“Heart Sight”

Chapter Five

The day at the beach ended with the two of us getting soaked, after Starsky decided to try and push me into the shallow water. As much as I knew he hated getting wet, I pulled him in with me. We dried off by sitting in the dying sunlight, nursing a beer, and I described each color of the sunset as the palette of the sky changed.

Starsky’s growling stomach demanded attention, and we opted for a quick stop at The Pits. This would actually be only Starsky’s second venture into public, aside from his daily doctor’s visits. Earlier in the week, we’d made a quick stop at the station for me to sign off on some reports and compare notes with Logan and Roper, the team who had taken over the arson case for us. Starsky smiled and nodded at the numerous greeters and well-wishers, but I think he was a bit overwhelmed by the flood of noise at the station. He didn’t ask to go with me again after that.

The Pits wasn’t much quieter in the crowd or noise departments, but Starsky appeared to be comfortable enough sitting across from me in the booth, his sunglasses still on. Huggy was excited to see us out and about, and brought us both a bowl of Angie’s infamous minestrone and some soft rolls, both which Starsky attacked vigorously and had no problem getting past his still sensitive throat.

After we finished our dinners, Huggy slid in next to Starsky. He knew it was no longer our case, but he didn’t really care to start doing “business” with Logan and Roper, since he already had his share of fuzzy friends looking for handouts. Huggy had gotten word that a restaurant owner in the upscale side of Venice had been getting hit up for protection money, but he didn’t want to play the game. Threats had been made against the restaurateur’s wife and teenage daughter, and the situation was about to get ugly if he didn’t cooperate. Word had it that the owner was about to do something desperate, so Logan and Roper would have to get to him soon if they had any hope of getting his cooperation in nailing the bad guys. A matchbook was tossed in my direction, providing me with the restaurant’s name and address. I was surprised that I knew the place. I had actually taken Caroline, my latest interest, there. It was quite a place, with an intimate dining room on the second floor, surrounded by floor-to-ceiling windowpanes right off the channel. Needless to say, I could only afford to take the lovely lady there occasionally on a cop’s salary. Good thing Caroline was interested in me for my…uh…mind, and not my wallet.

Huggy stayed at the table with Starsky, describing the latest features of his new pinball machine, while I put in a call into the station. As it turned out, Logan was down in San Diego to attend a family wedding and wouldn’t be back until morning. Roper was logged off duty and wasn’t answering his phone.

Next, I called Dobey at home, only to get Cal. The captain and Edith were out for the evening and he was watching his sister. Cal, of course, wanted to know how Starsky was doing and asked if we could stop by some time soon. I promised we would.

After I hung up, I pulled out my notebook with the phone numbers of other detectives on the squad that might be able to check out the tip. Huggy came up and explained that he had to go take care of a minor catastrophe in the kitchen. Starsky was sitting patiently in the booth, spinning his soda glass between his hands. I knew it was a nervous gesture, but to outsiders it probably looked like he was bored.

“Hey, buddy, it looks like nobody’s around to check out Huggy’s tip. I just need another minute to track somebody down. Maybe Greisham and Mullner…”

Starsky’s hand found my arm and gave it a tug. A finger wagged back and forth between us as he hoarsed out: // We can go. //

“I’m not so sure that’s a good idea, Starsk.” I wasn’t concerned that there was going to be any trouble that night, but Starsky was vulnerable right now. I didn’t want to risk it--didn’t want to risk him. “Besides, it can probably wait until tomorrow when Logan and Roper get back.”

Starsky waved off my concern with an exhaled “phhht” and got out of the booth. With his hands in his pockets, he turned to go, hesitating long enough for me to walk up to his side, my own hand in my pocket with my elbow extended far enough to rest against his back, guiding him. I don’t remember how or when in the last week we had devised this position, but it worked for both of us. I remained in contact with him, which made me feel better; and he retained his freedom and sense of independence, which made him feel better.

I think he could feel my tension as we left the bar, and so, as we approached the Torino, Starsky turned and extended his hand and roughed out: // Keys? //

I cuffed him gently and jerked open the passenger door for him.

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We got there at closing time. In a low voice I described the place to Starsky: the entryway was cavernous; an enormous chandelier hung high overhead; the staircase, an architect’s masterpiece of mahogany and wrought iron, was open on both sides as well as underneath, sweeping into the parlor. I’m sure Starsky would spend some time chewing on how they accomplished this without additional supports under it. I made a mental note to bring him back here when he could…later. To either side were large archways, the one to the right leading to a bistro open for the lunch crowd, and to the left leading to a wine shop that featured the restaurant’s own label. We ascended the stairs, Starsky keeping light contact with me by his elbow resting against my back and his other hand on the rail. Fortunately, the grand staircase was wide enough for four people to walk abreast. The landing swept up to either side of an archway leading to the main dinning room, and ended at the parlor bathrooms. The dining room was as I remembered it, with a quiet elegance. Lights from the neighboring boat landings danced on the water. The last patrons were leaving just as we entered the dining room. We asked to speak to the owner, and I’m sure by the expression on his face as he approached us, he thought we were representatives of the extortionists. We both flashed our badges, Starsky doing a great job of playing the strong, silent type, never letting on about his current condition.

