Hold Out
A closer look at "Shootout"
By SunnyD
sunrise83@comcast.net


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 tongu