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Chapter One
“NO!”
The shout came from his bedroom, and I knew instantly that the worst had happened. Okay, not the worst. The worst would have been that all of this was permanent and I refused to consider it as a possibility.
I rushed in from the bathroom where I’d just started shaving. Starsky was sitting on the edge of his bed, the palms of his hands crammed into his eyes.
I knelt in front of him and tried to pull his hands away. He’s as strong as he is stubborn and it took me a couple of tries. “C’mon, Starsk! Take it easy—the doctor said this would happen, remember? Easy, buddy, easy…”
He finally gave in, or perhaps gave up, and let me pull his hands down into his lap. He sat with his eyes screwed shut and refused to look at me. His jaw muscles were clenched so tight I wouldn’t have been surprised to hear his molars crack.
“So, what happened? Is your vision fuzzy or do you see spots? What is it?”
Last night we had celebrated the beginning of his sight returning. A few weeks ago, we had assisted at an accident—a tanker illegally carrying LP gas had blown up, almost frying my partner. Starsky had taken a substantial blow to his head that had caused swelling and damage to the blood vessels supplying the optic nerves. As a result, small clots had formed, preventing his sight. Weeks of treatment had begun dissolving the clots, and last night, as we sat at our favorite stretch of beach, I was describing the sunset to him. I was floored when Starsky began to make out shapes and colors.
We had interrupted the dinner of the specialist treating Starsky and met him at the hospital. The doctor was pleased at the progress, but cautioned us that complete healing would take more time, and told Starsk to continue with the steroids until the next scheduled exam. He also gently explained that, as the clots dissolved, there would be periods of limited sight. It wasn’t uncommon during the healing stage for vision to be blurry or for “spots” to block portions of his sight, or, he finally told us, for sight to be eliminated completely, though only temporarily.
Apparently, this was one of those times.
Of course, all Starsky had absorbed from the doctor last night was that the medication was working and that his sight had returned, however blearily. I knew the reality of the situation and was prepared to be there for him when it came crashing in.
Starsky fell back onto the bed, and threw an arm up over his eyes.
“Come on, Starsk. Remember what the doctor said? This is to be expected and it won’t last, right?” When I got no response, I knew my initial guess was correct—great detective that I am. “You can’t see at all, can you?”
“No.” As quietly as he spoke, there was no disguising his frustration.
I sat on the bed next to him and wiped the shaving cream dripping off my jaw with a towel. Some of it had already fallen off my chin onto my jeans. “Well, it’s probably a good thing you can’t see that ugly mug of yours this morning, anyway. Does your hair always look like that when you first get up?”
I knew the pillow would be forthcoming, but I let him hit me anyway. “That was brilliant. Now you’ve got shaving cream on your pillowcase.”
Then I ducked.
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While Starsky was in the shower, I called the station. We had given Captain Dobey the good news last night from the hospital, so I figured I should update him on the latest.
Afterwards, I was frying Starsky an egg to slip between two pieces of buttered toast—which was easier for him to navigate than a plate of eggs—when I heard a thump coming from the other room followed by a curse.
“You okay?”
There was a moment of silence before a very disgusted “Yes!” was hollered back at me.
“You want some help?”
It didn’t take him as long to tell me what I could do with my offer. All the same, I turned the burner off and went back to the bedroom. Starsky was sitting on the floor, putting his jeans on. “What are you doing on the floor?”
Starsky glared in my general direction. Man. I’ll never get use to those eyes being sightless. Thank God, I won’t have to.
“What does it look like, Sherlock?”
I was about to offer a witty response when his head cocked to one side and he sniffed. “What are you burning in there?”
It’s true that when one sense is limited, the others make up for it. I sniffed as well, then made a beeline for the kitchen. “Toast!”
Well, I had remembered to turn off the burner under the eggs, but had forgotten that his lousy toaster sticks. By the time he finished dressing, the eggs were done and I was scraping the sides of the toast into the sink to get rid of the blackened part. Starsky made his way in cautiously and stood beside me. By the time I scraped away the burnt crumbs, there wasn’t much more than crust left.
“Cajun breakfast again, Hutch?”
“I keep telling you it’s a very popular form of cuisine.”
“Mm-hm.”
