arm 
across my forehead. It was hotter than hell, and I was sweating 
like a pig. "You're gonna nail one right over the fence. I can feel 
it."

He snorted a little laugh, but his shoulders were hunched around 
his ears. "I don't want to let anyone down."

You know, Hutch is usually pretty sure of himself. Whether he's 
takin' down bad guys or puttin' the moves on a pretty lady, he 
comes across relaxed and confident. But every once in a while, 
usually when a bunch of other people are depending on him, I get 
a glimpse of this other side, the one I think of as "Ken." The grown 
up kid whose dad always set the bar a little higher than he could 
jump.

I shrugged. "Way I see it, no one person can win or lose a baseball 
game. We played great today. Much as I'd love to go home the 
winners, that beer at Huggy's is gonna taste like heaven either 
way."

Moans from the guys around us and I looked up in time to see Ed 
Kelsey drop his bat and slouch back to the dugout. Let's see, that 
made it bottom of the ninth, two outs, tying run on base…

Hutch at bat.

We stared at each other for a minute and then Hutch stood and 
picked up his batting helmet. I smirked at him--sometimes I just 
can't help myself.

"Don't suppose you'd like to hear my grandma's story about how 
much pressure it takes to make a diamond, wouldja?" I waited, but 
he just gave me this blank look. I raised my eyebrows. "The Little 
Engine That Could?"

"Shut up, Starsky."

"Knock 'em dead, slugger."

I watched him take a few swings and then step up to the plate with 
that little line between his eyes that he gets whenever he's 
concentrating real hard. I saw his mouth twitch as the other team's 
players pulled back. Hutch is our best hitter and they knew it.

The first two pitches were wide and outside, and I began to think 
they were going to walk him, hoping that Tim Weiss, next in our 
line-up, would be an easier out. The pitcher proved me wrong by 
firing a fastball straight across the plate. Hutch caught a piece of 
it, but it went foul along the first base line.

"That's okay, partner, you'll get the next one!" I called, clapping 
my hands to hide my sweaty palms.

Another strike, this one with Hutch getting nothing but air, and the 
count was two and two. And then it happened. A pitch, the crack of 
the bat, and everyone was on their feet, screamin', as Hutch 
rounded first and the tying run came home. 

I watched my partner head for second base with that long, easy 
stride that makes it look like he's hardly trying. The guy in left field 
scooped up the ball and fired it at the second baseman. It was 
gonna be close. I squinted against the glare, holding my breath, as 
Hutch started to slide. Then the second baseman turned so I could 
see his face, and all the air went out of my lungs.

It was Joey. And instead of a ball in his hands, he was holding a 
gun.

I started to run, even though I could see it was already too late. 
"HUTCH! Noooo!"

Everything slowed like an instant reply. Joey brought the gun 
down until it was aimed straight at Hutch. "You're out, pig." He 
winked at me, then tightened his finger on the trigger.

"Huuuutch!"

I guess I must've tried to sit up. Next thing I knew I had a knife 
stickin' all the way through my back into my chest and I was 
gulping air like it was thick as molasses. Sweat was dripping down 
my face, and for a few minutes I was awful close to puking all over 
myself. Finally, everything settled down a bit and I remembered 
where I was--an Italian restaurant, not a baseball field. And I gotta 
tell you, I was never so damned happy to be shot and held hostage. 
Ironic, huh?

I looked around, but Hutch and Theresa were nowhere in sight. I 
wasn't sure how long I'd been sleeping, and I couldn't lift my arm 
high enough to see my watch. My eyes felt like somebody'd 
poured sand in them, and everything swam in and out of focus. For 
just a minute I panicked, thinkin' maybe it was all over. That while 
I was passed out and dreaming those two hired guns had whacked 
Monty and everyone else and then cleared out, figuring I'd bleed 
to death. I tried to tell myself I was just being silly, but I'd never 
felt so alone and helpless.

Before I could really get worked up, Hutch and Theresa burst into 
the room. They had their heads close together, talking about 
something, but I was too tired and sore to try and guess what it 
was. I listened to the sound of their voices, pathetically glad that I 
wasn't alone anymore and that Hutch hadn't picked up any extra 
holes.

"Hey, buddy. Look what I got. Huh?"

I opened my eyes, which had somehow slipped shut when I wasn't 
payin' attention. Not a good sign. Hutch seemed excited, so I 
concentrated on what he was showing me. A gun--not his Python 
and not my Beretta. But even though I didn't recognize the piece, I 
could pretty much guess what he planned to do with it.

"Last go around, huh?" I snorted--that gun looked like a peashooter 
compared to Hutch's cannon.

"Yeah. From what I understand this thing is as liable to go off in 
my face as anything."

Suddenly, without any warning, I was hit with a picture from my 
dream--Joey leveling the gun at Hutch's head, winking at me.

"You're out, pig."

How many times could Hutch go up against these guys and still 
walk away? I shoved down my fear and did what I always do when 
I can't handle my feelings. I made a joke.

"Well. You always did want an excuse to get your teeth capped."

Hutch laughed, just like I knew he would. He leaned in closer, like 
he was taking a good look at me. "You know something?"

"What?"

"You look terrible."

I understood what he was trying to do--keep my spirits up and 
make me smile. But there was a lot I thought I should say, stuff I 
wanted to talk about, which wasn't very funny. In the end I copped 
out and gave him the kind of answer I knew he expected.

"Hey. Don't let me fool you. I played Camille in high school."

Hutch smiled at me, but he had to work at it. "Yeah." Another 
touch to my shoulder and he went back into a huddle with Theresa.

I stared at them, kicking myself. "Last go around," I'd said, and we 
both knew how true that was. It had to be nearly midnight; Monty 
would be walkin' through the front door in a matter of minutes. 
One way or another, this nightmare was gonna end, and odds were 
definitely against the home team.

Hutch was walking into the middle of a war zone with a possibly 
useless gun and no back-up. So what do I tell him? That he's a 
good cop and the best friend anyone could ever ask for? That in 
spite of the battles we lose, the times it feels like we're just spinnin' 
our wheels, I wouldn't trade a day of our partnership? That knowin' 
him has made me a better person?

Nah, I just make a lame joke about capped teeth.

I never got to say goodbye to my pop. One minute he was kissing 
me, Nicky, and Ma before heading out the door to work. Next he 
was dead on a street corner, leaking more blood than I ever 
would've thought one body could hold. I know he knew I loved 
him--he was my pop. But to this day it still bugs the hell outta me 
that I never got to say it one more time.

I'd be damned if I'd let that happen to me again.

"Hey, Hutch. Hey." With all the breath it took to squeeze out the 
words, it should've been a shout, not a whisper.

"Yeah."

"C'mere."

His hand on my shoulder, solid, real. The only warm spot on my 
otherwise freezing body. "Yeah?"

All the words I meant to say dried up and stuck together in a huge 
lump somewhere between my heart and my mouth. I couldn't even 
look Hutch in the face, just stared at a spot on the wall and told 
myself I wasn't gonna embarrass myself by gettin' soapy. What 
eventually came out wasn't exactly what I'd planned.

"I was only kidding about the teeth."

Hutch leaned his head against mine, and the fingers on my 
shoulder shook. It was enough. And it was time for him to go.

I swallowed hard against the lump. "See ya."

He stood up and kind of squared his shoulders, reminding me again 
of my dream. I watched him walk back into the restaurant, wishing 
I could be sure. 

Praying I'd be right.


Chapter 8

~~~~~~~~~~~~
    Hutch
~~~~~~~~~~~~

One minute to twelve.

I walked into the dining room, hands raised and movements slow 
and easy. Hell, I knew the drill by now. This time, though, I had a 
little twist prepared for the dynamic duo. I just hoped my past 
cooperation would lull them into dropping their guard. An almost 
eerie feeling of calm settled over me, the gun a comforting weight 
tucked into my waistband. Time to put an end to this nightmare. 
Time to do something.

Theresa stood near the bar, two large metal trays in her hands. I 
could feel her eyes on me, but I carefully avoided making contact. 
I was pleased to note that although I had Iceman's complete 
attention, Joey was woolgathering, his eyes on the floor. I eased a 
hand to the small of my back and curled my fingers around the 
grip. Just like shaking hands.

Hello, friend. Don't let me down, okay?

All my senses shifted into overdrive. Smell--garlic, herbs, and 
spices from the kitchen, fear sweat from my fellow hostages. 
Hearing--the monotonous tap of a nervous foot, the rumble of 
thunder. Touch--smooth metal under my fingertips, the tickle of 
sweat down my back. And sight--a drop of tomato sauce on 
Iceman's collar, the reflected headlights of an approaching car.
 
Theresa hurled both trays to the floor, and the next thirty seconds 
passed in a blur. I automatically dropped into a shooting stance as 
Joey's gun came up, a current of air brushing my cheek as the 
bullet whizzed by my left ear. Squeezing off a round that caught 
Joey square in the chest, I dropped and rolled just in time to dodge 
Iceman's shot. I came up firing, nailing him in the shoulder, and he 
staggered, his weapon skittering out of his hand.

You could've heard a pin drop in the silence that followed. 
Keeping my eyes and my gun trained on Iceman, I crossed the 
room and crouched down beside Joey, crumpled and motionless on 
the floor. My fingers searched unsuccessfully for a pulse. The old 
man's gun had done its job.

I scooped the two guns off the floor, dropped them onto the table 
and wrapped them up in the cloth. Iceman remained frozen, bright 
red sparkling between his fingers where his hand clutched the 
wounded shoulder. I looked over at Theresa, still crouched behind 
the bar.

"Theresa! Call an emergency operator. Get the police, an 
ambulance, and a coroner's wagon down here."