I laid out a plan of police involvement and protection, guaranteeing the safety of his family. The owner, a Bernard Matowski, ranted and raved, stating all the injustices he faced, having to disrupt his entire life and livelihood, both from the thugs and the cops. Just when I was about at the end of my patience with the animated little man, I realized how quiet the room had become. All the diners had left earlier, but now there was no one there but the three of us--no chefs, no wait staff, nobody. The owner’s tirade quieted as well, as Starsky’s head swung around the room, listening, then turned to me expectantly.

“What’s going on?” I growled.

“Maurice? Phillipe?” The restaurateur crossed over to the swinging doors that led to the kitchen. Rather than the doors swinging out, they swung back in, followed by three very large, very menacing, very ugly types.

“I’m sorry we’re closed.” Matowski’s voice quivered as he spoke.

“Yeah, we know. We locked the door behind us.” The first man ground out. “Mr. DiAngelo sends his greetings.”

The restaurant owner glanced at Starsky and me nervously, as if expecting us to arrest them on sight. I put out a restraining hand to warn him to keep his mouth closed, not to expose us. I’ll give him credit: he kept his cool. The smaller man turned back to the flunkies. “I told you before, I’m not going to give you any money. Not one red cent!”

I think having us there gave Matowski a false sense of bravado. His voice wavered a bit as he yelled. False or not, too bad it didn’t last longer.

The first thug pursed his lips and adjusted the lapels of his jacket, then turned to leave with the other two in tow. “Suit yourself. I’ll let your daughter know her daddy didn’t think she’s worth ‘one red cent’ right before I put a bullet in her head.”

Matowski lost it, and began screaming in our faces. “Arrest them! Shoot them! They’re going to hurt my daughter!”

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, the three men propelled themselves back down the stairwell, but I had no delusions that they were making a break for it and knew that they’d be lying in wait for us. After our hearing their threats against Matowski’s daughter, plus whatever other evidence we might have, there was no way they were going to let us out of there alive. I drew my Python, but didn’t go running after them. Starsky and I both waved off the owner’s blathering as we listened for doors opening and closing, indicating that the thugs had left. After a few moments of held breaths, we knew they hadn’t. I whispered my partner’s name and Starsky shook his head: // Nothing. They’re still with us. //

I could see Starsky’s face blanch, knowing instinctively what was going down, but not knowing what he could do to help. He immediately grabbed the owner and croaked, “Phone?”

Matowski ducked behind the relative safety of the mahogany bar that lined one wall and snatched up the phone receiver. He tried to dial the operator, but found the line dead and said as much.

These guys were no slouches and worked fast. How in the world were we going to get out of this one? I crossed over to the cowering Matowski, leading Starsky by his sleeve. Matowski looked at us strangely, but we didn’t have time to explain things. “Do you keep a gun anywhere around here?”

He nodded then scrambled to the other end of the bar. Reaching underneath past a small crate of wine, the restaurateur pulled out a lock box. “I kept it around for after we had all those blackouts a few years back.”

He sat the box down on the bar top and looked at us. “Well, open it,” I hissed.

“I lost the key some time ago.”

Starsky snorted in disgust. I took the butt end of the Python and broke off the cheap lock with one quick strike. Matowski opened the case and pulled out a small caliber pistol and a handful of bullets. He offered them to me expectantly.

I looked back at him in disbelief. “Well, load it!”

“I don’t know how. I…I’ve never fired a gun in my life.”

Starsky snorted again and reached out, groping for the gun and ammunition. He quickly found the owner’s outstretched hands and began loading.

“He’s blind!” Matowski turned to me, almost accusingly. “He’s a blind cop?”

“Sure. Haven’t you heard of ‘Affirmative Action’?”

He looked at me in disbelief, then looked at Starsky who had loaded the pistol in seconds flat--one of the benefits of having been in the Army was to dismantle and load your weapons. Blindfolded. Old habits die hard.

Starsky raised his eyebrows at me: // So, what’s the plan? //

I shoved Matowski behind the bar and pointed at him to crouch down and stay low. I then positioned Starsky at the end of the bar. “Listen, Starsk. I’m gonna make my way to the car and call for backup…”

Starsky interrupted me with an angry shake of his head. He tried to talk, but in his anger and urgency, his throat couldn’t handle more than a few hoarse sounds.

