Please note: This story was written purely for entertainment and is not for profit, and is not meant to trespass in any way on the holders of the rights to Starsky and Hutch.

The tall, lean, young man nervously tapped his fingers in a syncopated rhythm on the wooden arm of the chair in which he sat. One denim-clad leg bounced rapidly and incessantly. Its partner stretched out before him. Without conscious awareness, he began to hum.

The secretary who shared the office with the man stared over her half-glasses at him. She cleared her throat daintily but loudly enough for him to hear. She smiled coldly, without showing her coffee-stained dentures, when he ceased all motion and noise to look at her. "Mr. Dobey shouldn't be too much longer, Mr. Starsky. Is there something I can get for you?" she asked out of disinterested obligation.

David Starsky had no problem showing his white teeth in a lopsided grin. "Uh, no, thank you, ma'am," he replied shyly and with some embarrassment. "Do you have any idea, uh, how much longer?"

The secretary watched with fascination as the man's hands moved along with his words. He looks a little Italian, but that name sure isn't, she thought. "Mr. Dobey is speaking with headquarters in New York. Some last minute details on a story. Not much longer, I'm sure." She smiled again, this time with condescension.

Starsky rubbed his dark brown, curly hair several times and sighed before settling back in the chair to resume his near-perpetual motion. Why do I get the impression that I'm about as welcome here as a busted ant farm at a picnic?

At that moment, the door to the inner office opened abruptly and vigorously. A tall black man with a short Afro and generous amounts of extra poundage and self-confidence stepped halfway through the threshold. He squinted at the seated man. "You Starsky?" he barked.

"Yes, sir," Starsky answered with military preciseness. He stood, almost at full attention, and managed not to chuckle at the pinstripe suit that was a half-size too small or at the quick inspection. Army drill sergeant or Marine? he wondered.

Unceremoniously, the large man finger-directed Starsky into his office. Dobey smiled to himself as he watched his visitor strut, full of self-assurance, past him to stand in front of the massive mahogany desk. Good--knows the interview rules. "Have a seat," he said gruffly.

"Thank you." Starsky chose the wing chair to his right and settled in quickly.

Now on the opposite side of the desk, Dobey remained standing a few moments while he shuffled a few things around so he could study the younger man during a few unguarded moments. The interviewee wore a threadbare brown corduroy jacket with patches at the elbows, a white-in-a-former-lifetime shirt, a thin black tie out of style for five years, faded but intact Levi jeans, and cowboy boots that had lost their suede years ago. The expression on the strong facial features, Dobey decided, was one of hungry eagerness. Bet he's hungry for more than just a job, too. He coughed, effectively covering the squeal of his executive chair as he sat. He leaned back and laced his fingers across his girth. Now to break the news.

"I'm Harold Dobey, managing editor of the California edition of this rag. I, like corporate in New York, expect and demand the best. And only the best investigative pieces make it to Plainclothes International. I'm proud to say that my edition has more stories than any other in PI for the last two years." He paused to carefully consider his next words.

Starsky found himself leaning forward. He caught the rapid shift of Dobey's dark brown eyes away from him for just a moment. Shit. I don't have the job. He had to work hard to keep his body language showing interest in what the man had to say.

"I only hire the best, Starsky," Dobey continued. He withdrew a handful of mounted photographs, in both color and black and white, from an accordion file that Starsky had dropped off the day before. He fanned them out on his desk. "These are good. Damn good, as a matter of fact." Who am I fooling? This boy has a real eye. "But not what I'm looking for." Great eye, kid, but your insubordination. . .

Despite the outcome, Starsky wouldn't give up without a fight. "Mr. Dobey, I know the photographs I have in my portfolio are touristy shots and portraits, not the hard-hitting stuff like PI wants. My really good stuff, the pictures that can prove to you I can do this job and do it really good, are either classified or belong to the wire service I worked for."

"I know, son. I checked your references."

Starsky felt his heart join the knot that had just formed in the pit of his stomach. Tentatively, he asked, "Could you tell me who you talked to? Specifically?" Five to ten it was Lieutenant Corman. Or that sniveling CIA liaison Simonetti.

Dobey hesitated. He wasn't clear about the law and references, but he was tempted to tell the boy anyway, and damn the consequences. In the end, he decided not to. As a black man this high up in the corporate structure, he had to be three times as good as his white counterparts. He couldn't risk everything he'd fought to achieve, even on a gifted photographer who had a big, defiant mouth. One troublesome reporter like that on his staff was enough. "Sorry," he began before they heard the secretary's angry voice through the closed door, telling someone, "You can't go in there!"

The door opened so fast that it created a breeze strong enough to send some loose papers flying from Dobey's desk. "Try and stop me," challenged the tall blond man over his shoulder before he finally came to stop inches from the desk. "We have to talk," he shot at Dobey as he placed both hands palm down on a folder and two of Starsky's photographs.

"Hutchinson! What the hell's your problem?!" Dobey bellowed. "I'm in an interview here -"

"And I'm on a deadline," he interrupted without skipping a beat or apparent apology. "I've got the biggest story of my career so far, and there's not one photographer on this entire staff willing to take the risk to get the shots I need." On the last word, he slammed his hand on the desk and turned to the right. "Who are you?" he directed at Starsky.

Starsky had sat back in his chair in hopes of becoming invisible so he could enjoy what was surely going to be the highlight of his day. That plan no longer possible, he extended his hand to the nattily dressed big blond--hmmm, has a couple of inches and maybe ten pounds on me--who peered critically at him with intelligent, bright blue eyes. "Dave Starsky," he responded genially.

"Ken Hutchinson," the man muttered as he took the proffered hand and perfunctorily pumped it twice. At the same time, some of his tenseness and anger disappeared.

Dobey, though incensed at Hutchinson's behavior, was amazed that Hutchinson had even introduced himself, much less shake hands; social amenities never were at the top of his list when he was in a snit. What's going on here? Dobey determined his best course of action was to keep quiet and see what unfolded.

A second later, Hutchinson felt his eyes drawn to the photos on the desk. He picked up several of them, studying each carefully in turn. "You take these?" he asked, though he already knew the answer.

"Yeah," Starsky answered.

Hutchinson nodded his head approvingly. Subject matter is kind of trite and cliché, but the composition and use of light. . .extraordinary. And his camera seems to get into these people's souls. . . "Not bad, Starsky."

The photographer shrugged his shoulders. "Good enough to help pay the bills, I guess." He cleared his throat and wiggled in his chair. "I've read a couple of your articles. Nice job." Hell, they read like fiction! Couldn't put the suckers down until I was through.

Dobey smirked and snorted. If these two guys can work together, I'll be sittin' in the catbird seat. He placed his forearms on the desktop and folded his hands. "Well, gentlemen, if you're through with this mutual admiration society meeting, I have a proposition for you." His smirk deepened when he saw that he had their rapt attention. "Hutchinson, you need a shooter with moxie. Starsky, you need a job. So here's the deal. If this story of yours winds up in PI, you get a bonus," he said to Hutchinson, "just like always, but I'll add to it out of my own pocket if Starsky here doesn't knock your lights out."

Hutchinson scowled but gave a short nod in agreement.

The editor moved his head to look Starsky straight in the eye. "I'll pay you for any shots we use, at our going freelance rate. But I'll hire you, permanently, on two conditions." He paused and bounced his hands several times for effect. "One: you stay till the story is put to bed." If you can stand Hutchinson long enough to do that, you deserve my job. "And two: the story goes to PI."

Starsky couldn't believe his good fortune. At least he had a chance at a permanent job, and freelance work was always welcome. This Hutchinson guy seems to be pretty cool. I can do this, no sweat. "Deal." The entire bottom half of his face became mostly teeth.

Dobey was pleased with himself to no end. I got a feeling about these two. He forcefully sat back in his chair and waved them toward the door. "Now, get out there and do your job!" A belly laugh threatened to burst forth as he watched Starsky jump from his chair and attempt to impose some sort of order on his photos. He was surprised when Hutchinson pitched in to help.

"Hey, thanks, man," Starsky mumbled as he and Hutchinson filled the accordion file. Starsky tucked it carefully under one arm.

"No problem. Hey, Starsky, do you drink coffee?" In unison, the two men turned their backs to Dobey and headed slowly for the door.

"Does a goat make cheese?"

"What?! Goats don't make cheese, dummy." I don't think he's got both oars in the water.

"Well then, why do they call it 'goat cheese,' huh?" Starsky rolled his eyes. "Wouldn't be any goat cheese without the goat."

"It's. . .hell, never mind, Starsky." Hutchinson sighed with mild disdain. "Is that with an i or a y?"

"What? There's no i or y in 'goat -"

Hutchinson huffed. "Your name." He stopped in the threshold, with Starsky wedged in there with him.

"It's Starsky, remember?" He smiled secretly.

"Does your name end with an i or a y?" Hutchinson asked slowly and distinctly, as if he were speaking to a five-year-old who spoke English as a second language.

"A y. And hey, Blondie--is that with a' i or y?" Starsky grinned openly now, and his cobalt blue eyes shone with mischief.

Hutchinson was taken aback by the darker man's quick, brazen familiarity. A fuckin' nickname? Well, I suppose it's tit for tat… He smiled slyly. "Neither. It's with an i-e." He glared at Starsky and pushed him into the outer office. As soon as he closed the door behind them, the three of them--Hutchinson, Starsky, and the secretary--exchanged curious looks as they listened to peals of unbridled laughter coming from Dobey's inner sanctum.

After a few moments, the laughter quieted down. "Millie," Hutchinson addressed the secretary, "I'll be in the coffee shop if I get any calls, okay?" He clamped a hand on his new photographer's upper arm and steered him to the door leading to the hallway.

Starsky barely had a chance to say 'bye and thanks before the frosted glass door closed behind them.

The coffee shop was actually a restaurant named Papa Teddy's on the first floor of the steel-and-glass skyscraper that housed, among many other businesses, the Plainclothes California weekly. At two in the afternoon, that dead time between lunch and afternoon break, seating and service were not problematic.

Hutchinson pointed Starsky to a high-backed booth far from the entrance and the two tables with diners at them. Wordlessly, they walked side-by-side to it, then jostled each other for the bench facing the front door. Hutchinson frowned when Starsky won.

Before they could get situated comfortably, the waitress appeared. The short, pudgy woman stuck the eraser end of her pencil into her beehive hairdo, scratched several times, and let out a tired sigh. "Long time no see, Hutchinson. Your usual?" Wish I was your usual, she thought lasciviously when his blue eyes looked into hers.