She nodded and went for the phone, glancing uneasily at Iceman 
while she dialed. I could see she was shaken, but in control. With 
Iceman hurt and unarmed, I decided it was time to check on 
Starsky.

It wasn't until I stepped into the office that it all hit me. How Joey's 
bullet could've buried itself in my skull instead of the wall. How a 
wild shot, from one of their guns or my own, could've taken the 
life of Sammy, Red, or the older couple. How it was over, really 
over, and Starsky was still breathing. Pale, weak, sick as I'd ever 
seen him, but breathing. If he could just hold out a little longer...

I crouched down beside him. "It's all over, partner."

The corners of his mouth turned up and when I began to stand, he 
motioned me closer. He mumbled something, but the words were 
so slurred I couldn't make them out.

"What's that?"

He sucked in a breath of air and tried again. "I'm hungry."

Another wave of relief nearly knocked me over. I chuckled and 
patted his shoulder, blinking back the tears that blurred my vision. 
I knew he wouldn't be able to eat even if food was handed to him 
on a silver platter. But the fact that he could joke about it reassured 
me immensely.

I walked out front to wait for back-up and the ambulance. 
Everyone remained in the exact same places--still terrified, I guess. 
They looked at me like I was a cross between John Wayne and Al 
Capone. I flashed a reassuring smile as I retrieved my jacket and 
fished my handcuffs out of the pocket.

"Everything's under control now, folks. Just sit tight. We'll need to 
take statements from all of you."

I pulled Iceman to his feet and cuffed him, not bothering to be 
gentle with his injured shoulder. He grunted as I snapped them into 
place, but kept his expression blank.

"How's your partner?"

I shoved him back down into the chair. "Not good." I tipped my 
head at Joey. "But he's in better shape than yours."

I walked away, not wanting to hear anything else he might have to 
say. The faint wail of a siren sounded like music to my ears. 
Theresa came out of the kitchen, the old man and the football 
player in tow.

"Help is on the way. Is there anything else you need me to do?"

"I need to get back to my partner. Keep an eye on our friend"-- I 
hooked a thumb at Iceman--"and send the paramedics to the office 
when they get here."

The linebacker folded his arms and glared at Iceman. "I'll watch 
him. It'll be my pleasure."

I turned back toward the office, but stopped. "Theresa?"

She raised her eyebrows and kind of snapped to attention, no doubt 
expecting another order.

I smiled at her, and it struck me that it was the first time I'd done so 
since the whole mess had begun. "You did good."

She blushed, sneaking a peek at her boyfriend before answering. 
"Thanks. You didn't do so bad yourself. I suppose I'll have to 
deliver on that promise I made." When I frowned, she just laughed. 
"Ask your partner."

By the time I got back to Starsky, I guess the adrenaline rush from 
the good news had worn off. He'd started listing to the right, his 
eyes drooping shut, and the little bit of blue I could see looked 
bleary and glazed. I sat down beside him so he could lean against 
me.

"Ambulance is on the way, Starsk."

"Tired." His head sagged against my shoulder and his eyelids 
slipped all the way shut.

I didn't like the effort it was taking him just to breathe, or the 
lethargic way he answered me. "I know you are, but you've got to 
stay with me. I need to you to hold out a little longer."

He made a face, but cracked open one eye. "...bad guys?"

I couldn't understand the first part of his question, but I got the gist 
of it. "Iceman took a slug to the shoulder. I've got him cuffed, and 
Theresa's friend is keeping an eye on him. Joey's dead."

"Hazards...the job." Starsky shivered, and I tugged the coats up to 
his chin.

The sirens were closer now. Moments later the hiss of rain and the 
rumble of passing cars got louder, telling me someone had opened 
the front door. I heard a confused jumble of voices barking orders 
followed by rapid footsteps. I carefully stood, keeping a steadying 
hand on my partner so he wouldn't fall over. Starsky didn't seem to 
notice.

Two white-coated paramedics came through the doorway, their 
arms loaded with equipment. The first, a tall blonde who looked to 
be in her twenties, dropped down beside Starsky and began 
examining him. Her partner, an older man with salt-and-pepper 
hair and a nametag that read "Jack," took me by the arm and drew 
me aside.

"Connie's going to get your friend's vital signs. Can you tell me 
what happened?"

I watched the blonde take Starsky's pulse and blood pressure with 
gentle hands. "He was shot, twice. One grazed the side of his head 
and the other's still in his back."

"How long ago?"

I ran my hand through my hair and cupped the back of my neck, 
feeling completely disoriented. Had it really been less than an 
hour? It felt like a lifetime.

"About an hour, I guess. I tried to keep pressure on it, but he's lost 
an awful lot of blood."

Jack nodded and turned to Connie, but I stopped him with a hand 
on his arm. 

"At first he was in a lot of pain, but now..." I swallowed, my throat 
like sandpaper. "He can't seem to feel much of anything on his left 
side."

Connie looked up at us, and I could see concern in her dark eyes. 
"He's in hypovolemic shock, Jack. BP's 80 over 50, pulse 130 and 
thready, respiration 35 and shallow."

Jack frowned and moved to the other side of Starsky. Connie 
helped him shift my partner forward so they could look at the 
bullet wound in his back. They inspected my makeshift bandage, 
but didn't remove it. Starsky moaned a little at their poking and 
prodding, but he was too weak to really protest.

After repositioning Starsky against the couch, Jack sat back on his 
heels and looked at Connie. "Bleeding seems to have slowed. I 
think we'd best leave those cloths in place or we risk starting it up 
again. Let's get him stable enough to transport as soon as possible. 
Start an IV of saline, wide open. I'll contact Memorial and let them 
know we're on our way."

"Detective Hutchinson?"

I reluctantly tore my eyes away from my partner to focus on the 
uniformed cop who stood uncertainly in the doorway to the office. 
Evidently the Academy was now recruiting from grade schools--
the kid looked about twelve. "Yeah. Give me a minute."

"We have your gunman in custody but..."

"In a minute!" I didn't mean to bite his head off, but the look on 
Jack's face and the way he'd turned around while speaking into the 
phone had me on edge.

Junior's eyes went wide and he backed out of the office like his ass 
was on fire. I closed my eyes, pressed thumb and fingers against 
the pounding at my temples, and took a long, slow breath. When I 
opened them, Jack was standing beside me with a tight smile on 
his face.

"Connie's getting the gurney. We'll be taking your partner to 
Memorial Hospital; you can meet us there."

Uh-uh, pal. You don't get off that easily.

"I want to know how he is. Straight."

Jack chewed on his lower lip. "Straight? He's in shock. As you 
yourself said, he's lost a lot of blood waiting around for help."

Did they give all medical personnel a class on how to talk without 
saying anything?

"All right, he's in shock. But once you get some blood into him and 
they take out the bullet, he'll be all right, won't he?"

Connie pushed a gurney through the door and positioned it near 
Starsky, looking at Jack expectantly. He held up a finger in 
response, then turned back to me.

"Look, you wanted it straight, right? I don't like his current 
condition. His blood pressure is too low and his pulse is too high. 
That means serious trauma to the body, and it doesn't help that he's 
probably been shocky for the past hour without treatment. I'll feel a 
lot better when we get him to the ER."

I opened my mouth to press for a more concrete answer, but he 
raised a hand to shush me. "That being said, he's young and strong, 
and obviously a helluva fighter. If I were a betting man, I'd put my 
money on him making a full recovery."

"Jack."

The urgency in Connie's voice reached us both. I stepped back and 
watched them bundle Starsky onto the gurney, while I clenched 
hands that wanted desperately to help. As they were buckling the 
restraining strap, Starsky's eyes fluttered and his fingers moved 
restlessly. Recalling the way that hand had latched onto me earlier, 
I knew what he was searching for. I sidestepped Jack and laid my 
hand gently on Starsky's head.

"Easy, buddy. They're taking you to the hospital now. I'll be right 
behind you."

He didn't bother opening his eyes--couldn't, maybe--but his mouth 
curved. "Jus' like always."

I briefly tightened my fingers in the dark curls before stepping 
back. "Take good care of him." My voice came out rough and low.

Jack gave me an encouraging smile. "See you at Memorial."

I followed them as far as the front door, then watched through the 
window as they loaded the gurney into the ambulance. The activity 
around me was nothing more than an annoying buzz, eclipsed by 
flashing red lights blurred by a steady curtain of rain.

Hold out a little longer, Starsk. You're almost home.

"Detective?"

Junior was back, looking like a rabbit about to become roadkill. 
For the first time, I noticed that a second set of paramedics were 
treating Iceman's shoulder, Theresa and the old man were 
answering questions for another cop--probably Junior's partner, 
and Sammy, Red, and the others were talking quietly and sipping 
drinks at the bar. Dan Rossi, the coroner, walked slowly around 
Joey's sprawled body, snapping pictures. Crisis over--calm, 
efficient police work was being done. It would all be routine, 
except...

"Detective?"

I shook myself out of whatever pit I'd fallen into and faced the kid. 
"Yeah."

"Just a few questions, please?"

I love being a cop. But sometimes I really, really hate my job. I 
sighed and rolled my shoulders in a useless attempt to ease the 
aching muscles.

"Go ahead, but make it quick. I've got somewhere else I need to 
be."

~~~~~~~~~~~~
   Starsky
~~~~~~~~~~~~

Gunshots.

HUTCH!

I jerked awake, shivering like a bucket of water'd been dumped 
over me. I strained to make out what was goin' on in the dining 
room, but at first I couldn't hear a thing over the thumping of my 
heart. Three, maybe four rounds. Hutch had to have been one of 
the ones shooting.

Right?

When I finally heard his voice, I nearly keeled over from relief.

"Theresa! Call an emergency operator. Get the police, an 
ambulance, and a coroner's wagon down here."

God? If you're up there, like Ma always says? I owe ya one, big 
guy.