“C’mon, Starsk. Work with me, here. I…” I didn’t want to hurt his pride, but he knew what I was saying was true. “I can go faster by myself right now. Besides, somebody has to stay here and take care of Matowski, right?”

Starsky’s face turned to granite, knowing I was right. I understood the anger he felt at the situation and his loathing for his limitations, but it was for the best. We both knew he didn’t want to be the cause of anything that would endanger me. I could see the muscles play under his skin as he clenched his jaw, and he finally nodded.

For a second, a wave of my love for this man rolled over me. Blinded, mute and incredibly vulnerable, he’s worried about being unable to protect me, not about his own defenselessness. What would I ever do without him? I prayed I never had to find out.

I turned to the restaurant owner. “Tell me about the back stairs.”

He looked at me blankly. “The delivery stairs?”

“Where do they lead? Is it an open stairwell like the front? Is there a service elevator?”

He shook his head. “There’s a door from the kitchen to the stairwell, then they…uh…lead straight down to the main floor.”

“Elevator?”

“No.”

“Is there a door at the bottom of the stairs?”

“Yes.”

“Once you get through the door, then what?”

“It opens into a small receiving bay just off the alley.”

It sounded like a great place to set a trap, but the odds were a far sight better than going down the open stairwell in the front. I turned back to Starsky who was listening to the exchange with a scowl. He didn’t like the odds either.

“Okay, pal, here’s the layout. I’d say it’s about a thirty-six by forty-eight foot square room. You’re at the bar against the west wall. The bar ends maybe three feet from either end of the wall. On your right is the glass wall facing the south channel. Straight ahead, the room is full of maybe twenty tables, and the far wall has a couple of swinging doors that lead to the kitchen. That’s where I’m headed. On your left, about twelve feet away, is the main entry into the room.”

Starsky crouched and extended his arms, the pistol in his grip. I lined him up so that his bead was on the main entry. I then placed the wine crate on the bar top to his right. “Swing your sights toward the kitchen entry.”

He did as I instructed, bringing his extended arms to the right until they hit the crate. I pushed his arms back a bit, along with the crate, so that his aim was directly center of the double doors. “When you hit the crate, you’re dead center of the kitchen doors.”

Most people would have thought I was insane, giving my…sightless partner a gun, and maybe I was. But we never cared much what other people thought, so why start now? Starsky turned his head toward me and nodded, exhaling. We both knew it was a long shot, but our best shot. We couldn’t simply just sit there, waiting for the bad guys to come flush us out.

“Okay, then. I’ll slip on down, call for the cavalry, then be back in five minutes, okay? If anybody comes up here in the meantime…”

Starsky nodded again and I gripped his shoulder in passing. One strong hand on my arm stopped me up short before I could walk away. His hand transferred from my sleeve to a finger poking me unerringly in the chest. Starsky then jerked his head toward the door and made a low whistling sound, then raised his gun up as if pulling his shot: // When you come back, let me know it’s you! //

I smiled gratefully, even though he couldn’t see me. “I knew I kept you around for some reason.”

Starsky rolled his eyes and hunkered back down into position, his aim drawing an exact bead on where I had told him the main entryway was.

“I’ll be back in a flash.”

He nodded once and I could tell he was focusing all of his concentration on listening for any sounds coming from the other rooms. I spared a glance at Matowski, who was balled up behind the bar, his lips moving in silent prayer. I hope God heard him.

I slipped out of the dining room and into the kitchen. The room was massive, almost as large as the dining room itself, hosting multiple work surfaces, three huge refrigerator/freezers, and a gas stove the size of a pool table. I trotted past the equipment and headed for the stairs. The door had a small window at eye level, allowing the occupants to check out whoever was at the door. I moved to either side of it, trying to see as much as I could of the landing. As best as I could tell, it was clear. I gripped the knob, turning it gently, and gave the door a shove.

Nothing happened. It wouldn’t budge.

I tried the knob again. The lock was, of course, on the inside of the door, and was unlocked, so the handle turned easily. This time I gave the door a shove with my shoulder, throwing my weight against it, but it still wouldn’t move.

I scrambled across the kitchen to a stool used by one of the prep cooks and hauled it over to the door. Standing on top of it, I could look through the window to the other side of the knob. Just what I was afraid of; the bad guys had propped a two-by-four under the handle. It set diagonally, across the small landing to the wall, effectively barricading the door from the outside. I swore as I jumped down from my perch and kicked the stool. My only way out was the open stairwell in the front.

I crossed back to the double doors, calling Starsky’s name. I heard the familiar “snick” of a safety being returned, so I knew he had heard me. I quickly crossed the dining room, heading for the archway to the main stairs. “Change in plans. They’ve blocked the back door.”

Starsky stood up and looked in my direction, a scowl on his face. I knew exactly what he was thinking, because I was thinking the same thing. The odds were getting worse. I paused long enough to grip his arm.