"Just coffee. Black, no -"

"Sugar," she completed for him. "Yeah, yeah, reckon I'm all the sweet you need." She turned to his companion and finally took a close look at him. My oh my--double my pleasure. "The name's Lavelle. What'll it be for you, honey?"

Starsky blushed lightly at the waitress's seductive tone. He forced himself to smile through his embarrassment. "Coffee, with, uh, lots of sugar." He cast a sheepish, questioning glance at Hutchinson. "And, uh. . ?"

"This is business and I'm on an expense account." Who is this guy? Somehow, I don't think he was in line when they were handing out balls--or brains. Hutchinson rubbed his forehead with several fingers, in part to salve a growing headache, but mostly to cover his look of pissed-off disbelief.

Starsky grinned genuinely this time, and bounced around in his seat. "I'll have a roast beef sandwich, fries, onion rings--oh, you do have onion rings, don'tcha?"

"Yep."

"Terrific! And a bowl of chili, with extra hot sauce. You got apple pie?" Starsky, in his need for food, didn't notice the ever-widening eyes of both Hutchinson and Lavelle.

The waitress cleared the cigarette raspiness from her throat. "Honey, for you, I'll grow the damn apples. You want ice cream with that?"

Starsky's eyes brightened further. "Yeah, that'd be great. Thanks."

"Is that it, Starsky?" asked Hutchinson with condescending impatience. "I think you might have missed one or two items on the menu."

Lavelle jumped to his defense when she saw the dismayed expression on Starsky's face. "Aw, Hutchinson, leave the boy alone. He's hungry. You know, for such a good-lookin' man, you can be a real pain in the arse. It ain't like you don't have the money, even without the expense account."

Hutchinson was furious with Lavelle. She had told Starsky much more than he ever wanted him to know. But she was a valuable source of information for him, and he couldn't afford to alienate her. So, he swallowed his anger. "Lavelle," he said evenly, "make that a deluxe roast beef. And two scoops of ice cream."

The waitress puckered her scarlet lips at the blond man, then patted his cheek. "See? All the sweet you need." She looked over her shoulder and winked at the other man, who seemed dazed. "Order comin' right up, honey." She could feel two sets of roll-in-the-hay-worthy blue eyes on her as she sashayed away.

"Okay, Starsky with a y, let's get down to business," Hutchinson said without preamble.

Not the real friendly type. That and the leather jacket, silk shirt, and fancy Italian boots, I shoulda known he was rich. "Okay. So what's this big story you're workin' on?"

"Before I invest any time in telling you anything, I need to know what you can do with a camera. And if you're not a, uh, if you're willing to take a few risks."

Starsky shifted in his seat. He was beginning to understand why Dobey had set those conditions for permanent employment. Because photojournalists would do practically anything to get "the" shot, he deduced it wasn't lack of risk-taking on his colleagues' part. It was working with Hutchinson. No wonder Dobey doesn't want to go hire anybody, if they end up quittin' because of Blondie here. He was tempted to leave now, but his food bill was due. "I was in the Photography Club in high school," he said timidly.

Hutchinson closed his eyes to try to tame the rocket of irritation that had just fired off in his head. "That's not exactly what I meant, Starsky."

Starsky jumped into offensive mode. "No kiddin'. For portraits, I use a Hasselblad. For everything else, I use a Nikon 35mm SLR with a real quiet motorized film advance. I got several lenses, but I'll prob'ly use my top-of-the-line 70 to 200 zoom. I shoot black and white, and I process the film myself. If you want color, it'll cost ya extra." He stopped to take a much-needed breath and glower at the man across the table.

Hutchinson experienced a moment of shame and was about to respond when Lavelle returned with the coffee, chili, and a bottle of cayenne pepper sauce. The two men remained quiet while she flirted with them both. He fought the urge to snigger as she emptied two large apron pockets of countless sugar packets and left once more, twitching her substantial derriere at them.

Starsky spoke with soft intensity, beating Hutchinson to the punch. "And I ain't a coward. I've taken plenty of risks before, and I see no reason to stop now." What the fuck have I agreed to? His desperation kept him in the booth. He sat back and crossed his arms over his chest.

Slowly and deliberately, Hutchinson picked up his coffee cup and blew on the aromatic liquid while he gathered his thoughts. He felt this urge to apologize. One part of his brain told him he had nothing to apologize for; after all, this was business and his butt on the line. Another part of his brain insisted he beg pardon, as if not to do so would be a slap to his own face. Okay, I'll try not to piss this one off so soon. He gave his companion an ingratiating, apologetic smile. "Food's getting cold," he said cordially.

Starsky laughed through his nose and smiled in spite of himself. He opened up two packets of sugar, dumped them in the coffee, then opened and dumped another two. He couldn't hear the tiny chuckle from Hutchinson over the clank of metal against porcelain as he stirred.

"Got enough sugar there, Starsky?" Hutchinson asked with a comfortable tease in his tone.

This time, the darker man laughed openly at the subtle apology. He felt some of the tension in his body and all of the animosity in his mind fade. Maybe he's okay after all. "Reminds me of. . ." The unfinished statement lingered over the table between them.

"Reminds you of what?"

Starsky splashed a generous amount of pepper sauce in the chili. "Nothin' important."

"Tell me. I want to know." Hutchinson surprised himself when he realized he truly did want to know on a personal level.

Starsky quit stirring the chili to look at Hutchinson in guarded astonishment.

The blond man felt heat rise in his neck. "I am a reporter, after all," he said to mask the real reason.

Starsky decided to respect the other's innate curiosity. "It was the way you said that thing about the sugar. And the words were almost the same, too. Comes from a great movie that came out a few years ago."

Hutchinson searched his memory, quickly coming up with the title. "Butch Cassidy, right?"

Starsky smiled and nodded his confirmation. "And the Sundance Kid," he finished amiably in a mumble through a mouthful of spicy beef and beans.

Lavelle arrived with two heaping plates, temporarily halting further conversation. "Enjoy, honey. And if you're too full for the pie and ice cream, I got a less filling dessert in mind." She arched a penciled eyebrow at Starsky, then at Hutchinson, before she left to wait on a new customer.

Starsky rubbed his hands together in delight. "I'm starved." He slathered the fries with ketchup. "You want some?" he offered without hesitation before shoving seven or eight of them in his mouth.

Hutchinson didn't answer for several seconds as he watched in slightly unnerved awe the attack of the Starsky eating machine. He had never seen any human being eat with such ardent gusto. He couldn't decide whether to be repulsed or amused. "Uh, no, thanks. I'll just keep my fingers on this side of the table. Don't want you to mistake them for french fries," he said with mild stuffiness.

Starsky slurped another spoonful of chili. "Suit yourself." He stifled a belch. "So, you gonna tell me what this big investigation is all about, or should me and my camera hit the road?"

"All right, here it is." Hutchinson swiftly checked around them to make sure no one was within earshot.

Is this guy full of shit or what? Starsky thought. He took a big bite out of the warm sandwich.

Satisfied he could speak safely, Hutchinson shoved his coffee cup aside, leaned on the table with both arms, and closed the distance between him and his lunch guest. "About a two weeks ago, a streetwalker propositioned me. She wasn't more than 12 or 13, Starsky. Instead of partying with her, I took her to a nearby diner, bought her a meal, and got her story. She's Oriental, Korean to be exact, and said she preferred to whore rather than sew clothes. She told me her uncle sold her to some men who then put her on a ship with lots of other people, mostly young girls."

Starsky slowed his eating. He felt his stomach spin ominously, and he caught the disturbed tremor in Hutchinson's voice.

Hutchinson continued. "Some of them actually paid for their own passage, thinking this was a legit operation for immigration to the U.S. She said they were packed in crates without enough room for everyone to lie down at the same time. They were given only bread and water for the entire trip. They had two large barrels for waste, but these overflowed before they reached the coast. But she said that wasn't the worst of it." The tremor changed to a sad and angry cracking.

Starsky quit eating entirely. He began grinding his teeth. He imagined he could sense the heat from Hutchinson's tightening muscles. I don't want to hear this. But he remained silent, unable to speak.

"Not everybody made it here alive." He paused while he watched all color drain from Starsky's face. I know exactly how you feel. "So, long story short, these children are forced to work in sweatshops and live in crowded tenements. She ran away. Thinks hooking and living on the street is a big step up. She's probably right."

Starsky felt every thud of his heart in his ears. The perfectly balanced blend of beef, onion, horseradish sauce, and tomato mutated to the copper-and-iron sweetness of his fellow soldiers' blood in his mouth and nose. For a long, tormented breath, he was underneath those two bodies again as their life painted and drowned him. . . The sound of Hutchinson's soft but strident voice chased away the memory.

"The only way something this . . . reprehensible could go on in this city is one hell of a lot of corrupt officials. I'm going to bring them down, along with those fucking slave merchants. And I need pictures to put the nails in the coffin I'm gonna bury 'em in." Hutchinson, his body shaking with determination, slowly eased himself back into his seat.

Starsky coughed weakly to untwist his vocal cords. "Where and when?"

"I'm meeting with someone early this evening. She works for customs. If anything looks promising, I'll call you tonight. How can I get in touch with you?"

The darker man flipped the spoon in and out of the small amount of chili left in the bowl. "You know Giovanni's?"

"That Italian restaurant near the docks, right?" Hutchinson asked as he pulled out a brown leather-covered notepad and pen.

"Yeah. I live above it. They let me use the phone." Starsky chose not to say anything about working there in exchange for the room. He recited the number slowly, ending with, "Don't call between 6 and 8, okay? That's our busiest time."

Hutchinson's mouth curled up in a small sneer at Starsky's slip. Guy's got to work in some cheesy restaurant for a place to sleep. Can't get much lower than that. He's gonna do anything it takes to get the shots. "Got it. Some time after 8 tonight. If you don't hear from me by, oh, midnight, assume I found nothing worth looking into."

Lavelle showed up at the table, armed with a coffeepot and a message. "Hutchinson, Millie called," she began as she refilled his cup. "Said somebody called. Personal. Wouldn't say nothin' else." She looked at the remains of the meal, most of which hadn't been touched. "What's the matter, honey? Eyes bigger than your stomach, or can't you stomach Melvin's cookin'?"

Starsky gave the waitress a half-hearted smile. "Just lost my appetite, Lavelle. Could you wrap this up to go?"

"Honey, for you, I'll wrap this crap up and help ya carry it home."