I thought about all the times Hutch and me have squeaked our way 
out of tight spots. It's happened more often than I like to think 
about. Sometimes I'm not sure what bothers me more--the violence 
and brutality we see every day, or the fact that it doesn't surprise us 
the way it used to. Especially Hutch.

Me, I grew up in a pretty tough neighborhood. Even before I was 
old enough to experience it myself, I saw the way my pop looked 
some nights when he came home from work. He used to say he'd 
seen just about everything possible that one human being could do 
to another.

Hutch, though, was a different story. I'm not sayin' he was naïve, 
exactly, just that he tended to always expect the best from people. 
Comes from those Midwest, farm boy roots, I guess. We both 
came outta the Academy ready to change the world. The only 
difference between us was that I had a better handle on just what 
an impossible job it was gonna be.

I'll never forget the first time Hutch got the stardust knocked outta 
his eyes...

"Hutch?"

I stuck the key back on the ledge over the door and stepped inside. 
Squinting, I tried to force my eyes to adjust from bright sunlight to 
deep shadows. I took a couple steps toward the couch, finally able 
to see an outline of Hutch sprawled on the cushions, one arm flung 
over his eyes.

"Beat it, Starsky. I told you over the phone, I'm not in the mood to 
go out tonight."

I carefully sat down on the coffee table, nudging aside empty beer 
cans lined up like tin soldiers. "See ya decided to start the party 
without me." I looked around at the drawn shades. "I'm all for 
mood lighting, but this is a little depressing, dontcha think?"

He raised the arm just enough to glare at me. "I already called Liz 
and cancelled. On the other hand, I'm sure Jackie's expecting you, 
so you'd better hit the road."

"What happened?"

"Nothing happened, what makes you think something happened? 
Can't I change my mind without getting the third degree?"

I just stared at him. I knew he'd crack, and eventually he did.

"Drop it, Starsky. I'm fine."

I snorted. "Uh-huh. I always drink alone in the dark when I'm fine. 
I'm sure you're just hunky dory."

Hutch swung his legs to the floor and sat up so he was in my face, 
our noses just inches apart. But his eyes were still avoiding mine. 
"So I had a rough day. You trying to tell me you haven't ever 
brought the job home with you? Huh?"

I didn't back off. "Nope. Just tryin' to tell you I conveniently 
happen to have two ears. And no date." When his eyebrows lifted, I 
shrugged. "I cancelled, too."

His shoulders curled and he slumped against the back of the 
couch. I watched his eyes wander over to the closet door where his 
uniform was hanging, neatly buttoned and pressed.

"I thought I knew what I was in for, you know? I mean, I've been 
around the block. I just never expected..."His voice kinda dried up 
and he shook his head.

"Talk to me."

He looked at me for a real long time without sayin' a word. I had 
to bite down hard on my tongue to keep from runnin' off at the 
mouth just to fill the emptiness I saw in his eyes. Finally, he stood 
up and walked over to the window, tugging aside the curtains so a 
little sliver of light spilled into the room.

"We got a call about a disturbance at one of those fleabag 
apartment buildings on Somerset. Landlord claimed someone was 
beating up one of his tenants. He said the girl was a hooker, and it 
was probably one of her Johns. Said she was nothing but a cheap 
little tramp and he wouldn't care what happened to her, except she 
owed him two months' rent.

"The John must've seen our squad car pull up, because he 
managed to make it out a window and down a fire escape before 
we realized what was happening. Luke told me to check on the girl 
and took off after him. Wound up chasing the guy six blocks before 
he caught him."

Hutch shook his head and made a noise that was supposed to be a 
laugh. "I walked in there thinking I was going to find a pissed off 
working girl with a couple of black eyes and a bloody nose. I never 
thought..." He swallowed hard, and I saw that the fingers holding 
the curtain were shaking.

"Dead?" I pitched my voice soft and low. I wanted to keep him 
talking, not make him clam up.

Hutch did laugh this time, a terrible, jagged sound. "You could say 
that. He cut her up, Starsk. Stabbed her four or five times and then 
slit her throat. There was so much blood..." He turned to look at 
me, his eyes wide and shiny. "It was even on the ceiling."

Somehow I got my feet under me and walked over to him. 
"Hutch..."

He kept goin' like he didn't hear me. "She was lying facedown on 
the bed in a p...puddle, a...a lake of bright red. And I knew, I knew 
she was dead. But I had to check for a pulse. So I t...turned her 
over."

He'd dropped the curtain and was rubbing the palms of both hands 
on his jeans as if he was still tryin' to wipe her blood off them. I 
wanted to shut him up, to stop him from pulling me any further into 
his nightmare, but I let him go. I'd asked for it, after all.

Hutch's voice dropped down to a whisper. "When I saw her 
face...She was just a kid, Starsk! A baby. She couldn't've been more 
than fifteen years old. Her biggest worry should have been what 
dress to wear to the prom, not..." He clenched his jaw and walked 
away. "Maybe I'm not cut out to be a cop."

"Hey. Hey!" I caught up with him and grabbed hold of his arm so 
he'd turn around. "Too late, pal. You are a cop, and a damn good 
one. One bad day ain't gonna change that."

Hutch shook off my hand. "I puked, Starsky. Right there, right in 
the middle of a crime scene. I'm not exactly high on Forensics' list 
right now."

"Ah, hell, I'm never high on their list. Last week I accidentally 
stepped on a tire track they hadn't cast yet." I started to reach for 
him again, then decided I'd better give him some space. "Look, 
don't get me wrong. I'm not tryin' to make light of what happened. 
But stuff like that--Hutch, that's why we became cops. Isn't it? So 
that the next little girl that comes along..."

"Jenny," he said quietly. "Jenny Mueller."

I nodded. "When the next Jenny comes along maybe, just maybe, 
we can do something for her before it's too late. Huh?"

He sucked in a long, slow breath and cupped the back of his neck 
with his hand. "Yeah."

I wandered back over to sit on the couch, and after a few minutes 
Hutch joined me. "Feel like eatin' something?" His horrified look 
was all the answer I needed. "Coffee?"

He hesitated, then nodded. I stood up, figuring I was in a lot better 
shape than he was. I was halfway to the kitchen when Hutch spoke.

"Hey, Starsk?"

"Yeah?"

"You stepped on a tire track?"

I let him see my middle finger, but not the smile on my face.

I heard footsteps, and then Hutch was crouched beside me. "It's all 
over partner."

I'd guessed as much, but hearing Hutch say the words made it real. 
I smiled and tried to get rid of some of the worry I could see on his 
face.

"I'm hungry."

At least, that's what I tried to say. Somehow the words came out all 
tangled together. Hutch leaned a little closer.

"What's that?"

I took a breath--which wasn't so easy since it felt like insteada 
singing, the fat lady was sittin' on my chest. "I'm hungry."

Hutch laughed, and some of the lines around his mouth 
disappeared, just like I hoped they would. He patted my shoulder 
and disappeared again. I didn't mind. The burst of energy I'd gotten 
with the good news was wearing off, and it was gettin' harder and 
harder to keep my eyelids up.

Something pressed against my side and nudged me until I was 
sitting up straight. Funny--I hadn't even noticed I was startin' to fall 
over. I cranked my eyes open just enough to see that it was Hutch.

"Ambulance is on the way, Starsk."

That's good. Wake me when they get here. Or, better yet, don't.

"Tired."

Huh. I meant to say something like, "I'm really tired, Hutch." 
Somehow only one word found the way outta my mouth. His 
shoulder was solid and warm under my cheek, and I decided it 
wouldn't hurt to just rest my eyes for a minute...

"I know you are, but you've got to stay with me. I need to you to 
hold out a little longer." 

The worry was back, full strength. I could hear it in Hutch's voice. 
Though the only thing I wanted was to let go, I held on. For Hutch.

"What happened to the bad guys?"

Damn. Even I could hardly understand myself. Fortunately, after 
four years Hutch can read me like a book. Even when the pages are 
a little out of order.

"Iceman took a slug to the shoulder. I've got him cuffed and 
Theresa's friend is keeping an eye on him. Joey's dead."

Yeah, we've come a long way from those first days in uniform. 
Still, Hutch's voice could've frozen the Sahara Desert. It just ain't 
like him to talk about shootin' people like he was discussing the 
weather. Even if they both had it comin' to them. I wanted to say 
something to reassure Hutch that he'd done the right thing. Those 
two made a living out of death, and in my book that made 'em fair 
game. But I was starting to feel cold again, and it seemed awful 
hard to make my mouth work right.

"Hazards...the job." Ours and theirs.

Hutch must've seen me shivering, because he started fussin' with 
the coats, pulling them up to my neck. It helped, but the cold I was 
feeling was like a block of ice inside me that all the blankets in the 
world couldn't touch. I leaned against him, trying to soak up as 
much of his warmth as I could while fightin' the urge to sleep. 

Guess I didn't do such a good job, 'cause the next thing I knew 
Hutch was gone and strange hands were pokin' and jabbin' at me. 
Fingers curled around my wrist, something soft squeezed my upper 
arm, and, worst of all, my eyes were pried open so they could shine 
a bright light into 'em. Felt like a knife shot straight through and 
out the back of my head.

Oh, God. Why don't you just kill me and get it over with?

Once I made the mistake of letting a pretty lady drag me to this 
artsy movie where no one spoke English. Two endless hours of 
nothin' but jabbering I couldn't make heads nor tails of. You were 
supposed to read these teeny little words at the bottom of the 
screen to understand what they were saying. I didn't know what the 
hell was goin' on the whole time.

That's exactly how I felt now. I could hear voices--could even 
recognize Hutch's in the mix. But it was just jabberin', and I 
couldn't make any sense outta it. Hands were tuggin' and pullin' at 
me until my stomach started doing sommersaults. Then, when I 
was too loopy to see it coming, they stabbed me in the arm with a 
needle that must've been at least ten inches long.