Okay, so he only believed me the first few times I fed him that line. I could only hope the rest of the day went better.
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So much for hope—the day went from bad to worse.
Starsky’s eyesight did come back, but only partially. His vision was blocked by spots, which he described as ‘looking through a pair of sunglasses with a black blob painted in the middle of each lens.’ He remained frustrated, and while he tried not to show it, his annoyance permeated into everything he did and said.
I stayed with him throughout the day, making calls from his apartment to help Logan and Roper. They were the team Dobey had assigned to follow up on the protection racket that almost got Starsky and me killed a few days ago. I had Huggy and every snitch I could come up with tracking down a joker named DiAngelo, who was threatening shop and restaurant owners from Venice to East LA for protection money. It was his goons that had torched a rather upscale restaurant, forcing Starsky and me to play Butch and Sundance and make a spectacular second-story jump out of an inferno. Oh, sorry. You’ve already heard that story, huh?
Anyway, I hadn’t gotten very far working off the phone and really needed to connect with a few people on the street. You typically get better results from a fink when you’re face to face. The presence of money—or muscle—just seems to get results a whole lot quicker. It was nearing happy hour, just about the time that all the good snitches come crawling out from under their rocks, and I needed to hit the streets.
I called Minnie, despite Starsky’s heated protest that he didn’t need a babysitter. I just couldn’t stand to leave him on his own, limited sight or not. Besides, I figured once Minnie got there and the two started flirting like they do—Starsky pours it on and Minnie feigns innocence, though we all know she’s eating it up—he’d lighten up a bit.
I was just heading to the door to let Minnie in when the phone rang. I changed directions to pick up the phone. “Starsky, can you get the door?”
He shot me a dirty look, but hauled himself off the sofa where he’d spent the day dozing with the stereo on. His steps were actually even more hesitant with his limited vision than when it was completely gone. After banging into his fan-back chair, he made it to the door.
I turned my back on him and grabbed up the phone. “Hutchinson.”
“Hey, Hutch, this is Roper. Logan and I have a lead on where DiAngelo and his boys are going to be in a few hours. We just got the warrant and figured you’d want to be in on the collar.”
“Terrific. When and where?”
Roper gave me the address, and since I didn’t leave any pens or paper within reach, I simply repeated it to myself a few times. I hung up and grabbed my jacket. Minnie and Starsky were already in the kitchen, throwing around innuendoes over Chinese takeout. Whatever trips your trigger, I guess.
Starsky cocked his head in my direction, trying to see me better out of his peripheral vision and failing. “Who was that?”
“Roper. He and Logan just invited me to an Extortionist Busting Party.”
Starsky was excited by the possibility of retaliation. “DiAngelo?”
“…is the guest of honor. We’re going to go pick up him along with his muscle squad.”
Starsky stood quickly. “Well, then, what are we waiting for?”
Minnie also stood and looked at me for confirmation while putting a restraining hand on Starsky’s arm. “Hang on a minute, honey. You mean to tell me you invite a girl over for dinner, then you dump her for some Italian?”
“Hey, it’s nothing personal, schweetheart, but I’m going-”
“Nowhere. Come on, Starsk, you stay here with Minnie. I promise I won’t stay at the party too late.”
“Not without me, you aren’t!”
I put my hand on Starsky’s shoulder. “Look, Starsk, its no big deal-”
“If it’s no big deal, then there’s no need for me to have to stay-”
I knew I had to get going and was losing patience. “Starsky, no. Roper and Logan will back me up, all right? I don’t need you to…”
I stopped myself, but it was too late. What I didn’t say was heard as surely as if I’d shouted it across the room. “Starsk, I didn’t…you know what I mean.”
“Yeah. No problem.”
I could have kicked myself, but instead, I turned and just walked out the door.
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It was a two-hour drive out of the city. I met Roper and Logan out in the middle of nowhere at an old stainless steel diner just off the highway. There wasn’t a whole heck of a lot out this way, just the occasional truck stop, strip club, and rest area. The locals didn’t come this far out unless they were leaving the city, so it was mostly inhabited by Las Vegas tourists and truckers en route somewhere.