A few minutes later, Hutchinson was on his way back to the office and Starsky left the building, his photo file in one hand and a sack with a fresh sandwich, fries, onion rings, a whole apple pie, and a napkin with Lavelle's phone number on it in the other.

Only significant self-control kept Hutchinson from speeding through the streets of Bay City on his way to the shipyard customs office to meet his friend. The personal phone call had been from his divorce attorney. Hutchinson had had to spend the rest of the afternoon working on a counterattack to Vanessa's latest move to strip him of all but his dirty underwear. Now he wanted somebody else to hemorrhage.

He pulled into the small parking area around the customs building and was greeted with exactly what he wanted to see: empty except for the familiar Dodge Dart. He parked his light brown Ford LTD beside it. He swore at the grating sound of the driver's side door opening and the horn blaring. Ordinarily, it didn't bother him, but he wasn't exactly thrilled about calling attention to himself or his friend in these circumstances. He slammed the door shut, and the car was quiet.

His friend, Nancy Blake, was at the top of the stairs waiting for him before he could start the climb up. She smiled in absolute delight. "Ken! It's been weeks since I've seen you! Phone calls just don't make it."

Nancy was the little sister he never had. His own sister, four years his senior, had always been self-reliant, and Hutchinson had had no one to shower his natural protectiveness on until he met Nancy. They had become instant friends when he had bloodied the nose of a fellow second grader who had been bullying the younger and much smaller girl. And they had stayed friends. Nancy, her recently widowed mother in tow, had even moved to Bay City two years ago because of Ken Hutchinson.

He took the stairs two at a time and swept the petite woman up in his arms. "Why didn't I marry you, Nance?" he asked, kissing the top of her head. He could smell the sea in her long, sienna-brown hair.

She laughed and wrinkled her nose. "Us marry? Oh, yuck! Then I'd have to ride around in those beat-up cars you adore. Sorry, Ken, but you know I won't compete with that." She grabbed his nearest hand, feeling the calluses on the fingertips rake lightly across the back of her hand. "Been playing a lot lately?"

"Yeah. This thing with Van. . ." He discovered he couldn't finish the sentence.

I think I'll wait to tell him about Billy, she thought. "What do you expect, Ken? She's from Min-ne-ap-o-lis," she said with mock horror. Happy to see the gloom dissipate as quickly as it appeared, she pulled him toward the office. "Come on, let's check the manifests. A number of ships from the Far East came in this afternoon."

An hour later, Hutchinson had narrowed the field down to two probables and five possibilities. The probables weren't due for inspection until late morning. Which gives them plenty of time to unload any illegal cargo. He asked Nancy to keep an eye on the two ships from the roof of the customs building while he made the necessary preparations for a long night on stakeout.

"Hey, Sammy, I need two lasagnas and a special," Starsky ordered as he entered the steamy, busy kitchen. He spied his pizza just coming out of the brick oven. "Oh, Mario, you're killin' me here," he proclaimed in full Brooklyn accent. "It's a masterpiece."

Mario, his red bandana and sleeveless T-shirt soaked in sweat, sliced the large pepperoni and mushroom pie in near-perfect wedges. "Every night you tell me this, paisan, and every night I make you special pizza. You think I not make you pizza pie if you no tell me this?"

Starsky snatched three plates still warm from the dishwasher. In perfect mimic of Mario's Italian accent, he replied, "Not willing to take da chance, padrone."

The older man laughed heartily and placed the tray's edge on Starsky's shoulder. "Tonight, I make you such a pizza, Michelangelo would want to sign it."

Starsky was out of the kitchen a moment later and headed for the table that had ordered the pie. He almost dropped the tray and the plates when he saw Hutchinson sitting alone and reading a menu at one of his tables. His good mood abandoned him, rapidly replaced by embarrassment then anger. Sonuvabitch! he cursed as he plastered a smile back on his face. He hurriedly served the jovial trio without missing a beat.

He took a deep breath before turning to the blond man. He fought the urge to smack the pity smile from Hutchinson's lips. "What the hell are you doin' here? You were supposed to call me," he hissed through gritted teeth.

"Good to see you, too, Starsky. I couldn't wait to call you after 8, because something may be going down tonight. I needed to eat, and this seemed the most logical place. Two birds with one stone." Hutchinson showed his teeth in a mirthless, teasing grin.

Smart-ass. "Okay. Whaddya want?"

"What's your special?" Hutchinson asked.

"Veal piccata. Comes with a salad, broccoli and carrots, spaghetti with a tomato sauce, and garlic bread."

"Sounds perfect. And I'll take a glass of the vino di casa."

Starsky nodded his receipt of the dinner order. Hope you like red with your veal, he snickered to himself. He took the menu from Hutchinson. "So whaddya want me to do?"

"Can you stay by the phone and be ready to join me fast?"

"Yeah, no problem. I can bunk out on the couch back in the office." If he's right, maybe this'll be over soon and I can look for a job somewhere else.

"Great. Now, run along," he ordered while shooing Starsky away with his hand. "I'm hungry."

The general hubbub in the restaurant covered the snap of the pencil in Starsky's hand. He shot Hutchinson a withering glare, turned on his heel, and headed for the refuge of the kitchen.

"Oh, just one more thing, waiter," Hutchinson called after him.

Starsky stopped dead in his tracks, but didn't turn around. His right hand began to curl into a fist and his shoulders to hunch.

"Make sure the wine is white."

The hand became full fist. The shoulders slumped. Cool it. You need the dough, and you can't make a scene. He walked stiffly to and through the swinging kitchen doors.

Hutchinson tried to laugh at what he just done to put Starsky in his place beneath him. When the laugh wouldn't come, he spent the next several minutes trying to figure out why. As he ate, he observed the waiter/photographer interact with his customers and the two waitresses. He unexpectedly found himself feeling pangs of jealousy at Starsky's easy and friendly way with everyone. Except him.

It was during dessert of hazelnut biscotti with a double espresso when Hutchinson finally got around to cursing the distance and wariness that money seemed to place between him and everyone in his life. And the same money that now made his divorce settlement that much more painful and contentious.

He pulled his wallet from the inner breast pocket of his jacket. His long, strong fingers grasped a single, but he stopped before he could slide it out. Shit. I treat people I don't even know better than the people around me. He choked back the lump that appeared out of nowhere in his throat. He found a five and tossed that on the table. But the generous tip didn't ease his shame at his treatment of Starsky.

By 10 p.m., Starsky had changed into a navy blue turtleneck sweater, a black shirt jacket, jeans, and his old combat boots. He plopped down on the sofa, then swung his legs around until they rested on the cushion at an angle that had his feet hanging off the edge. He opened the library book--Stegner's Angle of Repose--to its bookmark and began reading.

Soon, he realized he was reading the same paragraph over and over without an inkling of comprehension. He closed the tome with a finger keeping his place. The image of the five-dollar bill Hutchinson had left him surfaced. He couldn't decide if it had been another jab at his poverty, meant to humiliate or pity him further, or if it had been an apology of sorts. He remembered seeing Hutchinson almost slink out of the restaurant, with his head hanging down until his chin nearly touched his chest.

He ran his free hand through his hair. Benefit of the doubt, I guess. He blew out a long breath. Slipping the bookmark back into place, he closed the book and stood. He could feel impatience and excitement growing in his gut like weeds after a spring rain. He paced the room for several minutes.

Finally he could stand it no longer. He hung the camera's strap around his neck and yanked his dark watch cap over his thick hair. He stopped at the bar long enough to ask Theresa, who was conversing with her latest beau Jimmy, to tell anyone calling for him that he was on his way.

Hutchinson was feeling lucky. Thanks to the sticker Nancy had given him, security waved him on without question. He had found a place to park his car that didn't look strange or out of place. In addition, he had adequate lines of sight to the well-lit decks of both suspect ships. He had thought it was probably no coincidence that they were moored on opposite sides of the same pier. There was no moon out tonight, and there was a public phone not twenty yards away.

He checked his pocketwatch for the seventh time since arriving. 10:30. Going to be a long night. He looked up in time to see a flicker of a shadow that looked vaguely like a man near one of the ships. He blinked and squinted, but saw no further movement or deeper shadow. Hunkering down, he easily convinced himself it was paranoia and hypervigilance playing with his head.

Starsky squatted between two large wooden crates that sat on the dock separating Hutchinson's car and the Golden Dragon out of Hong Kong. Cautiously, he looked around to see if Hutchinson was giving any sort of indication that he had spotted him. Starsky sniggered in contempt when it became apparent that Hutchinson had missed him. But there was no missing Hutchinson; his fair hair stood out like a beacon against the blackness around him. You better cover up that mop of yours, Blondie, or you're gonna get made, he thought. And that car! Could be you're not as rich as I think you are. He shrugged, and turned to study the ship that supposedly had a load of parasols and other novelty paper goods.

There were two gangways leading from the boat to the dock. He figured he could get to the top undetected, but once on deck, he was sure to be noticed. And not only by the crew, but Hutchinson as well. He settled back on his heels to wait for a method and an opportunity.

The method presented itself almost immediately. His gaze hit upon a rope ladder dangling from a fairly large porthole directly in front of him, near the bow. What the hell is that doin' there? he thought before realizing he didn't care. He estimated the distance to the pier's edge, and from the edge to the rope. Maybe I can get enough of a running start. . . He sat, took off the lens cover, and waited for the opportunity.

It was close to midnight before opportunity drove up in a little red pickup truck. Its driver stopped the vehicle near the foot of the main gangplank. Starsky got back to a crouch and readied his Nikon. He began shooting when the tall, lanky man arrived at the top. Either the captain or the first mate--Starsky wasn't sure--greeted the man. Next, Starsky carefully hung his camera on his back and placed the strap between his teeth. He assumed a sprinter's take-off position, but with one hand on each crate's edge to help his start. And waited.

High-powered binoculars afforded Hutchinson a good look at the newcomer who had just boarded the ship. In one hand, the youngish man carried a thick manila folder. "Wonder what's in that?" he speculated softly. He thought the man looked familiar but couldn't immediately place the dirty-blond curly hair, the jittery body movements, the exaggerated gum-chewing. Recognition came quickly. Oh shit. Billy Desmond.

Desmond had started working at customs about six months ago. Nancy had introduced them when Hutchinson picked her up for lunch one day. She had mentioned to him in passing that Desmond had asked her out a few times. But he knew no more than that, because all he could talk about when they were together was his disintegrating marriage. Nancy, I hope for your sake he's here on legitimate business.