Well, that's what it felt like anyway. 

I'd just begun to slide back into sleep when the hands hoisted me 
into the air and dumped me onto some kind of bed. Okay, okay, so 
they tried to be gentle. It still doubled the pounding in my head, 
and even with my eyes closed I could feel the room spinning. For 
just a minute I worried about the fact that, despite all the 
movement, my arm and my back weren't bothering me--in fact, 
they felt kinda numb. That was my gun hand, after all, and if I 
couldn't do a simple thing like hold onto my piece, then how could 
I watch Hutch's back?

Hutch.

It's pretty hard to panic when you can't really move or open your 
eyes, but I gave it my best try. When I concentrated hard I could 
wiggle my fingers, but someone must've glued my eyelids shut 
when I wasn't lookin'. 

Then a hand touched my head. Big, warm, gentle. Hutch. I stopped 
struggling to move and listened to the rumble of his voice. And 
this time, I could understand the words.

"Easy, buddy. They're taking you to the hospital now. I'll be right 
behind you."

Kinda sums up our whole partnership. I've been told I take too 
many risks, that I tend to leap before I look. It's not like I got a 
death wish or anything, believe me. It's just that I know, without a 
doubt, that Hutch'll be right there watchin' my back. It's not so 
scary to jump when you know you've got a safety net.

I smiled--at least I think I did. "Just like always."

The bed I was strapped to started movin', and I knew Hutch wasn't 
movin' with me. There'd be business to take care of, loose ends to 
tie up. Fear started to bubble up inside of me, like a soda that's 
been shaken too hard. I was hurting and helpless, and I didn't have 
the foggiest idea what was gonna happen to me next.

"I'll be right behind you."

Hutch's voice in my head, as clear as if he'd whispered it in my ear. 
I forced myself to relax. He'd be there. Just like always.


Chapter 9

~~~~~~~~~~~~
    Hutch
~~~~~~~~~~~~

I've got a theory about hospitals. 

Between Starsky, our fellow cops, and myself, I've spent a fair 
amount of time in them. Some visits have been nothing more than 
routine but necessary treatments--stitches, knocks on the head, 
maybe a sprained muscle or a broken bone. Some have been tense, 
nerve-wracking vigils waiting for news of life or death. And some, 
like Pete Briscoe, have been a time to say good-bye.

My theory, is that while medical personnel want to treat their 
patients, they'd rather not deal with friends, relatives, and next-of-
kin while they're doing it. Who needs us hanging around, pacing 
and nagging for updates when they're trying to play God? Better 
we all went home--don't call us, we'll call you. And a hospital 
waiting room is the perfect example of the conspiracy to try and 
make that happen.

Think about it. The furniture could've been designed by the 
Marquis de Sade. You get a choice of either a molded plastic chair 
that curves in where your body curves out--and vice versa--or else 
a rock-hard couch with vinyl cushions that stick to your skin and 
squeak when you move.

Then there's the coffee. That's what they call it, anyway. I swear, 
one day I'm going to run surveillance on the person that fills the 
machine to find out what they really put in there. I've got a 
sneaking suspicion there's a large mud pit out back of every 
hospital for that very purpose. The doctors and nurses certainly 
don't drink it, they've got a stash of the good stuff in their lounge.

And if the chairs and the coffee aren't enough to get rid of you, the 
atmosphere'll drive you screaming from the building in no time. 
I'm not sure which is worse, the bright white walls that make you 
feel like you're in a giant refrigerator, or the puke green ones that 
look like... Never mind. 

And sometimes, if you're really lucky, there's piped-in Muzak so 
you can listen to watered down versions of top forty hits while 
you're sitting in the uncomfortable chair, drinking sludge and 
staring at the walls.

Of course, I've never been one to let myself be pushed into doing 
something I don't want to do. So I refused the nurses' offers to get 
me coffee, sat on the squeaky vinyl couch, and tried hard not to 
look at the walls.

Thank God, there was no music.

I glanced at the clock for the fifth time in as many minutes. Nearly 
3:00 a.m. Starsky had been in surgery for almost two hours and 
still no sign of the doctor. I tried to be optimistic, to think positive 
thoughts, but I kept seeing my partner's pale, still face as they 
wheeled him into the elevator, the red bag of blood emptying into 
his arm obscenely bright by comparison. The ER doc told me he'd 
lost almost three pints--over half the blood in his body. He never 
came out and said Starsky was lucky to be alive, but I could read it 
on his face.

I'm not good at waiting, especially when it comes to my partner's 
health. I've been terrible at it from day one, and nothing's changed. 
It's not something you can improve, like a batting average or your 
score at the shooting range. If anything, the closer Starsky and I 
have grown as friends and partners, the lower my tolerance for 
seeing him placed in danger. Not that the first time was any 
picnic...

"David Starsky--where is he?"

The nurse behind the desk stared at me as if I'd demanded to see 
the Pope. "Who?"

I curled my fingers into fists and forced myself to slow down. 
"Starsky. Detective David Starsky. He was just brought in with a 
gunshot wound to the leg."

A little frown line appeared between her eyes and she scooped up a 
clipboard. I shuffled my weight from one foot to the other and 
stifled the urge to scream as she slowly ran her finger down the 
page.

"Oh, Starsky! The cop."

I gritted my teeth. "That's right. Detective David Starsky. Where is 
he?"

"Says here he's in treatment room three." When I started down the 
hallway she barreled out from behind the counter. "Hey! Hold on! 
You can't just go wandering around. This is a hospital, not a police 
station."

I braced my hands on my hips and glared at her. "Then how about 
you give me directions..." I read the name embossed beside a 
smiley face on her uniform. "...Sheila?"

Her eyebrows plunged and one manicured finger pointed toward a 
cluster of chairs near the door. "Have a seat. The doctor will speak 
with you when he's done taking care of your friend."

"Partner." I leaned into her personal space as I growled the word. 
I've gotta give her credit, she didn't back down an inch.

"Excuse me?"

"He's my partner. He's also my best friend, and I'm listed as his 
next of kin. So if you don't mind..."

Her eyes narrowed and her mouth curved into a smile that showed 
too many teeth. "Well, why didn't you say so in the first place? 
That puts a whole different spin on things."

"Damn right it does."

I expected her to escort me to Starsky, but instead she reached 
over the counter, retrieved a second clipboard, and handed it to 
me. "Here. You need to fill out this paperwork on his medical 
history and insurance. You can sit down over there while you're 
writing."

The way I figured it, I had three options. Turn the clipboard into a 
weapon and get arrested for the assault of a mouthy nurse. Go 
hunting for Starsky myself and get picked up by hospital security. 
Or sit down where I was told and fill out the papers.

I took the coward's way out, ignoring Nurse Sheila's smug grin.

I'd just finished wading through the stack of forms when I heard 
my name called by a young, curly-haired doctor who looked like he 
hadn't slept in a week.

"Somebody named 'Hutch' here for David Starsky?"

I jumped up and crossed the room, dodging a kid with a bloody 
nose and an elderly lady shuffling along behind a walker. "That's 
me. How is he?"

Curly stuck out his hand with a smile that looked a lot more 
genuine than my pal, Sheila's. "I'm Dr. Keaton. Your partner is 
going to be fine."

All the tension rushed out of me like air from a balloon, and my 
body felt just as limp and rubbery. "Y...you're sure? There was so 
much blood."

Keaton nodded and tugged at the ends of a stethoscope slung 
around his neck. "He's lucky. The bullet missed a major artery by a 
matter of inches. I've no doubt the bleeding was profuse when it 
happened, and even a little blood looks like a lot. Still, it passed 
cleanly through the thigh without hitting bone."

"So he doesn't need surgery?"

"Nope. I cleaned out the wound and stitched him up. It's going to 
hurt like hell for a few days, but he should be back on active duty 
in a couple weeks."

I ran my hand down my face, trying to soak up the good news. 
"When can he go home?"

Keaton grimaced. "We have a difference of opinion on that point. I 
wanted Detective Starsky to spend the night for observation, but 
he's dead set against the idea." He snorted softly. "Says he'll heal a 
lot faster without people waking him up just to make sure he's 
breathing."

I grinned. "That sounds like my partner."

"I told him I'd sign the release as long as he wasn't going home to 
an empty house. He seemed to think you'd be willing to keep an eye 
on him."

I nodded, my throat tight. "It's my job."

Keaton cocked an eyebrow, mouth quirking. "And from what I can 
tell, you must have your hands full."

"You have no idea."

He chuckled. "All right, I'll get the paperwork and his meds 
together. I'm prescribing a broad-spectrum antibiotic as a 
precaution against infection, and Percocet for the pain. For the 
next two days he needs to get plenty of sleep and keep movement to 
a minimum. Between the pain and the blood loss, he's apt to be 
pretty unsteady on his feet."

"I'll sit on him if I have to," I promised. "Can I see him?"

"Absolutely. Down this hall, third door on your left. I'll be back in 
a few minutes and you two can hit the road."

I shook his hand, absurdly grateful. Though he claimed his part in 
Starsky's recovery was small, he'd given me better news than I 
could've hoped for. "Thanks, Doctor. I appreciate all you've done 
for him."

Keaton waved his hand dismissively and headed for the nurses' 
station. I barely resisted the impulse to stick my tongue out at 
Nurse Sheila as I passed her on my way down the hall.

"Starsk?" I cautiously stepped into the small room, eyes scanning 
for my partner. A drawn curtain shielded the bed from my view.

"Yeah."

I ducked around the barrier to find Starsky standing with one hand 
braced on the mattress, tugging a pair of scrub pants gingerly up 
to his waist. He tipped his head toward the corner where his jeans, 
torn and bloody, lay discarded on the floor.