Before descending the stairs, I took precious time to scan over the top of the railing into the lobby, looking for any man-shaped shadows. The room was unsurprisingly empty. I spent more precious seconds investigating each of the large bathrooms on either side of the landing, making sure I didn’t spend enough time in either to allow any of the uglies to sneak up the stairs and ambush me while my back was turned poking around the johns.

I stood at the top of the flight for an instant, trying to swallow down the fear rolling around in my gut. There were over thirty steps and an open banister on either side ahead of me--I would be an easy target from the entryway, bistro and wine shop. I felt like I was running a gauntlet. And I was.

I took a deep breath and threw myself down the steps, taking them two or three at a time --ala Starsky. The instant I detected movement from the bistro on my left, I gracelessly let my feet go out from under me, landing hard on my side. It was bone jarring, but it saved my life. Bullets flew overhead, exactly where I had been seconds before. I slid on my now sore hip and shoulder, my knee banging against the stairs and railing. I managed to get off a shot, though I bounced on a couple of stairs as I slid further down. My aim went wild, but it still hit the doorframe next to one of the thugs, and the wood splinters nailed him in the face, forcing him back. In hindsight, it was a crazy thing to do. I could have just as easily hit one of the metal stair rails, the shot ricocheting back into my face.

I rolled onto my back, anticipating that a second man would be lurking in the entryway, and the third was probably in the wine shop. A thug popping out of the entryway shadows with me clearly in his sights rewarded me. I got off a quick shot before he did, scrambled over the side of the banister and dropped the remaining ten or so feet. Another shot in the direction of the entryway and one toward the bistro gave me enough time to charge into the wine shop, plowing into the first shooter who was just now recovering from the blast that threw splinters into his face. As I pile drived into him, we went sprawling with me on top. It didn’t take much to subdue him, and within a minute I had him handcuffed and flat on his face. One down, two to go. I stood up from where I had planted a knee in this guy’s back when a small explosion caused me to jump. What the…?

Smoke billowed into the wine shop from the entryway, and I could already see the shadows caused by the flames dancing on the walls. I stuck my gun ahead of me as I raced to the entryway, pausing long enough to sweep the room. One of the thugs was lighting Molotov cocktails from the entryway and pitching them into the lobby. The explosion I’d heard was duplicated as the bottle smashed against the wall, whatever the flammable liquid was, was spread quickly into an inferno. The second man covering him saw me and fired, sending me back into the wine shop’s cover. They were either going to force us out the front door, making us easy targets, or let us go up with the building. The semi-conscious man on the floor began to stir.

I returned the gunfire, but all I managed to do was force them out the front door, which slammed shut behind them. I hoped they hadn’t somehow barricaded it as well.

In the meantime, the flames were beginning to grow, licking up the walls to the second floor. The thick smoke was beginning to overtake the room. I almost left the thug on the floor to fend for himself, but my conscience wouldn’t allow it. Swearing, I stuffed the Python in my belt and hauled the now struggling man to his feet. As I propelled him toward the lobby, Matowski appeared at the head of the stairs, panicked. Thank God he at least had the wherewithal to realize it was time to make our exit. He began pounding down the stairs, fear making his face a mask. But he was alone. Where was Starsky?

I dropped my grip on the prisoner and rushed toward the fleeing restaurateur, jerking him around as he went for the door. The smoke was getting thicker and causing us both to choke. “Where’s my partner?”

Matowski coughed in my face and pointed up the stairs. I gripped his arm harder and wished it was his balding little head I had in my hands. Just as I was about to propel him back into the lobby, the handcuffed man rammed into both of us, knocking me off balance as I tripped over Matowski. The thug crashed through the front door, running out into the night with Matowski following right behind him. Just as I had expected, gunfire instantly followed. Cursing, I drew my gun and rushed to the door. If nothing more, I could offer Matowski cover fire and hope for the best. Still, he was clipped in the leg, sending him to the pavement. The two hoods turned their guns on me, sending me back into the lobby, slamming the door behind me. Where were the cops? It’s not like we were in the “bad” part of town--on our beat, for crying out loud. This was Venice. Gunplay and burning buildings were not an everyday occurrence even if it was two a.m.

I bolted up the stairs, coughing as I went, fear propelling me like nothing else could. Where was Starsky? Between sounds of the gunfire and explosions, the smoke and crackling of the growing fire--he had to be terrified. I know I was.

I burst into the dining room and instantly spotted him, rooted in the same position I had left him, looking for all the world like a statue, controlled fear and tension frozen on his face. An instant of realization hit me that I hadn’t announced myself, hadn’t alerted him that I was coming in the room. Unfortunately, I didn’t realize it until after I saw his finger tighten on the trigger.

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Chapter Six