Without warning, angry shouts from at least four different male voices sounded from astern. The altercation drew all attention, both on and off deck, to it. Hutchinson watched while a few teeth were knocked out, or at least loosened, and one man was slugged overboard.

Starsky bolted from hiding and sprinted as fast as he could the instant he heard the argument begin. The strap clamped tightly in his teeth kept his elongated "AAAAHHHHHH!" from leaving his throat. His right boot hit the edge of the dock, then his left hit nothing. He windmilled his arms frantically while his legs continued to run. The camera bounced unmercifully against his back. He began drifting downward much sooner and faster than he had anticipated. His eyes widened when he saw how close the end of the ladder was. He leaned forward and strained to reach for a rung. He fell faster.

Until his left hand found and wrapped around the next to the bottom rung. He swung back and forth several times with his feet in the water up to the ankles before he could twist around enough to grab the rope with his right hand. He hung there, still swinging, for several moments while he sucked in needed air through his nose. Finally, rung by ropey rung, he climbed the ladder.

High school gym and army trainin' good for somethin' at last, he permitted himself to think when he reached the porthole. Mentally crossing his fingers, he pushed on the closed glass. It swung open without a hitch. In seconds, he had the camera strap out of his mouth and in one hand. He lowered the Nikon carefully until he felt it connect with the deck. Before dropping the strap, he swung the camera to one side.

"Okay, my turn," he muttered. Unconsciously, he held his breath as he wiggled the rest of the way through and fell in a semi-controlled heap a few feet to the floor. "Shit!" he cursed in a hoarse whisper when his ankle hit the edge of something hard. He unbuttoned a jacket pocket and removed the penlight he had stowed there. Three seconds--that's all I need, he thought as he turned it on.

He found he was in a small room filled with air tanks for scuba diving, lots of coiled rope, tools and torches secured to a low iron shelf, an oxyacetylene gas cylinder, and other items required for repair. The light then illuminated the door. He switched it off and reclaimed his camera. The tool of his trade once again hanging in its proper position, he grasped the door handle and turned. I am screwed if this door is locked from the other side.

The door wasn't locked. Starsky breathed his relief. He stole quick glances up and down the dusky corridor. Concluding this part of the freighter was deserted, he slid into the alleyway but kept his back against the bulkhead. As he headed aft, he pondered, Now, where would I put cargo that'd smell and talk? He knew where to start the search.

His reporter's instinct forced Hutchinson into a small adrenalin rush. Time to place the call and see what he's made of. He stopped himself just short of opening the driver's side door. He closed his eyes and exhaled audibly. He scooted to the passenger side and was out that door and to the phone in less than a minute.

He nearly hung up when the voice of a woman in obvious sexual arousal answered. "Uh, is this Giovanni's?" he asked. That horny bastard! Hope he likes this form of coitus interruptus.

"Yeah, but we just, aaaahhhh, closed."

"Put Starsky on," Hutchinson demanded. There was no immediate response from the woman, but he could hear rapid breathing and throaty moans. He blushed when he realized he was stimulated by this auditory voyeurism.

Another moan, only louder and throatier. "Not here."

All physical evidence of his own sexual excitement vanished in a blink. "WHAT?!"

"Left a while ago. Ummmmmmm. Yessss, Jih. . ."

The sound of the receiver being clumsily replaced in its cradle on the other end irritated Hutchinson's ear and sensibilities. He bit his lower lip to the point of pain. He slammed his receiver onto its hook and rammed his hands into his pants pockets to keep from destroying the phone and its booth. "Son of a bitch!" he uttered.

The shouts of the men pulling the hapless sailor out of the drink refocused Hutchinson's attention on the main issue at hand--remaining undetected. He flipped up the collar of his jacket and strode back to the car. Once settled, he pounded his fist on the dash. Dammit! I knew he wouldn't follow through! And I am royally screwed. He slouched as much as his long legs would allow. He noted that Desmond and the ship's officer were gone now.

Fine. I'll just have to rely on what I see and hear. I can still help these people and save this story. But nothing will save Starsky, if and when I ever get a hold of him.

He was able to move fast, having been assured by Larry Red Elk, an old army buddy who worked security at the docks, that most of the crews from all ships had gone ashore and wouldn't be expected back until morning. He had decided to follow his nose, figuring that the smell of human waste and rotting corpses would lead him to the illegals. And he assumed it would be the hold nearest the engine room; diesel fuel and oil would be perfect to help mask the odor.

The memory of touring a freighter with his father and little brother years ago came flooding back, making it easy to find the engine room. He felt his stomach churn acid when he caught the all-too-familiar stench of decaying human flesh. He cursed the fact that the Korean girl's story was true, and the fact that there was still a strong market for slave labor, and the fact he could do nothing to relieve these people's suffering tonight. "Soon," he murmured as he crept to the hold's watertight door.

The door was dogged with a long spike, but fortunately there was no lock. He removed the spike and worked the wheel until the door popped open by an inch. The stink accosted him, causing him to take a couple of steps away from the door. It took a few seconds for him to slip into the practice of mouth-breathing that had helped him survive the olfactory war Vietnam had raged on him. Taking the dog with him, he entered the hold and closed the door behind him.

Several low-wattage bulbs hanging from the ceiling provided the only light in the cavernous room. There were four huge metal-and-wood crates with slits for ventilation near the top, which Starsky guessed could hold twenty people comfortably, forty uncomfortably. Each crate sat in metal bins with sides about ten inches deep. Each container was also locked with a padlock and a bar across the door. He strained to hear for any signs of life.

Starsky shuddered when he made out soft breaths and whimpers. He began shooting. He was rewinding the roll when he heard the clank of the turning wheel. He slipped into the darkness to his right just as the door opened. Automatically, the photographer began breathing threw his nose again.

Three men entered. All were wearing surgical masks. Despite this, he could tell two were Oriental and one was western. The westerner, a skinny, dirty-blond man, carried a folder. He pranced to the nearest crate, took a sheet out of the folder, and held it to the wooden portion of the nearest crate until one of the Orientals stapled the paper in place. By the time Starsky had reloaded and was ready to shoot again, they were at the second container. He took pictures of them repeating the posting on the remaining crates. Then they simply left without saying one word.

Starsky listened for a lock on the door to trip closed, or another spike to dog it. Nothing he heard indicated either had happened. Now that the need for quiet breathing was gone, he opened his mouth and hyperventilated in an effort to clear the malodor that seemed to have lodged in his lungs.

He stepped into the weak light again. After taking a number of pictures of the official customs pass that the skinny white man had posted, he returned to the dark to wait for what he knew would be next.

Hutchinson fumed despite his self-satisfied excitement at being in the right place at the right time. The thrill of seeing Desmond go aboard the first suspect ship, then the second one, did little to ease his fury at Starsky. I thought he cared about this, he thought as he jotted down the time Desmond left the area. Another wuss.

He closed his tired eyes. Immediately, the scene in Giovanni's played in his head. No, it's not because of me, he insisted. It's him. Another goddamned scared pussy photographer. He reopened his eyes quickly, but the image of Starsky's formal, standoffish manner toward him persisted. He rubbed his eyes and blamed the tightness in his chest on inhaling diesel vapors.

It was going on 2 a.m. when four different men entered the cargo hold. They wore hip boots with bibs in addition to surgical masks. They brought with them large wet/dry vacuums and heavy-duty portable lights.

Starsky put his heart in the steel cage he had made during his tours in Vietnam so he could photograph the vacuuming of human waste from the floors of each crate. . .the removal of bodies in various stages of decomposition to a far corner of the compartment. . .the eyes filled with fear and terror or resigned hopelessness of those unfortunate enough to have survived the voyage.

He stopped shooting when he could no longer focus the lens.

Getting off the ship proved to be easier than he had anticipated. The clean-up crew hadn't even turned the wheel on the door, much less lock or dog it. Before leaving the hold, he announced in Vietnamese that their misery would end soon, and that they'd be free. His stage whisper was acknowledged with a few stoic sobs.

He headed forward. He had no hope of a diversion covering his exit, and he knew dawn was very close, so he wasted no time in returning to the equipment room. He hung his camera from the window and clambered out the porthole feet first. With some difficulty, he retrieved the camera and slung it behind him. His teeth bit into the strap once more.

In the predawn flatness, he could barely make out the bowline to his right. He reached for it, but it was at least a foot away. He took a deep breath and started swinging the rope ladder side to side. After the fifth full swing, he was close enough to grab the line.

The rough hemp pricked his hand in several places. He almost let go in reflex, but fear of falling overcame the pain. Once he forced himself to take a firmer hold, he released the rope ladder and swung that arm around.

He misjudged the position of the rope and missed. His body continued to swing. The weight and motion were too much for his right hand alone, and it slipped on the rope. Shit! his brain screamed.

At the last instant, his fingers curled tightly and his nails dug into the rope. He started to laugh hysterically. Whatever you do, don't look down. As he labored to stop his swinging and grasp the rope with his left hand, he looked down.

What the hell did I just tell you? Suddenly, he had both hands firmly on the line. He picked up laughing again while his hands walked their way down the rope. Once his feet were on the same plane as the dock, he swung back and forth once and let go.

He landed on his feet in a crouch. Still laughing, he took off for the safety of the crates that had hidden him earlier in the night.

A minute later, his breathing and heart rates were back to normal. He popped his head around to see if Hutchinson was still there. He grinned when he saw the blond hair peeking over the car's seat. You are gonna love these shots!

Hutchinson sank into a deeper stew when he realized the first lights of dawn were filling his car. I'm gonna find that fucker and wring his worthless neck. He was reaching for the second thermos of coffee when the passenger door opened unexpectedly. Surprise and fear revved up his pulse and halted his breathing.

Starsky jumped into the car and sat on the thermos and a few other things Hutchinson had put there. "Hey," he said in unapologetic greeting, "been here all night?"

Hutchinson recovered swiftly from the shock. "Where the hell have you been?" he asked in an urgent whisper. "You were supposed to be waiting for my call, but. . ." He paused and sniffed the air. "What is that smell? Starsky, did you fall into a vat of sh-" He stopped himself. He knew where Starsky had been. I'll be damned. Certainly can't call him a chicken. "How'd you get onboard? How'd you know which ships? Tell me you got some decent shots." As he questioned the photographer, he leaned in closer and closer, undaunted by the odor, until he was only a few inches away.