I parked my car at the far end of the dirt lot behind a semi, so I wouldn’t be immediately noticed by pulling into any of the vacant slots under the diner’s large windows. I kept my head turned toward the semi as if I was admiring it for some reason. I didn’t want to take any chances of DiAngelo or his men recognizing me. I finally got to Roper’s unmarked sedan and climbed into the back seat. Logan handed me his field glasses and pointed toward the back of the diner. I focused them and could make out a dark-complexioned man in a three-piece suit seated in the back booth talking to two others across from him. “That DiAngelo?”
“None other.” Roper took the last swallow of coffee and crumpled the paper cup. “We know who the two bruisers with him are, but we weren’t sure if they were part of the three who tried to take you and Starsky out at the restaurant.”
I looked again. The sizes and coloring were similar, but I couldn’t be sure until I saw their faces. “Could be. We’ll know for sure in a minute.” I handed Logan back his binoculars. “So what’s the plan?”
Logan turned in his seat to face me. “There’s a back door dead center, just off the kitchen. Roper’ll go around and take the back, and you can cover me while I go see if Mr. DiAngelo wants some dessert before I give him his check.” Logan waved the arrest warrant with a smile.
I liked the way he thought. “Lets hope he’s a big tipper.”
Before he got out of the driver’s seat, Roper checked his weapon, then slapped his partner on the leg. There was an easy friendship between the two partners, and it naturally made me think of my own. I felt a twist of remorse in my gut and knew I’d have to make it up to Starsky when I got back.
Once Roper casually made his way around the back of the diner, Logan and I got out of the car and entered from the front door. There were booths on either side of the entrance, and only a few patrons within. As Logan went left and made a beeline for DiAngelo at the back booth, I hung back, watching the other patrons and diner staff. I didn’t want them getting in the way if there was gunfire, and I couldn’t be certain that any of them weren’t on the bad guys’ side.
Logan had his hand on his belt holster as he approached the table. “Vincent DiAngelo? Police. I have a warrant-”
He never got to finish—we’d been set up.
I think I saw the bullet tear through Logan’s side before I heard the gun go off. The room exploded around me as the two men seated with DiAngelo turned in my direction, sawed-off shot guns pulled from under the table and cradled in each of their arms. A third man stormed out of restroom, his gun drawn, looking for a target. The other patrons screamed as they opened fired in my general direction and I fell to the floor.
I popped up long enough to return fire, striking the man from the restroom high in the chest. I ducked back down and some movement to my right caught my eye. Behind the pickup counter, the short order cook had drawn a semi-automatic. As soon as Roper burst into the kitchen, the cook took him out with a shot to the chest. Above me, the back of the booth burst into splinters with another round from DiAngelo’s men, and just as I was beginning to stand to return fire, the cook turned his gun on me.
The bullet tore into my right arm, searing me clear through. The pain rippled up into my chest, as the force of the blow threw me sideways, right out the front door and down the concrete steps. The Python dropped from my hand as I fell, my arm and hand numb from the elbow down. I snatched it back up with my left and did the only thing I could do at that point—I ran like the devil was on my tail.
I heard more gunfire behind me but kept on running. Roper’s car was nearer than mine and offered immediate protection. I prayed he’d left the keys in the ignition. If he didn’t, I could at least call for backup on the radio. Logan and Roper were both down, probably dead.
I was on my own.
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I fell when I reached the far side of the sedan. Blood was pouring out of me and I was beginning to feel dizzy. My stomach was rebelling against the pain, but I knew if I gave into the luxury of vomiting or passing out right then, it would cost me my life.
More shots struck Roper’s Buick, deflating the tires and shattering the windows. If I didn’t do something fast, they’d be on me in a heartbeat.
I managed to get to my knees, and while my intent was to stand and return fire, all I could do was throw my head back against the pain and grit my teeth. The blood soaking my shirt caused it to stick against my skin, all the way to my jeans. Standing was no longer an option, so I simply raised my gun and fired blindly through the obliterated windows of Roper’s car. Before I could jerk open the passenger door to get to the radio, the world was starting to tip and spin, and I fell over onto the dirt parking lot, the dust lifting, then settling on my bloody shirt. I gave in to the need to vomit and simply lay there in a cold sweat.
It was going to be a helluva way to die.
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