"Guess that lecture Ma gave me about wearin' clean underwear 
paid off." His voice sounded as pale as his face, but he gave me a 
stiff little grin.

"How are you feeling?"

He shrugged, grimacing as he eased himself back onto the edge of 
the bed. "Tired. Sore." He hesitated. "Stupid."

Now that the worry had sunk to a manageable level, I could let the 
anger I'd squashed rise to the surface. "You didn't wait for me."

Starsky's eyes skittered over to a complicated-looking piece of 
machinery near the wall. "I thought he was gonna get out the back 
door. How was I supposed to know there were two of 'em?"

"How were you supposed to know there weren't?" I snapped. 
"Damn it, Starsky, I can't watch your back if you go charging 
ahead without telling me!"

Maybe I pushed too hard; he was hurting, after all. His temper 
kicked in and he folded his arms across his chest. "All right, all 
right! I've already admitted it was a stupid thing to do. You don't 
have to rub it in. It ain't like I'm not paying for my mistake."

Something in his words took the wind out of my sails, and I felt 
lightheaded with exhaustion and relief. "I thought you were dead."

His eyes snapped to my face and his expression softened. "For a 
minute there, so did I."

My emotions like a rollercoaster, the anger rushed back. I raised 
my finger and glared at him. "Don't you ever, ever, pull a stunt like 
that again, you hear me? You do, and you can find yourself 
another partner."

My little rant would've been impressive if my voice hadn't 
trembled. Starsky didn't get mad, and he didn't look away. "I won't. 
I promise."

If there's one thing I know about Starsky, it's that he doesn't 
promise lightly. I dropped my hand and nodded. It was enough. I 
turned, hearing Keaton in the hallway. Starsky's voice, unusually 
soft and subdued, called me back.

"Hutch?"

"Yeah."

"I'm sorry."

"Hutch?"

I startled, the hand on my shoulder like an electric charge. My head 
flew up from where it had been cradled in my hands and I blinked 
to focus bleary eyes, amazed I'd somehow managed to doze off. 
Dobey stood beside me in full office armor.

"Captain."

I made a move to get up, but he motioned for me to stay seated and 
joined me. "How's Starsky?"

I scrubbed a hand over my face and shrugged. "Still in surgery. 
The bullet lodged somewhere near his left shoulder."

Dobey shifted uneasily, his body dwarfing the plastic chair. "He's 
going to be all right, though. Isn't he?"

I let my head drop back until I was staring at the ceiling. "The doc 
thought so, but he was concerned about the blood loss. That and 
the fact that Starsky had lost feeling in his arm."

Dobey hooked a finger under his shirt collar and cleared his throat. 
"I stopped by the station. Saw them booking your man. In case 
you're interested, his name is Lockly. Tom Lockly. He started out 
on the East Coast, has a record a mile long. They think he's 
responsible for the deaths of over thirty people."

So our killer had a name. Somehow I couldn't think of him as 
anything but Iceman. Not that it mattered. All I cared about was 
what was happening behind the double doors across the room. 
When I didn't respond, Dobey kept talking.

"I know you don't want to hear this right now, but you did good 
work on this one. You managed to stop the hit on Monty without a 
single hostage getting hurt."

"Except for Starsky." I muttered the words at the ceiling, unable to 
look at him. Not wanting him to see the guilt on my face.

Something in my voice must've tipped him off anyway. "Hutch..."

"Detective Hutchinson?"

I jumped to my feet and crossed the room, ignoring a brief wave of 
dizziness as my body protested. An odd feeling of déjà vu hit me 
while I waited for Doctor Branwell to give me good news. I hoped.

Branwell pulled a green surgical cap off a head of hair so red it 
looked orange. His other hand kneaded the back of his neck as he 
looked questioningly at Dobey, who'd followed me.

"My captain," I explained. "How's Starsky?"

Branwell smiled and the fist around my heart opened. "He came 
through just fine. Fortunately the bullet stopped just short of his 
left lung, or we might be having a very different conversation. As 
it is, we removed it without incident and we're working on 
replacing the blood he lost. Barring any complications, like 
infection, he should be able to go home in two or three days."

A goofy grin took over my face before I remembered the 
numbness. "Doc, what about the feeling in his arm?"

Branwell nodded. "There was a good deal of edema surrounding 
the bullet that had compressed some nerves. Once the swelling 
goes down, he should be back to normal."

I let out a sigh that came from my toes. "Thank God. When can I 
see him?"

Branwell hesitated, gnawing on his lower lip. "He's in recovery 
right now. When I left he was just starting to come around. He's 
still pretty groggy, but I think he was asking for you." He paused 
and glanced at Dobey, then me. "It's irregular, but these are 
unusual circumstances. Considering what Detective Starsky--and 
you--have been through this evening, I guess I can give you a 
minute. Just you."

Dobey wasn't offended. "I'll take care of things at the station. After 
you see Starsky, I want you to go home and get some sleep. You 
look terrible."

I gave him a mock salute. "Yes, sir."

Branwell led me through the double doors to a curtained-off area. 
Starsky lay on his right side, eyes closed, breathing deep and even. 
I slipped my hand into his and gave it a gentle squeeze.

"Hey, buddy. Heard you were looking for me."

Dark eyelashes fluttered and his fingers tightened. He swallowed 
and mumbled my name, his voice not much more than a rough 
whisper. "Hutch?"

"Right here, Starsk."

Another swallow and his forehead creased. "Where 'm I?"

"Memorial hospital. The bullet's out, and you're going to be just 
fine." I smiled when he finally managed to wrestle his eyes open a 
bit. "Where did you think you were?"

"Hell."

I chuckled, but for some strange reason tears blurred my vision. 
"No chance of that, buddy."

"Tired."

Branwell had moved a discreet distance across the room, but I 
noticed he was looking at his watch. My cue to hit the road. I 
leaned in closer. "They're gonna kick me out, Starsk. Get some 
sleep, you've earned it."

"'Kay. You, too."

He was gone before the words left his mouth. I hovered for a 
minute longer, watching him sleep. Watching him breathe. 

Grateful that finally, finally, it was over.


~~~~~~~~~~~~
   Starsky
~~~~~~~~~~~~

Things got real jumbled up for a while. Sometimes I was 
completely out, back down the black hole. Sometimes I was 
halfway between the dark and the light, in a gray place where it felt 
like the world was runnin' at 78 rpm while I was stuck on 33. 
Words flew over my head like soap bubbles that popped whenever 
I tried to grab onto 'em. Hands lifted and lowered, poked and 
jabbed, hurt and comforted. I was hot, then cold; sleepy, then 
awake. My only clear thought through the whole nightmare was 
that I wished Hutch was there.

I remember a siren and the bed under me bumping and shaking, 
followed by bright lights and loud voices. People kept stickin' their 
faces in mine, asking me questions I couldn't understand, let alone 
answer. Another stab in the arm and things got even fuzzier. 
Someone in a white coat leaned over me, his mouth movin' a mile 
a minute. Then the hole opened and swallowed me up.

I dreamed strange dreams, mostly about when my pop was shot. 
That's a time I try real hard never to think about, 'cause even after 
all these years it hurts too much. I know how the old saying goes--
"time heals all wounds." I think that's a load of bull. Time makes 
'em scab over so you don't notice 'em so much. But they're always 
there, still raw beneath the surface, still painful if you poke them 
too hard.

I love Ma, but Pop was everything to me. He was my hero, all I 
ever wanted to be. I remember watchin' him get ready for work, 
fastening the shiny gold buttons on his uniform and slipping his 
gun into its holster. Sometimes he'd take his cap off, stick it on my 
head, and hold me up so I could see myself in the mirror. We'd 
laugh about how it fell down over my eyes and covered my ears. 
"You gotta grow into this uniform, Davey," he'd tell me, then 
laugh. "I know some cops who still don't fit into theirs."

If I was all dressed and ready for school, Ma'd let me walk with 
him as far as the corner. I'll never forget how proud I felt next to 
him, stoppin' now and then so he could say hello to Mr. Koslowski, 
who owned a bakery across the street, or old Mrs. DeBari, a widow 
with six cats and a brownstone on the corner. His big hand 
wrapped around mine made me feel safe, and I knew he made the 
people in our neighborhood feel the same way.

Every night at six o'clock sharp, I'd meet him back at the corner 
and we'd walk home together. I always wanted to hear about his 
day, every detail of what he'd done, even the boring parts. 
Sometimes he'd laugh and tell me stories about the people on his 
beat and the things that happened to them. Doris, the lady who 
lived in a cardboard box and spent all day loading a shopping cart 
with stuff she found on the streets. Jimmy, the snitch who used to 
be a rich banker on Wall Street before he developed a taste for 
cocaine. Bosco, who changed shady jobs like most people change 
clothes, one day selling hot watches out of his car, the next holding 
cock fights in an abandoned warehouse. 

Those were the good days.

Other times, when my pop's footsteps were slower and the smile 
lines were missing from around his mouth, he'd shake his head at 
my questions. "Been a hard day, Davey. Just walk with me, okay?" 
And we'd hold hands all the way home without sayin' a word. 
Sometimes when we got home, Pop wouldn't even eat dinner with 
us. He'd just disappear into the bedroom while Ma tried to pretend 
everything was okay, even though she talked too much and her 
eyes kept wandering over to the door. 

Those were the bad days.

There were mostly bad days in the weeks before Pop died. Looking 
back now, I realize it was a sign of things to come. Back then, I 
just wondered why he was becoming a stranger.

And then one day I waited on the street corner just like always, 
only he never came.

In the strangest but most real dream I had that night, Pop met me 
on the corner and walked with me again. Except this time I told 
him about the people on my beat--Fat Rollie, and Mickey, and 
Sweet Alice. He threw his head back and laughed when I described 
Huggy's money-making schemes, and he slipped his arm around 
my shoulders when I talked about George Prudholm. 