Starsky hid his triumph. "No, I didn't get 'decent' shots." He enjoyed seeing the hope evaporate from Hutchinson's face. "I got terrific shots," he boasted. "Enough to nail their coffins shut and then some. And I have my sources."

The exhausted blond man fell back against his door. "Starsky, I oughta. . .dammit, don't do that."

"What?"

"Run off on your own without telling me. I don't operate like that. I need to give you approval. You could've blown the whole story."

The angry boss-to-servant tone in Hutchinson's words sparked Starsky's own temper. "I don't need your approval, you pom-" He bit off the word before he could make things worse. "I know what I'm doin', and I didn't come close to blowin' your precious story. In fact, these photos are gonna make the story. And it might be a good idea to wear this"--he flung his wool cap at Hutchinson--"over that hair. Surprised you haven't been mistaken for a damn lighthouse." You dumb fuck, he added silently.

"We'll see."

The silence in the car loomed harsh and cheerless. Starsky cleared out everything he was sitting on. He opened the thermos and took a drink, but spat out the black, unsweetened coffee. Hutchinson tossed him a dirty look along with the cap and roughly grabbed the container from him. Each man then scrunched as close as possible to his own door in an effort to put as much space as possible between them.

The arrival of an open-bed tractor-trailer stopped their mutual contempt society meeting. This was soon followed by activity on the Japanese ship, the Kiyashi Maru.

"Permission to get out of this piece-of-crap car, sir, to shoot some pictures, sir," Starsky said, making no effort to disguise his disdain. He was out the door before Hutchinson could respond.

But Hutchinson didn't respond. He was staring through the activity at the truck and the ship while registering the fact that Starsky's comments had cut him--deeply.

As he photographed the onboard crane move two metal-and wood crates from the hold of the Japanese ship to the trailer bed, Starsky found himself thinking about Hutchinson. There was no question that the man was a pain in the butt and a control freak. I'm not a kid and I don't need him to hold my hand. 'I need to give you approval,' my ass. Yet for some reason, he hadn't punched Hutchinson's I'm-brighter-than-thou lights out. But figuring out why he hadn't could wait for another time, if at all. He had learned early on that analysis did nothing to affect reality. Trying to understand why good men died had proven an exercise in futility from the time his father had been killed on a Brooklyn street to his buddies' deaths in the jungles of Vietnam. Now he had no one to lose. And now, for the first time in several years, that didn't sit well with him.

Starsky was back in the LTD moments after finishing the roll. He pulled a Baggie marked "1200" from his front left jeans pocket. In it he placed every roll of film he had shot so far. He closed it with a twist tie and gave it to Hutchinson. Gotta start trusting him sometime. "Don't lose these, okay?"

"Okay." Hutchinson took the bag and shoved it under his seat. "They'll be safe there until you're ready to develop them."

The rumble of the tractor-trailer engine starting drew their attention. Starsky bounced in his seat. Hutchinson simply started the car, trying not to let his own thrill at the chase come through.

Traffic was still light when the truck and its tail entered the streets. Hutchinson found it easy to follow the semi and stayed four to five carlengths behind. He glanced at his companion because the bouncing had stopped.

Starsky had slumped as far down as he could in his seat and still see out the front windshield. He felt Hutchinson's eyes on him. "What?" he snapped.

"What the hell are you doing?"

"I'm ashamed to be seen in this car. So would a junkyard dog."

"Well, I'm sure you know that first-hand." Hutchinson was too busy negotiating a left turn to notice the eye daggers Starsky threw at him. "This car is perfect for stakeouts and following. Who'd notice it?"

"I would. Makes me wonder what kinda voodoo raised this pile of crud from the car cemetery." He shifted his position slightly to relieve the stress on his right knee. He turned his head so Hutchinson wouldn't see his grimace if he happened to be looking at him. "Did somebody steal your Lincoln Continental?"

Hutchinson's eyes widened. How the hell does he know about Van taking the Lincoln? Shit, how does he know about the Lincoln? The truck stopping beside a massive building--number 17--in the Bay City Fashions Industrial Park saved him from answering. He backed into a visitor's parking space on the far side street of the next closest building. "All right," he began, turning to Starsky, "this is . . ." His voice trailed off as he saw the photographer leaving the car. "What the -"

Starsky closed the door quietly. "See ya." He wiggled his thick eyebrows a few times, then was gone.

It was several seconds before Hutchinson closed his mouth. "That son of a bitch!" he spat. He resigned himself to going it alone again. "Okay, time to interview the neighbors." Before leaving the car, he placed the Baggie of exposed film in a jacket pocket. "These sure as hell better be terrific. No, they better be dynamite."

Starsky was rethinking his decision to seek a career in photojournalism as he shinnied up a rusty drainage pipe on the backside of the suspect warehouse. Ain't nothin' wrong with working weddings and mitzvahs and proms. A bolt securing the pipe pulled out partway, and he jerked away from the building. Wonder if Sears is hirin', he thought as he clung to the pipe with one arm and reached out for the bricks with the other.

His right fingers, raw from digging into the hemp rope, grasped the edge of an uneven brick. He inhaled a pained breath through clenched teeth. Slowly, he pulled himself to the building. Once against it, he held onto it with both hands. He took two swift breaths and restarted his climb.

Though the roof was only an arm's length away, it seemed much farther. With the tough edges of his boot soles, he made toeholds in crumbling mortar. His fingers cramped but he kept them on the thin edges of the bricks. He inched his way up, the pipe keeping him from full contact with the building. He pushed away any thought of falling or being discovered.

When his head was a few inches from the roof's edge, he reached over the top with his left arm. His hand found the lower rim of the concrete ledge. Grinning maniacally, he sent his right arm over the top and pulled himself up one more inch, and instantly regretted it.

The pipe, which had bent, dug into his genitals. He came close to passing out, but fear of falling once again proved a superior motivator. His feet scrambled up the side as fast as they could go while his arms pulled. In short seconds, he was on the roof, sweating heavily, lying on his side with his knees drawn up, rocking slightly, and cradling his package. Didn't think I needed to wear a cup to this party.

The agony ebbed too slowly to suit him, but he was functional in a few minutes. He had worn the Nikon like a messenger bag for his climb. Now he had it back to its proper position and stealthily crossed the roof to the other side. He took a few shots of the first crate being unloaded.

His entrée into the warehouse would be the stairs that opened onto the roof. The door to the staircase was locked, but he made short work of destroying the old mechanism. He was down the single flight of stairs and at another locked door in scant moments.

The door had a small, filthy window at eye level. He sneaked a peek but could not make much out. He crouched down to examine the lock. Smiling confidently, he pulled the thin wallet of lock picks from his left back jeans pocket. The lock tripped easily after a few twists of a hooked instrument. "Ha!" he whispered. He opened the door into a huge room lit by bare fluorescent tubes and sunlight dampened by soaped windows.

Rapidly, he scanned the room. No one seemed to be supervising, but when he saw the young Oriental women shackled to cutting tables, he realized that supervision probably was not necessary. Everyone worked diligently, and if any one of them noticed him, she did not give a clue.

He took shot after shot of iron-clad ankles, callused fingers, circumspect and lifeless eyes set in pale and hollow faces. He wanted to leave, forget everything he'd seen in the last few hours. But Hutchinson and these kids had sucked him in. He was a part of this now, and he had to play out his part, no matter how much it hurt.

He finally found the stairwell that led down to the rest of the building. Once inside, he rewound the film and attempted to reload but couldn't get the canister in the camera. He realized it was because he was shaking so hard. Shit, look at me. Such a baby. It was several ragged breaths and minutes before he could reload.

The second floor was much the same, except the slaves here were chained to and hunched over sewing machines. They had the same eyes that cried out the despair their mouths couldn't. He shot a full roll of 36 before he headed for the first floor.

The stairwell was next to the freight elevator, so when he opened the door, large cardboard boxes of fabric and thread awaiting the trip upstairs hid him from the activity in the main room. He threaded his way around them until he found the best place to maintain cover and capture the activity unfolding before him.

He had arrived just in time to film the opening of the first crate. Three men--one Japanese, one Korean, and one Vietnamese, he ascertained by their features and languages--cracked the air around the crate with bullwhips and ordered the occupants to leave their cage. He could understand why there would be Vietnamese; with Nixon pulling out troops, things would only turn worse for those in the south. But he didn't understand the others.

They came out in trembling twos and threes, clinging to each other, as if to do so gave them strength. Most of them were young girls, but there were several middle-aged women. The men cracked the whips around them, now that they were out.

Though it was difficult to hear everything the Vietnamese Simon Legree was saying, he could make out enough to know the captives were ordered to undress. When none of them followed orders, all three men made sure a number of them felt the sting of the whips. The girls began to strip; some, he saw, were still too young to have pubic hair.

His rage threatened to rocket him from his safe place into the indignity and abuse bombarding the innocents. But he stayed reluctantly, knowing he would help so many more than just these girls.

He shot them getting doused with buckets of sudsy water, scrubbing their scalps and hair and thin, immature bodies, getting blasted with cold water from high-pressure hoses, shivering in their naked, thick fear. His heart pounded at the door of the cage around it.

While he loaded a fresh roll of film, the illegals were herded to an area to his left, outside his field of vision. Swearing silently, he pulled back and deeper into the maze of boxes. He took his first right, and walked right into a Japanese man in a tailored suit.

Startled, the man did what came naturally; he bowed at the waist and said, "So sorry."

Equally startled, Starsky found himself bowing back. He spouted the first thing that came into his head. "I seem to, uh, have lost my way. Uh, where's the can?"

The question disarmed the man. Starsky, knowing the man's lack of action would be short-lived, immediately turned and ran straight for the loading dock. He was airborne when he heard Japanese-accented English ordering somebody or bodies to get him.

He knew he had misjudged the distance to the concrete while he was still in the air. He twisted his torso and with both arms hugged the Nikon tightly to his chest. He hit the road with most of his weight distributed over his right side. Though the fall knocked the wind out of him, he pushed into a roll to his left. Momentum and the foresight to have his legs in the right place at the right time had him on his feet. A few stumbles and air hunger delayed his take-off. But he willed himself to recover quicker and he was off for Hutchinson's car without daring to look back.

Taking Christmas card pictures of cranky two-year-olds in Santa outfits seems like a good career goal right now, he thought as he wondered what he'd do if Hutchinson wasn't there.

Despite the relatively early hour, the offices of the garment district businesses were already humming with activity. Hutchinson decided to interview people--preferably secretaries with a little time on their hands and some compassion--working in the vicinity of the factory in question.

First, following a major commandment of investigative reporting, he invented a plausible role to play. Next, he took several deep breaths, straightened his clothing, and ran his fingers through his hair in an effort to look presentable. Unfortunately, he got nowhere at the first two places he tried. One business was simply too busy. The second had a secretary who summarily dismissed him with suspicious curtness.

When he entered the office of the third business a brilliant smile on the face of a very attractive brunette in her early twenties greeted him. "Hi there, sir! Welcome to Shapiro Knitware. How can I help you?" Her eagerness to please radiated in her tone.

Hutchinson smiled back to delay his response. His first impression was that her smile was the only brilliant thing about her. But don't assume this'll be any more productive than the last two. Oh, well, here goes.

"Hi, there, pretty lady," he said, flashing his own dazzling smile. He stuck his hand out at her. "My name's Ken Drucker. What's yours, if I may be so bold?"

She took his hand by the fingers and squeezed. "I'm Faustine."

Hutchinson struggled to keep his amusement at the name private. "I'm sure you are." He covered her hand with his left and drew it closer to him. "I was wondering if you could help me out. You see, I'm an agent for a large clothing buyer on the East Coast."

"Oh! Like a secret agent? How exciting!"

For a split second, Hutchinson thought his cover was blown. But the excited and innocent look in her dark brown eyes told him he was still safe. "You could say that, I suppose. You may have heard of the company--Rags to Riches, Incorporated?"

"No, I'm sorry."

Hutchinson patted her hand a few times before releasing it. He smirked inwardly at the non-recognition he knew would be on her face and the disappointment that accompanied it. "That's okay, honey, not many people have in this part of the country. But you may still be able to help." He bared his teeth in a fair imitation of a sleazy used-car salesman going in for the kill. Gratified to see her brighten and melt simultaneously, he thought, Hook, line, and sinker.

"My client is considering opening a branch on the West Coast," Hutchinson continued, "but wanted to know a little bit about his potential neighbors. You know, like who would be easy to work with, the way business is done around here, that sort of thing."

Faustine beamed. "Oh, sure, Mr. Drucker! I can tell you all about the Shapiro brothers. They're as honest and kind as the day is long. They gave me my first job." She squared her shoulders in pride. "I'm just a secretary now, but I'm going to be a designer one day soon."

"I know you will, honey. You have the right name."

"Uh. . .what?"

"Your name. Faustine. Means 'lucky.'"

"Wow," she said in breathy awe, "I didn't know that."

Hutchinson cleared his throat hurriedly to hide his snicker. But hopefully you know something about the neighbors. "Tell me a little more about your bosses. Then maybe we can talk about, oh, well, say the business in Building, uh, 17?"

For the next ten minutes, Hutchinson endured a glowing report of Shapiro Knitware and Faustine's ideas for using polyester for wedding dresses and firefighter gear. He gently guided her into revealing what she knew about Building 17 and its owners once he had reached the limits of his patience. Though she complied easily with his manipulation, he noted her increasing discomfort.

"Well, I don't think that company in 17 really treats their employees very good. It's Rising Sun Clothes. They never stop working, even for lunch. Well, at least none of 'em leave the building once they get there. And the girls seem so young, but I'm not good at guessing ages of Oriental people, you know what I mean?" Faustine wrinkled her nose.

Hutchinson smiled and nodded to show his agreement. "I sure do, honey," he said warmly, though he felt like choking on her ignorance. "But I don't understand what you mean about leaving the building. You mean they never come out?"

"Oh, no, Mr. Drucker. You see, once in a while I have to come in early at 6 and that's when I see these school busses with these girls--they don't look very happy--and few definitely older women getting off and on. A few times, when I had to work all the way to 6 in the evening, the busses were back." She checked around her, then leaned closer to Hutchinson. "I told Mr. Stanley Shapiro that I didn't think good things were happening over there," she whispered. "He turned white as a sheet and told me it was not my business and not to say anything about it to anybody. He seemed really scared, but not really mad at me." She swallowed hard. "You won't tell him I told you any of this, will you?"

Hutchinson covered her hand protectively with one of his. "Of course not, honey. Nobody will know. That's our secret," he said conspiratorially. He could almost feel her rush of thrilled relief. "Anything else you can think of? You ever see anyone in, oh, a government car visit 17?"

She shook her head in regret. "No. I keep pretty busy here. The only reason I have time to talk with you right now is because Mr. Murray Shapiro is away trying to get us more business. We finished our last contract early, so all we're doing now is our own label."

"Sounds like this is a good place to work."

"Oh, it's the best, Mr. Drucker. The Shapiro brothers treat us all real good. Like family, you know?" She sighed and her shoulders slumped. "I think that's why Mr. Stanley Shapiro got so upset when I told him about Building 17. It really bothers him, I know. I don't know why he and Mr. Murray don't just march over there and set them straight."

I can think of a few very good reasons why the brothers are keeping their mouths shut. "Yeah, it makes me wonder, too. I'm sure they have good reasons, though. Faustine, have you ever mentioned this to anyone else?"

"Well, I did. Once. When I went out to lunch with a couple of girlfriends--we like to treat ourselves about once a month--Karen, who works for Haley Manufacturing, said she saw something real similar to what I've seen. Hmmmm, what company was that. . ?"

Hutchinson gave her only two seconds to recall before saying, "Would it be possible if maybe I could speak with Karen herself?"

"Why would you want to do that?" Faustine asked, clearly upset and jealous.

"Well, thanks to you, I found out that the Shapiro brothers would make excellent neighbors, but Rising Sun wouldn't. Perhaps with Karen's help, I could find out about that section of the park." He smiled ingratiatingly. "My client is like family to me and I want only the best for him."

Faustine grinned back, eager once more. "Sure thing, Mr. Drucker. I understand." She gave him Karen's full name and directions to her building and volunteered to call her.

"That'd be terrific, Faustine. If it wouldn't be putting you out, could you tell her I'll be over to see her sometime today?"

"Sure, Mr. Drucker."

It was five minutes before Hutchinson could leave Faustine and her perkiness behind. As soon as he was out of her sight, he pulled out his notebook and recorded everything about the interview. On another page, he listed a number of things to research in the library and in the public records section of City Hall. He made several slow head circles and headed for his car. Karen will have to wait until after a little nap.

He was not surprised that Starsky was still elsewhere. He shrugged and shook his head. Yeah, that'd be too much to ask from that. . .that. . . moron. Exhaustion suddenly caught up to him and he cared about nothing but grabbing a few winks. Listlessly he cleared the front seat and put everything in the trunk. He thought it might be a good idea to take a look around the edge of the building where he had parked to see if there was any sign of Starsky or more questionable activity at #17. He took a half-step out and turned right into his photographer.

Hutchinson grunted with surprise as the running man hit him with enough force to put him in a spin. A second later he crashed into the building. His breath left him and his head swam. His feet slid away from him. Before he knew it, he was on his butt facing his car and stunned beyond words or action.

Meanwhile, Starsky went into a spin of his own but was able to maintain his footing long enough to slam into the LTD. Fortunately, body met car right at the open driver's window. His elbows jammed into the door's ledge, keeping him from falling further. Quickly but carefully, he dumped his Nikon onto the seat. He looked to his right to see a dazed Hutchinson. Damn!

Still shaky from the hard hit against the car and the adrenalin, Starsky nevertheless was standing over Hutchinson in the next instant. He lightly smacked the reporter's face several times before jerking him to a standing position. "Okay, Blondie," he forced through his breathlessness and anxiety as he rested Hutchinson against the bricks and held him in place with one hand. He pulled canisters of film out of his pockets with the other and shoved them in Hutchinson's as fast as he could. "Fat Rollie's Photo on Garfield. Tell 'im two rooms, 'kay?"

Hutchinson looked at him, mouth open, eyes not quite focused.

"C'mon, snap outta it." Starsky slapped the blond man's face a few more times, cognizant that this surely meant the end of any chance for working for Plainclothes even as a freelancer.

Hutchinson suddenly straightened and pushed Starsky away. "Bastard! You -"

Starsky could hear the strike of running feet now. "Jus' go! Fat Rollie's!" he said in a forceful murmur. He flattened himself against the building and readied his left hand. Wait for it, he warned himself.

The sound of the pursuer's running indicated slowing as he got closer. He had just cleared the corner when Starsky's fist clocked him. He collapsed to the pavement, with Starsky, who had thrown all his weight into the punch, stepping on and tripping over him but staying upright.

Starsky instantly recognized the Japanese with the whip. Before he could turn his head to check on the possibility of other chasers, he felt the swoosh of air near his jaw and a tug at the collar of his jacket.

It was the Vietnamese man. "Dinky dau!" he shouted as he geared up for another crack of the whip. He was partway through the windup when Hutchinson flew at him, catching him at the waist in a classic Greco-Roman wrestling move. Effortlessly, Hutchinson picked him up and brought him to the concrete. Straddling the man, he jabbed his fist into the Viet's nose. He smirked with pride when he saw the immediate rush of blood.

Starsky watched Hutchinson with some surprise. All right--rich boy can mix it up. He looked up to see several more people running towards them. "Blondie! Get the hell outta here!" Knowing it was best to stay separated, Starsky took off down the side street.

Hutchinson was up and heading to the car before he realized what he was doing. He began to call out to Starsky, but he was already a good distance away. Hutchinson creased his brow in frustration. Then he was in the car and cranking the engine faster than he thought possible. The transmission groaned when he threw it into drive. He floored the accelerator and the car lurched forward, tires leaving behind black streaks and pungent smoke. He headed back the way he had driven in.

A check of the rearview mirror showed him that both men were now back on their feet. The Japanese resumed his pursuit of Starsky, but the other stayed behind. He soon saw why.

A black Chevy Impala, hidden from his sight earlier because of the tractor-trailer, was maneuvering a turn to head his way. The Vietnamese was gesturing for the car to hurry and pointing at Hutchinson.

I don't believe this is happening, he thought as the LTD barreled through the industrial park heading toward the nearest main road. He gasped and held his breath as a covey of four young women stepped off the sidewalk just yards ahead of him. Honking the horn would not alert them in time, and breaking to a stop was not an option; the big car would still hit them.

Another car was coming in the opposite lane, so crossing the center line was not a possibility. He took the only choice left open.

Pleasepleaseplease, he prayed. Hands firmly on the wheel at 9 and 3, he steered the car onto the narrow sidewalk. The front wheels were all over the place, but he managed to regain sufficient control a few inches before passing the women. He was well past them before their screaming stopped. Another quick check of his mirror showed him that one of them had regained her senses and pushed her companions back to the sidewalk in time to avoid getting hit by the Impala.