When we got to our old house Pop gave me a hug. He looked at me 
for a long time, not saying a word, just smiling. Finally, he took off 
his cap and put it on my head. And this time it didn't fall down 
around my ears. He took my face between his hands, the way he 
used to when I was a little boy. "Looks like a perfect fit, Davey. 
I'm proud of you, son."

The beeping woke me up. Loud and high-pitched, it went on and 
on right next to my ear. My mouth tasted like someone had stuffed 
it full of cotton balls and my body felt heavy and clumsy, almost 
like it didn't belong to me anymore. My brain was all hazy and 
confused, and I couldn't remember where I was or how I'd gotten 
there. I wanted to open my eyes and take a good look around me, 
but they weren't cooperating.

Even though I was mixed up, I knew I needed something.  
Whatever it was would make things better. Would understand what 
I was going through without me havin' to explain. Would take 
away the jumpy feeling in my stomach and make me feel safe. 
Would stay beside me so I wouldn't have to be alone. 

And then, like the sun shining into a dark room, I remembered 
what it was. Who it was.

"Hush."

My tongue had somehow grown too big for my mouth and my 
voice had shrunk to a wimpy little croak. I wriggled my fingers but 
only felt smooth, cool sheets under the tips. Just doing that much 
was as tiring as if I'd run five miles. I fought to keep from sliding 
back under, but sleep was like a 1000-pound weight that pressed 
me into the mattress. The beeping gradually faded until all I could 
hear was my own breaths.

Warm fingers slipped into mine and squeezed. At first I thought I 
was still dreamin', that I was back on the street corner holding my 
pop's hand. Then there were words, and a voice--not my pop's, but 
one I'd been anxious to hear.

"Hey, buddy. Heard you were looking for me."

I tried to open my eyes without much luck. Even though it seemed 
like I didn't have any spit left, I swallowed the cotton and tried to 
speak.

"Hutch?"

"Right here, Starsk."

That's terrific, Blondie, but where the hell is "here"?

As dizzy and groggy as I was, I knew where I wanted to be. Home, 
in my own bed with the comforter tucked up to my chin, all the 
lights turned off, and an old movie on the tube. A couple of times 
when I was real sick, Hutch carried the TV right into the bedroom 
so I could watch it without gettin' outta bed. Kept bringing me 
aspirin and juice when I needed it, too. He may be a big, tough 
cop, but he's real good at takin' care of you when you ain't feelin' 
so hot.

Instead of home, though, I was stuck under blinding lights with 
nothing but a skimpy sheet over me. My back throbbed, my head 
ached, and my throat felt like I'd swallowed broken glass.

"Where 'm I?"

"Memorial hospital. The bullet's out, and you're going to be just 
fine." 

I got my eyelids to cooperate and cracked 'em open a bit. Hutch's 
face was pretty blurry, but I saw him smile like I'd just done 
something amazing.

"Where did you think you were?"

"Hell." I wasn't even tryin' to be funny, but Hutch laughed. And 
somehow, that made everything hurt less.

"No chance of that, buddy."

I wanted to say more. A lot of questions were runnin' around in my 
brain. Did they find out the name of Joey's partner when they 
booked him? Was Theresa doing okay? Had anyone called Dobey? 
The crazy thing was, I couldn't get those questions to come outta 
my mouth. It was like they were trapped inside, just buzzing 
around--like a fly on a window tryin' to get back outside. It got 
harder and harder to even remember what I wanted to say.

"Tired."

Hutch moved a little closer and I realized he looked pretty ragged 
around the edges himself. "They're gonna kick me out, Starsk. Get 
some sleep, you've earned it."

What time was it anyway? Somewhere along the line I'd 
completely lost track of whether it was day or night. Come to think 
of it, I really didn't care. It was gettin' to be way too much work to 
prop my eyes open.

"'Kay. You, too."

I opened my mouth to tell Hutch it was all right. That I'd be just 
fine, so he should go and catch some z's himself and not worry 
about me.

I meant to say all those things, but I got a sneakin' suspicion I fell 
asleep instead.


Chapter 10

~~~~~~~~~~~~
    Hutch
~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Well, good morning, Detective Hutchinson. Here to rescue your 
partner from our evil clutches?"

I grinned at her--the determination and persistence of a pit bull and 
a razor sharp wit concealed by 5'4" of curves and a mane of long 
black hair. She leaned against the nurses' station, arms folded and 
eyes twinkling.

"Good morning, Nurse Chapman. I figured you might be ready for 
me to take him off your hands."

Vickie raised an eyebrow with an unladylike snort. "You have a 
gift for understatement, Detective. One more day of listening to his 
theories on what they put in the rice pudding, and I might just have 
to shoot him myself."

The slight curve of her mouth and the softness in her eyes 
contradicted her words. I'd watched the verbal sparring between 
Vickie and Starsky with amusement. It was obvious to me that 
there was a strong attraction on both sides, and I had a feeling 
Starsky would wind up getting a little "outpatient" care.

"Is he ready to go?"

Vickie smiled. "When I left him about ten minutes ago he was 
going to put some clothes on--without help, of course. He told me 
he's been dressing himself since he was three and doing just fine. 
Once I get Dr. Branwell to sign the release paperwork he'll be all 
set."

I sucked in a long breath of air and nodded. I guess the relief 
must've shown on my face, because Vickie laid a hand on my arm 
and gave it a quick pat.

"I know that fever must have been frightening in light of how weak 
he was, but considering the time lapse between the shooting and 
when David finally received treatment, it really wasn't unexpected. 
Dr. Branwell will leave him on that antibiotic for the next two 
weeks to be sure there's no reoccurrence of infection. He's also 
prescribed something to help with the pain."

Two days earlier, about twenty-four hours after his surgery, 
Starsky's temperature had suddenly gone through the roof. A 
change in medications had quickly knocked it back down, but not 
before I'd been given a good scare.

"He doesn't like the pain pills. Says they make him fuzzy," I told 
her.

Vickie rolled her eyes. "So what if they do? It's not like he's going 
to be making a speech to Congress or performing brain surgery. 
That arm is still causing him a lot of pain, pain means stress for the 
body, and stress slows the healing process. He needs to take the 
pills--no arguments."

I smirked at her. "No wonder he wants out of here. I can see the 
patented Starsky charm won't work on you."

She chuckled, the affection now unmistakable. "Oh, it works. It 
just won't get him off the hook." Her expression turned serious. 
"Keep an eye on him, Ken. It's obvious he doesn't want to admit 
just how badly he's been injured. You're going to have to be careful 
that he doesn't overdo and hurt himself."

"Don't worry. Over the last four years I've become an expert at 
watching over him." I tipped my head in the direction of Starsky's 
room. "I'd better see how he's doing."

"I'll let you know when I get the paperwork from Dr. Branwell. 
Shouldn't be long."

I touched my index finger to my forehead and headed down the 
hallway. Starsky's room was the third on the left. I rapped lightly 
on the door with my knuckles.

"Starsk? It's me."

"C'mon in."

I sensed frustration in the growled words. Nudging the door open 
with my shoulder, I slipped inside. Starsky had managed to pull on 
a pair of navy sweatpants, a white cotton tee shirt and his blue 
Adidas. He was in the process of trying to struggle back into his 
sling, grimacing and swearing under his breath.

"Hey, buddy. How 'bout I give you a hand with that?"

I'd tried to keep my tone casual, but Starsky still bristled. "I'm not 
helpless, I can do it myself."

I stepped close enough to put a hand on his shoulder. "Of course 
you can. But I'm here, so why should you?"

He stopped wrestling with the straps and looked up at me for the 
first time. I raised my eyebrows and a moment later his shoulders 
slumped. "Yeah. Okay."

Together we adjusted the sling to comfortably support his arm. By 
the time we were finished, Starsky was panting with exhaustion 
and pain. I eased him back onto the bed and he collapsed gratefully 
against the pillows.

I poured some water into a paper cup and placed it into his 
trembling fingers. "You all right?"

Gulping it down, he glared at me over the rim. "I swear, if 
someone asks me that question one more time..."

I held up my hands, palms out, and backed up to take a seat in the 
chair. Starsky set the empty cup on the tray table and swiped at his 
forehead with his arm. He looked over at me and his eyes 
narrowed.

"What's up with you?"

I had a pretty good idea what he was talking about, but I played 
dumb. "Huh?"

Starsky leaned toward me, scrutinizing me from head to toe. "You 
look like crap. I thought when you left early last night you were 
gonna go home and get some sleep."

"I did."

Well, the first part anyway. I was back at Venice Place and tucked 
into bed by 9:00. The problem was that every time I drifted off to 
sleep lately, I was plagued by nightmares where I relived the 
ordeal at Giovanni's over and over again. Except in my dreams 
things didn't turn out so well. Sometimes Starsky quietly bled to 
death in my arms. Sometimes when I fired at Joey I wound up 
killing one of the hostages instead. And sometimes Iceman and 
Joey executed Monty and then each of the rest of us, one by one. 
Starting with my partner. I'd wake up in a cold sweat, shaking like 
a leaf, and it would be a very long time before I was able to get 
back to sleep. Only to have it happen all over again.

Starsky looked at me for a long moment, and when he spoke again 
his voice was very soft. "I pretty much left you high and dry on 
this one, Hutch. I'm sorry you had to go through it alone."

His words unlocked a lot of emotions I'd managed to bury. I tried 
to respond, to brush him off with a wisecrack or a joke, but my 
throat closed up. Starsky, never one to let me off the hook, pressed 
a little harder.

"I know how worried you must've been, how scared. I gotta admit, 
I was pretty scared myself."

I closed burning eyes and turned my face away. I'd been 
determined not to let him know how much the shooting had 
affected me, to deal with it on my own. He'd gone through so 
much, and the last thing I wanted was to add my pain to his. I 
should've known I couldn't hide anything from him.

"I know you, Blondie. I know you've probably gone over that night 
a million times in your head and kicked yourself for every little 
mistake you think you made. But I want you to remember two 
things." Starsky was silent until I turned back to look at him. 
"First, I trusted you to get us out of there. And second, you didn't 
let me down."

Deep inside of me, the chunk of ice that had formed when I saw 
Starsky bleeding on the floor finally began to thaw. I mustered a 
weak smile. "I had help, you know. Without Theresa I'd've never 
gotten my hands on that gun."

Starsky shifted restlessly in search of a more comfortable position, 
but his face lit up. "Yeah, she turned out to be one tough lady. She 
dropped in after you left yesterday, to see how I was doin'. Said to 
tell you she was sorry she missed you."

A question that had been bothering me popped into my head. 
"Speaking of Theresa, what exactly did she promise you? And 
what's it got to do with me?"

Starsky's blank stare became a lopsided grin. "Let's just say once 
I'm back on my feet you're finally gonna get that veal--on the 
house."

That smile was contagious. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." The grin faded from his lips, but I could still see it in his 
eyes. "I'd say you earned it, partner. But if you'd rather stick to 
scrambled eggs, I ain't gonna argue with ya."

Never let it be said that I missed an opportunity. "Not gonna argue, 
huh? Is that a promise? Because Vickie just gave me some pretty 
strict orders for you once we get out of here."

Starsky scowled. "I can just imagine. Hutch, that lady is 
dangerous. Not only is it impossible to win an argument with her, 
she's so damn beautiful you don't care if you lose."

I'd heard a whoosh of air as Starsky was speaking and the door 
opened to reveal the lady in question, several sheets of paper and 
two amber vials in her hands. She winked at me, then turned a 
smug smile on my partner.

"Figured that out all by yourself, did you, Detective? You must 
have the crooks shaking in their boots."

Starsky rolled his eyes, but the corners of his mouth twitched. "Oh, 
God, what now? Please tell me you're here to spring me from this 
place."

Vickie put on an insincere pout. "We're all crushed you want to 
leave us so soon. We were just starting to really enjoy your 
sparkling personality."

Starsky looked at me. "See?"

Vickie walked over to hand me the papers and vials. "That's his 
meds and a list of what he can and can't do over the next week or 
so." She turned to Starsky, all the teasing gone from her 
expression. "Let him help you, David. You're not up to nearly as 
much as you think you are. I don't want to see you back here." She 
chuffed a soft laugh. "At least not that way."

Starsky blinked, thrown off balance for a minute, then turned on 
the 1000-watt grin. "You got it, sweetheart."

Vickie shook her head and walked to the door. She paused to look 
back at me. "There's a wheelchair right outside the door. He's all 
yours, Ken. Good luck. I've got a feeling you're gonna need it."

Starsky made a face and scooted to the edge of the bed. I thought 
he was going to stand up, but he just sat there and looked at me.

"Starsk? Something wrong?"

"I just... I appreciate everything you're doin' for me, Hutch. I don't 
ever want to make you think I take it for granted. And I don't want 
to take advantage of you either."

I moved over to sit beside him. "Starsk, for a while there I really 
thought I'd lost you. I'm just glad you're still around for me to 
help."

He glanced at me from the corner of his eye. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

A pause, and I could tell he was struggling to say something that 
didn't come easy. "Then can I ask you a favor?"

I sighed. "Didn't you just hear what I said? Of course you can."

He ducked his head, chin to his chest. "Could you...tie my shoes?"

For the first time my gaze dropped down to really look at his feet, 
and I mentally kicked myself. I'd been so careful to bring Starsky 
clothes that he wouldn't have to button or zip, but I'd completely 
forgotten the laces on his shoes.

Instead of answering, I simply knelt down and tied the straggling 
laces. Then I stood and stuck out my hand so he could steady 
himself as he slid off the mattress. I could tell from the way his 
body tensed that just that simple movement caused him pain, but 
he squeezed my fingers and let go.

"Thanks, Hutch."

I pulled the same trick he'd used on me earlier, not speaking until 
he looked me in the eye. "My pleasure, Starsk."

And it was. If the shooting had done nothing else, it had reminded 
me that every day is a gift. I wouldn't soon forget that lesson.

I got the wheelchair, and Starsky settled himself with a small, 
relieved grunt. We were halfway down the hallway when he spoke, 
and even though I couldn't see his face, I heard the smile.

"Hey, Hutch?"

"Yeah, Starsk."

"Remember that time you carried the television into my bedroom?"

I grinned. My pleasure.