The city street was coming up fast. He slowed just enough to take a sharp right. The squeals of several other cars joined his, along with some crunching metal. Though his car had not been hit, the angle and speed of the turn lifted the right wheels off the road. Again he regained control, but he had no idea how he had done it.

For the next half mile, he wove in and out of now-heavy traffic. The light at the intersection changed to yellow; the car ahead of him decided to follow the letter of the law and stopped. He wiped the sweat from his forehead before he checked his mirror again. The black Impala was closing in, the driver not caring about the damage his automobile inflicted on those in the way.

He was convinced his heart would burst from his chest and beat him through the intersection. His ears told him the Impala was getting closer. Dammit! he cursed as he made the only decision he could.

Once more he cut the steering wheel to the right. He had to get between and beyond two objects: a Thunderbird and a big mailbox. The mailbox, though, was immovable. Taking a deep breath, he gunned the big engine enough so his left front bumper pushed the T-bird by its right back bumper and out of his way. The LTD's passenger side scraped along the unyielding mailbox. As soon as it was possible to turn, he did, taking another right. He laid on the horn, which sent pedestrians scrambling for safety. He grimaced guiltily at that and at the impromptu demolition derby he left in his wake.

Already nearing 40 miles per hour by the time he got midway up the block, he almost missed seeing the alley. He braked, but too hard, causing the LTD's rear end to rock side to side. Taking a gulp of air, he frantically steered left into the passageway.

His head hit the roof of the car as it jounced onto the sidewalk portion of the alley. This is all Starsky's fault, he thought as he forced the car to higher speeds. He was almost at the next main street when he saw the Impala's rear bumper at a standstill at the other end of the alley. He chose to cut right again, then right at the next intersection.

He pulled into an empty loading zone between two big delivery vans. "Oh shit," he muttered. He squeezed his eyes shut so he wouldn't see his trembling or the whitened hands gripping the steering wheel. He laughed almost hysterically at the rapid rise and fall of his chest; for Pete's sake, Hutchinson, you were driving, not running.

Opening his eyes, he first noted that the Nikon was on the passenger floorboard. Serve him right if it's broken, he thought. He adjusted the side view mirror for a better look at the intersection behind him. He was just in time to see the Impala drive through.

They're off me for now. But I can't stay here. He snapped his fingers to help him remember where Starsky had told him to take the film. "Garfield," he said aloud. "Fat Somebody's on Garfield." He shrugged when he realized he'd have to cruise that street, which was miles away, until he happened upon it. He took a couple of minutes to plan a route there before he eased into traffic.

Forty-five minutes later, after ducking in and out of alleyways and even following the Impala for a tense half-block, Hutchinson had the LTD on Garfield. When he spied Fat Rollie's Photo Finish, he thought it best not to park nearby. Instead, he parked two blocks away on a side street and hoofed it to the business, Nikon enveloped securely in his arms.

Starsky was thankful he was able to ditch the camera. Doing so enabled him to run significantly faster and protected his investment--he hoped. When he heard the roar and squeal of Hutchinson's car, his hope grew. And now that he had a decent lead over his pursuers, his hope included leaving them behind entirely.

He turned left just past the second building and ran into a wheeled rack of granny dresses. His head smashed the top bar just before his foot tripped on the bottom one. Both he and the rack crashed to the pavement. In seconds, he was thoroughly tangled in blue-flowered fabric. Dammit--they're gonna catch me now!

The very short and very angry man pulling the rack rained vile curses on Starsky as he roughly assisted the photographer to his feet. "Now you get out of my sight, punk, before I choke you with one of these!" the man trumpeted in Starsky's dazed and abashed face. He gathered a few of the fallen, dirty dresses in his arms.

Starsky swiftly released the hold that the sleeve of one dress had around his neck. He handed the gown to the man, who promptly dropped his armload to take it. Over the man's renewed swearing, Starsky said evenly, "Sorry, not my style. Got anything in basic black and pearls?" His feet stumbled and shuffled through the dresses still strewn about and managed to avoid tripping over the rack. As soon as he was clear, he broke into a sprint.

When he was only a few yards past the dress mess, Starsky heard something that he thought could only be described as a bonsai yell. And it was close. He ordered his legs to move faster. They did, but only marginally so.

He spotted an open, unguarded door into another building ahead and to his right. He was tiring fast, and probably the only chance to lose the chaser was to seek out some sort of hiding place. It was reasonable to assume that somebody would challenge the whip-wielding man soon after he entered the building. Yeah. . .I shouldn't hafta hide out too long.

Decision made, Starsky beelined for the door. Less than fifteen feet from its promise, he had something unforgiving coiling itself around his neck then jerking him backwards. Gagging for air and clawing at the leather strangling him, he fell into the hard body of the Japanese man.

The man twisted Starsky around until their chests touched. He pulled down on the whip until the photographer's purpling face was below his. "You spy on us?" he lisped icily through a split lip. "You take picture, maybe?"

Starsky felt unconsciousness approaching fast. With one index finger, he pointed to the whip and mouthed, "I can't talk."

The man narrowed his eyes and spat in Starsky's perspiring face before he reluctantly unwound the whip. He took a half-step back.

Starsky drank in large, wheezy lungfuls of air on the way to his knees. He sat back on his heels and looked up into the bright blue sky. How am I gonna get out of this? He better not know any of that jujitsu shit. Could use somebody watchin' my back. As his breathing slowly returned to normal, he was quickly running out of ideas. Then time ran out.

The Japanese kicked Starsky in his upper abdomen. "You talk now."

Starsky doubled over, his breath once again on hold. He teared and nearly fainted from the pain. "Shit," he forced out in a hoarse voice, "gimme a chance, okay?" A second later, inspiration struck. When he was ready, he said, "You filthy Jap. Lost the war and now gotta play the tough guy."

The taunting slur had the effect he hoped it would. The Japanese man lashed out, but this time, his intended victim was ready for it. Starsky seized the foot in both hands and stood. The momentum knocked the man to his back. Immediately, Starsky stepped on the man's right arm and bent down to relieve him of the bullwhip.

The Japanese man counterattacked with another swift kick; with less than moderate force, his right foot connected to the back of Starsky's right knee.

Starsky shrieked in agony. His hands went straight for the hurting joint. He crumpled and fell to his right.

The man grinned with morbid satisfaction that he had found a vulnerable spot. He began to pull his right arm toward him but found it more difficult than he thought it should have. He swore in his native tongue when he noticed the braided leather was caught under the weight of the intruder's hips.

The movement beneath him jarred Starsky into action. He grabbed the whip with his left hand and wrenched it mercilessly. When he heard the sharp yelp from the Japanese, he smirked. He grappled with the man over possession of the weapon for a few moments until opportunity--or luck--presented itself again for at least the third time in twenty-four hours.

The man reached for Starsky's upper left arm in an attempt to push him away. This put his chin right over the photographer's left knee. Starsky drove his knee up with every ounce of power and leverage he could summon. The crack sounded like that of the bullwhip's. The pursuer, jaw broken, was unconscious before he hit the pavement.

Starsky chuckled nervously as he surveyed the oddly quiet area around him. The man whose rack and clothes he had demolished and several other men who appeared to be foremen or supervisors maintained a distance of at least thirty feet. They studied him with distrustful concern. Shadows at windows began to gradually disappear. The sound of work--voices shouting orders, machinery humming, carts and racks rattling--began to gradually increase.

"I'm okay," he said to the men. He held up one hand to rebuff the help not offered. "I can do this on my own." He struggled to his feet but almost fell when he put weight on his right leg. "I'm fine," he reassured them unnecessarily. What are these guys--statues?

Finally standing steady with most of his weight on his left leg, he smiled with friendly embarrassment. "Uh, could one of you tell me where the closest bus stop is?" No response. "Please?" Not even a blink. "Well, could you at least point me in the right direction?"

Their faces remained unchanged. It was a full ten seconds before the men raised their arms in unison and pointed to Starsky's right, as if they had rehearsed it for hours.

Starsky blinked several times. He shook his head, but quickly changed it to a thank-you nod. I know where not to apply for my next job. Slowly and painfully, he hobbled off in the direction they had indicated. Damn, all I need is some overalls to look like Walter Brennan.

The trip to the bus stop was uneventful. He got on the first one, not caring where it was headed, just as long as it got him away from the industrial park, men with whips, and defenseless young girls in chains. Once he got his bearings, he'd figure out the transfers he'd need to get to Fat Rollie's. The bus was pulling away from the curb when he saw the Vietnamese man running after it--and him.

It was nearly three hours before Starsky arrived on Garfield. He stopped in a little sandwich shop he frequented when he was using the lab at Fat Rollie's. Martha, a large-bodied, graying woman whose destiny it was to make other bodies large, clucked frantically at the rumpled and dirty regular.

"Davey, Davey, what's happened to you? Here, sit at the counter and tell me all about it while I fix you something good to eat." She had a steaming bowl of chicken soup and a plate of pretzel sticks on the countertop before he could ease onto a stool.

Starsky inhaled the enticing aroma. Martha was the only person he knew who put jalapeños and cumin in her chicken soup, making it spectacular to the taste buds. "I should wash up first," he said.

"Your mama taught you good, son. Here," she said, giving him a clean, damp towel.

The coolness of the towel both soothed and revived him. "Thanks, Miss Martha." He hurriedly ate the soup, despite its heat burning his mouth, and every pretzel. He managed a smile. "That was terrific. What's the next course?"

Martha laughed her deep, church-bells laugh. "A man after my own heart." She took away the empty bowl and immediately replaced it with a large plate holding an onion roll piled high with chicken salad, lettuce, and tomato and a mound of homemade potato chips. "Root beer or Coke this mornin'?"

"I'm feeling lucky, and wanna walk on the wild side, Miss Martha. How about both?"

She laughed again. She continued to feed and water him and ready her business for the early lunch crowd as he recounted the last twenty-four hours. She found herself having to wipe tears and rage away a number of times. When he tried to pay, she refused. "I'll put it on a tab. You pay me after you sell those pictures." She gave his leg a maternal pat.

He smiled his deep appreciation and kissed her cheek. "You're the greatest."

"I know that. Now scoot--to Rollie's with ya to do your job." She watched him limp out, the pride swelling in her heart. If Andrew hadn't been killed in that awful car wreck, I think he'd be a lot like Davey.