~~~~~~~~~~~~
   Starsky
~~~~~~~~~~~~

"This has gotta be the worst slop I've ever tasted. And I'll eat 
anything--ask my partner. Who do they got workin' in the kitchen, 
Adolf Hitler?" I dragged my spoon through the soupy gray glop 
they tried to call cream of wheat and looked up at Vickie with what 
Hutch calls my "kicked puppy" face. "C'mon, Vickie. Can't you 
smuggle me a donut or a bagel?"

She finished reading something on my chart and stuck it back on 
the hook at the end of the bed. "Well, it's obvious you're feeling 
much better. I won't even try to talk to you about balanced 
nutrition because I know it would be a lost cause."

Jeez, she was gorgeous when she was sarcastic. I wondered if she'd 
be willing to give me a little one-on-one therapy when my arm was 
feeling better.

"Cold pizza?" I suggested. "Talk about nutrition--that represents all 
the major food groups."

Vickie rolled her eyes but a laugh slipped out. "You are 
impossible, you know that? Good thing you're getting out of here 
today."

I shook my head. "Admit it, darlin'. You're gonna miss me."

"Is your partner picking you up?"

Nice change of subject, sweetheart, but I won't give up so easy.

"Yeah. He should be here soon. Okay if I go ahead and get 
dressed?"

Vickie nodded. "Dr. Branwell has your release paperwork. As soon 
as he signs off you can hit the road. Here, let me help you with 
that."

She came around the side of the bed and unbuckled the straps on 
my sling. I couldn't stop myself from wincing at the sudden 
throbbing in my back and arm. I'd moaned and groaned when they 
put the thing on, but now I could see why. I supported my arm by 
hangin' onto my wrist, while Vickie carefully removed the sling 
and laid it on the bed.

She looked me up and down and frowned. "You'd better let me 
help you. Getting a shirt on over that arm isn't going to be a 
picnic."

No way, sweetheart. While gettin' naked with you might be a lotta 
fun, this ain't exactly the way I'd picture it.

"I don't think so. I've been dressin' myself since I was three years 
old. I do just fine on my own."

Vickie folded her arms. "Honey, you don't have anything I haven't 
seen before."

I tried to fold mine until my shoulder reminded me it was a bad 
idea. "Maybe you've seen the make, sweetheart, but not this 
particular model."

She laughed out loud, and I really, really wished I was in better 
shape. "You win, Detective. But if you change your mind, you 
know where to find me."

I waited until she was out the door and then slowly slid off the bed. 
My legs wobbled and little sparks danced in front of my eyes. I 
clutched at the mattress for dear life and told myself I was not 
gonna let Vickie find me passed out on the floor. After a minute I 
felt steady enough to reach for the sweat pants and tee shirt Hutch 
had brought me the night before.

Vickie was right, gettin' dressed was no picnic. My back throbbed 
and my arm ached like an animal with big, sharp teeth was doin' its 
best to gnaw it off. When I tried to bend over to slip on my pants, 
all the blood rushed outta my head and I actually did wind up 
sitting on the floor. Thank God, Hutch was smart enough not to 
bring my jeans. They're snug enough that I'd never've been able to 
haul 'em up to my waist one handed, let alone zip or snap them. 
The tee shirt was the worst. Yeah, I didn't have to mess with the 
buttons. But gettin' it up my arm and over my head hurt so bad I 
had tears in my eyes by the time I'd finished.

I shoved my feet into my shoes easily enough, but there was no 
way I could tie 'em. First of all, I'd have to bend all the way over 
just to reach them; and second, I couldn't manage the laces with 
one hand. I fished the sling off the bed and wrapped it around my 
arm, but the buckle kept slipping between my fingers until I was 
ready to scream.

Great job, Starsky. Dressing yourself since you were three, huh? 
Guess you know where that puts you right about now.

I knew all I had to do was ask for help. Why not? Was I crazy? 
One punch of a button and I'd have a beautiful woman at my 
service. A woman who'd definitely given me some vibes she was 
interested in me in more than just a professional way.

I couldn't do it.

It's always been easy for me to give help but just about impossible 
to ask for it. I guess a shrink might say it's because of the way I 
had to be strong for Ma when Pop died. Asking her for anything 
during those days was unthinkable; she could barely hold herself 
together. Even though I was hurtin', I loved her too much to burden 
her with my troubles. I had to be strong for her, for Pop.

Old habits die hard.

A knock on the door, followed by Hutch's voice. "Starsk? It's me."

Terrific.

"C'mon in."

I gritted my teeth and tugged at the buckle, only to have it twist out 
of my fingers. I called it several words I'd picked up in the army, 
not bothering to look up as Hutch walked into the room.

"Hey, buddy. How 'bout I give you a hand with that?"

See, I knew he was gonna do that. I had a pretty good idea what 
Hutch must've gone through in that restaurant, fighting for our 
lives without back-up from me, and the last thing I wanted was for 
him to think I was still useless.

"I'm not helpless, I can do it myself." It came out a lot meaner than 
I intended.

Hutch didn't mind. "Of course you can. But I'm here, so why 
should you?"

The fact that he didn't get mad even though I deserved it just made 
me feel worse. And he was right. What was the point to me killin' 
myself when he was right there? I gave in, but it didn't feel good.

"Yeah. Okay."

It was disgusting how easy the sling went on with two hands. I let 
Hutch buckle me up, help me back onto the bed, and fluff my 
pillows. By then I was panting like I'd run a marathon, and I hurt 
bad enough to take one of Vickie's happy pills. 

Hutch handed me a cup of water. "You all right?"

I was so damn tired of being an invalid. Of people stickin' me with 
needles and taking my blood pressure and making me eat stuff I 
wouldn't feed my dog--if I had one. And I was sick to death of the 
questions.

"How are you feeling today, Detective Starsky?"

"Are you in much pain, Detective Starsky?"

"Can you wiggle your fingers for me, Detective Starsky?"

"Are you all right, Detective Starsky?"

I took a swig of the water. "I swear, if someone asks me that 
question one more time..."

Poor Hutch backed off and went to sit in the chair. I looked over at 
him, meaning to apologize, and all of a sudden I saw it. He looked 
awful. There were dark circles under his eyes and his face looked 
too pale and too thin.

"What's up with you?"

He gave me this blank look that he uses when he doesn't want to 
answer me. "Huh?"

Now I knew I was onto something. I looked a little closer. He'd 
showered and shaved, but his shirt was wrinkled and the pants had 
a rip at the bottom. Definitely not like my neatnic partner.

"You look like crap. I thought when you left early last night you 
were gonna go home and get some sleep."

"I did."

Yeah, right. He might've dragged himself home, but it sure didn't 
look like he'd gotten much sleep. I thought again about what it 
must've been like for Hutch with so many people depending on 
him. Especially me, who pretty much just laid there and bled. Oh, 
yeah--I threw a pitcher. Right.

Ever since I've known him, Hutch has been too hard on himself. 
He'll make excuses for anyone if he thinks they need it, but he'll 
never cut himself any slack. Knowing him, I figured he'd probably 
find some way to blame himself for how things went at Giovanni's. 
He shouldn't've let Lockly get the drop on him. He should've 
stopped Joey from shootin' me. He could've done something 
sooner to get me help.

All of that was bull, but that didn't mean he hadn't thought it. That 
overblown sense of responsibility is what makes him a good cop. 
It's also what sometimes makes him moody and depressed.

"I pretty much left you high and dry on this one, Hutch. I'm sorry 
you had to go through it alone."

He didn't answer me, but I could tell I was getting somewhere. So I 
kept going. "I know how worried you must've been, how scared. I 
gotta admit, I was pretty scared myself."

Now that was an understatement. There was a point when I was 
pretty sure Hutch was gonna need a new partner. But as scared as I 
felt, it was all outta my hands. I couldn't help those people--hell, I 
couldn't even help myself. I had to trust Hutch for that. And I did.

Hutch had turned away from me, a sure sign I'd struck a nerve. 

"I know you, Blondie. I know you've probably gone over that night 
a million times in your head and kicked yourself for every little 
mistake you think you made. But I want you to remember two 
things." I waited, forcing him to look at me before I'd finish. "First, 
I trusted you to get us out of there. And second, you didn't let me 
down."

I've got a mouth on me, and I've stuck my foot in it more times 
than I like to think about. But every once in a while I say the right 
thing. Hutch stopped hunching his shoulders and even smiled a 
little.

"I had help, you know. Without Theresa I'd've never gotten my 
hands on that gun."

My back was killing me. Sharp flashes of pain were shootin' all the 
way down to my fingers and changing position didn't help. At the 
mention of Theresa, though, I had to grin. What a surprise she'd 
been.

"Yeah, she turned out to be one tough lady. She dropped in after 
you left yesterday, to see how I was doin'. Said to tell you she was 
sorry she missed you."

"Speaking of Theresa, what exactly did she promise you? And 
what's it got to do with me?"

Something strange happened to me then. For a minute it was like I 
was back in the office at Giovanni's. Confused, hurting, scared... 
Theresa hadn't been the person I wanted takin' care of me, but she 
was all I had. And talking to her about Hutch helped me think of 
something other than the bullet in my shoulder and the lousy odds 
of us gettin' out alive. Just a stupid little promise of a veal dinner, 
but it was something to hang onto.

A grin snuck onto my face. "Let's just say once I'm back on my 
feet you're finally gonna get that veal--on the house."

Hutch smiled right back  "Yeah?"
 
"Yeah." It hit me again, how my stubbornness about eating Italian 
had landed us in a mess that could've cost us both our lives. "I'd 
say you earned it, partner. But if you'd rather stick to scrambled 
eggs, I ain't gonna argue with ya."

Hutch pounced on that one, started givin' me grief about how I 
should follow Vickie's orders for my convalescence. It was pretty 
clear that my Florence Nightingale had already read him the riot 
act about what I could and couldn't do once I got home. Of all the 
sneaky, underhanded...

I think I'm in love.

"I can just imagine. Hutch, that lady is dangerous. Not only is it 
impossible to win an argument with her, she's so damn beautiful 
you don't care if you lose."

Remember what I said about puttin' my foot in my mouth? Make 
that stickin' it halfway down my throat. While I was expoundin' on 
Vickie she comes waltzing into the room.

"Figured that out all by yourself, did you, Detective? You must 
have the crooks shaking in their boots."

Okay, it's official. Where else could I find a woman my equal when 
it comes to being a smart ass? We're obviously meant for each 
other. Now if only she realizes it...

"Oh, God, what now? Please tell me you're here to spring me from 
this place."

"We're all crushed you want to leave us so soon. We were just 
starting to really enjoy your sparkling personality."

I turned to Hutch, who was no help at all. In fact, he seemed to be 
enjoying himself. "See?" 

Vickie handed him some papers and a couple bottles of pills. 
"That's his meds and a list of what he can and can't do over the 
next week or so."

I was hunting for some kind of wisecrack about pushy women, but 
when she turned to look at me the smirk was missing and those big 
gray eyes had gone soft. "Let him help you, David. You're not up 
to nearly as much as you seem to think you are. I don't want to see 
you back here." She laughed and her cheeks turned pink. "At least 
not that way."

I just stared at her for a few seconds, wondering if she meant what 
I thought she meant. Then I realized I was gapin' at her like a fish, 
so I smiled. "You got it, sweetheart."

She shook her head and walked to the door, but I'd seen the corners 
of her mouth turn up. "There's a wheelchair right outside the door. 
He's all yours, Ken. Good luck. I've got a feeling you're gonna 
need it."

She was just kidding, of course, and I heard Hutch snicker. All of a 
sudden, though, it didn't seem too funny. I mean, Hutch had been 
through plenty himself the last few days. And now he was stuck 
playin' nursemaid to me.

Come to think of it, what would I have done without him? I 
couldn't even tie my damn shoes right now, and gettin' dressed had 
almost made me keel over. No way could I handle being on my 
own, that was for sure. But we'd never even discussed it. I'd just 
assumed Hutch would take care of me. And obviously so had he.

"Starsk? Something wrong?"

I had to force the words out. My chest had gotten tight and my 
eyes stung. "I just... I appreciate everything you're doin' for me, 
Hutch. I don't ever want to make you think I take it for granted. 
And I don't want to take advantage of you either."

He didn't say anything right away, just came and sat down next to 
me on the bed. "Starsk, for a while there, I really thought I'd lost 
you. I'm just glad you're still around for me to help."

I couldn't look right at him. I don't handle it well when things start 
gettin' emotional. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

It's no big deal. Just ask him.

But for me it was a big deal. It was admitting I couldn't do it alone. 
That I needed him. 

"Then can I ask you a favor?"

Hutch sighed. I still couldn't look at him, but I knew he'd have on 
that face. The one that says, "We covered this already--where were 
you?"

"Didn't you just hear what I said? Of course you can."

I stared down at my feet and those damn laces that dangled on the 
floor. "Could you...tie my shoes?"

My biggest fear was that he'd crack a joke. Hutch's sense of humor 
can be brutal sometimes, and I've had more than one girlfriend ask 
me how I put up with it. The answer is simple--he's my best friend. 
He's there for me whenever I need him, no holds barred. He'd die 
for me without thinkin' twice about it. What's a little sarcasm 
compared to that?

But this time was different. I was trusting him with something I'd 
never really given anyone before. I wasn't sure what I'd do if he 
threw it back in my face.

Hutch didn't say a word, just got down on his knees and tied my 
shoes. When he stood up he held out his hand so I could slide off 
the bed without fallin' on my face. I knew he'd hang on as long as I 
needed him, but I squeezed hard and let go.

"Thanks, Hutch."

When he didn't answer me I looked up. Huh, he learned that one 
from me. He looked me straight in the eyes and smiled.

"My pleasure, Starsk."

And just like that, it was okay. And I knew it would keep being 
okay, even though I'd hate being dependent on him for the next 
few days. We're partners, after all. It's our job.

Normally I hate the wheelchair rule. I've been known to whine and 
complain the whole way outta the hospital about how I'm not 
helpless, I've got two perfectly good legs, and so on. This time, 
though, I was awful glad to sit my sorry butt in that chair and let 
Hutch drive. All I wanted was to get home to my own place with 
my own bed. No cream of wheat, no doctors, and a television that 
actually worked.

And that reminded me...

"Hey, Hutch?"

"Yeah, Starsk." His voice sounded warm, like he was just as happy 
as me. 

Good.

"Remember that time you carried the television into my bedroom?"

Maybe I could get the hang of this asking for help stuff. Couldn't 
hurt to practice.

End


Author's note: Many, many thanks to my editors, Barb and Lisa, 
for their time and skills. You helped me make this story the best it 
could be. And my heartfelt appreciation to all of you who 
reminded me you were waiting for this one. You'll never know 
how much your encouragement meant to me.