Roland Meeks looked like one of Martha's successes, although he was fat before he ever heard of Martha or tasted her wonderful food. His greasy black hair and pale skin underscored his moniker. Being tagged "Fat Rollie" never bothered him; in fact, he usually got upset when someone didn't call him that.

"Hey, Rollie, did some tall, blond guy name of Hutchinson come by with my camera and film?"

Rollie didn't answer right away. Starsky's dragging his right leg behind him, the filth of his clothes, and the stink all flabbergasted him.

"Well?"

"Oh, yeah," Rollie said. He rubbed his hooked nose nervously. "Left your Nikon. No lens cap, though. And a bunch of film. Who is that guy, anyway?"

Starsky wasn't sure what to say, so he ignored the question. "Which rooms can I have?"

"How many you need?"

"He didn't say I needed two rooms?"

"Naw. All he says was that you'd be in later, didn't know when, and I should hold all this stuff for you." He paused. "He was kinda strange, ya know?"

Starsky rolled his eyes. "No, I don't know."

"Well, he was kinda pissed and, well, I don't know. Preoccupied, maybe?"

Yeah--preoccupied with his precious story and deadline. "So what rooms, Rollie?"

"You can have 1 and 2. Here's everything he left." Rollie picked a large box off his desk and set it on the counter separating them. He watched Starsky pull the lens cover from a pocket and put it where it belonged before he spoke again. "You're gonna have to pay for both rooms, Starsky. You know I charge by the room and not the person."

Starsky shot him an annoyed glance. "Yeah, I know. Chemicals fresh?"

"Yeah. This morning as soon as I came in." Fat Rollie cleared his throat self-consciously. "Uh, you need to brush off first, Starsky."

The photographer looked at his clothes. "Yeah, guess I do. C'mon, Fat, you can do my back."

As Rollie whisked the dirt off Starsky's clothes with a hand broom, Starsky thought about the solace he'd have for the next few hours as he worked in the cool dark, smelling the tanginess of photographic chemicals. Just the anticipation eased the soreness in his muscles and the burning pain in his knee.

The last of the adrenalin dissolved after Hutchinson dropped off the camera and film, leaving him feeling like a grubby, frayed rag. He trudged back to his car, each step a greater effort.

Seeing the new damage to the passenger side reminded him not only of the chase, but also of his near-misses of pedestrians. Dammit! The cops are bound to be looking for me. He ran his fingers through his dirty hair as he wracked his brain. The solution came quickly.

He stayed on the side streets and alleys until he got to a working-class neighborhood of small tract houses with one-car garages and palm trees lining the streets and orange trees in the yards. He pulled into the driveway of a pink house with a light green roof just as a woman was leaving it.

"Mrs. Blake!"

The middle-aged woman with dull brown hair and duller brown shoes turned and smiled widely at the familiar voice. "Kenny! What brings you here this time of morning?" Her smile swiftly changed to a frown when she saw the dark half-moons under his eyes and the fatigue in his stride. "What's going on?"

He kissed her cheek. "I've been up all night, Mrs. Blake. Been working on a story that broke wide open."

"The one Nancy's been helping you with?"

"Yes, ma'am. And they're after me, so I need to ditch my car. Could I possibly borrow yours and keep mine in your garage?" I'll tell her about the cops later, he promised himself to mitigate his guilt at not revealing the whole truth.

Maureen Blake scrutinized the young blond man closely. She had known him for more than twenty years, and suspected he was hiding something. But she trusted her daughter's friend who had become a son to her. "I suppose that'd be okay. For how long, Kenny?"

"A couple of days, at most."

"You'll have to drive me to work now. I don't want to be late, so we better hurry. I'll have Nancy drive me around for the next few days."

Relief washed over him. "You're a lifesaver, Mrs. B," -- literally, he thought.

"This will be so nice, just us two driving together. I can tell you about Nancy's new beau. I think they're getting pretty serious. His name is Billy Desmond. Have you met him yet?"

His stomach soured, knowing he was too late to protect Nancy from this new bully.

After dropping Nancy's mother off at the supermarket where she was a bookkeeper, Hutchinson drove the pink Rambler to his cottage by the canal. The first order of business was to feel human again. He began that process by taking a long, hot shower.

As the water pelted and refreshed him, he thought about the events at Building 17. He was sure, with all the film Starsky had given him, that the photographer had captured more of the atrocity. That the slaps were to jar him out of his stupor and quick anger. That it was a rush to wrestle again, as he had done in high school. That it was a different rush, one tainted with fear, to elude dangerous men determined to get what they wanted and probably kill him.

Well, looks like I might get my wish to break a really big, important story, he thought as he toweled off quickly. He enjoyed the renewed vitality that coursed through him. He padded, naked, to the kitchen to fix a breakfast of bananas, strawberries, desiccated liver, numerous vitamins, and yogurt. As the blender whirled the ingredients together, he thought of Starsky. This dream of mine hangs on a photographer who plays only with wild cards. I must've been nuts to have agreed to this.

He downed the "shake" in three long swallows. He headed for bed. Setting the alarm for one hour later, he fell back onto the cool sheets. He was asleep instantly.

Hutchinson returned to the garment district to interview Karen Moonves at Haley Manufacturing later that morning. She was as forthcoming and cooperative as her friend Faustine. Hutchinson soon had another company, based out of Hong Kong, to investigate. He promised Karen he'd take her and Faustine to lunch sometime in the next few days.

For the next several hours, he buried himself in searching records at the state and federal commerce departments and the main public library. By three p.m., he had a good picture of who owned what, and who had signed off on inspections, customs reports, and more, including two or three other manufacturers fitting the profile of known slavers. But without the pictures, he could really prove nothing. He had nothing substantial to take to Dobey or to the police. In fact, he suspected that there were people in the police department in on this whole slavery business. There had to be, to keep things going.

Though he knew it was the right thing, the only thing, to do, he felt shabby about leaving Starsky to fend for himself. The film was safe, but he wasn't sure the photographer was. At the same time, he couldn't keep his fury with Starsky for ditching him twice from rearing up.

Upon arriving at the Bradford Building, Plainclothes California's home, Hutchinson checked the restaurant first. There were no customers at all, and no sign of Lavelle or any other waitress. He headed for the magazine's main office.

Millie was on the phone when Hutchinson arrived. He stood in front of the desk and impatiently drummed his fingers on the laminate surface. He answered her glare at him with one of his own.

"You got it, Bobby. I'll let Ray know you need him as soon as he calls in." Millie hung up. Quickly, she held up her left index finger, signaling for Hutchinson to stay quiet while she wrote a note. Before she laid down her pen, she said, "Get yourself one of those newfangled answering machines, Hutchinson. I'm not your personal secretary."

His body sagged. "Who was it this time--Vanessa or my attorney?"

"Yes and yes. Plus her attorney called several times." She sighed, and let her sympathy beat out her anger. "Look, I know you're going through a tough time, but I really can't be taking all these calls. This place is busy enough." She handed him a stack of messages. "Tell 'em you'll call them once a day, or to call you at home. Just not here, okay?"

I can't let this divorce turn Millie against me. She's more important to me than Van probably ever was. Blushing from embarrassment, he hung and nodded his head. "You're right. I'll see what I can do." He cleared his throat and straightened up. "Get any messages from that new guy Starsky?"

"Nope."

"WHAT?! He hasn't called?! It's almost 4 o'clock!" Hutchinson shouted as he put his face into Millie's.

The door to Dobey's office flew open. "Hutchinson!" Dobey yelled. "Nobody but ME screams at MY secretary! You got that? My office, NOW!"

Only slightly cowed, Hutchinson strode into Dobey's office. Before his boss could close the door, he said loudly, "I wasn't really yelling at Millie. I'm just pissed at this Starsky guy! I can't work with him."

I think you got it backwards, son. "So what's wrong with this one?"

"He has no discipline, no sense of responsibility, and probably no talent. He's not the brightest star in the sky." He chortled at his play on words. "He's pretty gutsy, I'll give him that, but he's a loose cannon, for Christ's sake! He doesn't communicate with me, or accept my lead. I don't even know where he is right now, much less know anything about the shots he took."

Starsky, who had arrived in the outer office just as Dobey had closed the door to his office, heard everything Hutchinson said. After the crack about the star in the sky, he slipped into the room virtually unnoticed. He stood with his back to the closed door and said in a tight, low voice, "I'm here and so are my shots."

Both Hutchinson and Dobey stared at him. They took in the exhaustion that radiated from him, the disheveled state of his hair and clothes, the peculiar chemical and organic smell, and the limp as he proceeded toward Hutchinson.

"He may not think so, Mr. Dobey, but I worked my butt off to get these shots. And I figured out all by myself how to get 'em. So I guess it looks like I'm not stayin' until the story's put to bed."

Dobey could see Hutchinson was tongue-tied at Starsky's appearance. "Son, don't you think that's a bit premature?"

"Is it, sir? Seems I can't get along." He shot an acid glance at Hutchinson before shoving the file he was carrying into the reporter's chest. "These are the contact sheets. Let me know which ones you want and I'll have the prints to you the same day." He took a deep breath before continuing. "I sure hope your story is good enough to support these, 'cause these people are suffering and dying to get into this country. So you better tell their story real good."

Hutchinson, still speechless, held the file folder to his chest and continued to stare at the photographer.

"Mr. Dobey," Starsky said, turning to the large man, "I assume I'll get paid by the number of pictures you use?"

Dobey nodded solemnly.

"I'd appreciate it if you'd have my check ready when I drop off the prints." With one last unreadable look at Hutchinson, Starsky turned and limped out of the office, slamming the door behind him.

Hutchinson flinched at the slam. Shamefaced, he looked back at Dobey. "I-I-I didn't know hhhe was. . ."

Dobey waited a few moments for Hutchinson to finish. When he didn't, he harrumphed and said, "Why was that boy limping?"

"I'm, well, I'm not sure. Last time I saw him, this goon with a bullwhip was chasing him and. . ." His voice trailed off once more.

Dobey shrugged. "All right, Hutchinson, why don't we take a look at those sheets?" He placed his hand on the reporter's back and gently directed him toward the alcove that held a light table.

Methodically, Hutchinson laid four contact prints out on the table, placing the remainder in the folder on a nearby shelf, while Dobey turned on the overhead lights. The editor withdrew two high-power magnifying glasses from the table's drawer and gave one to Hutchinson. They began examining the sheets.

Dobey stopped after viewing just two sheets. They were the first rolls Starsky had shot in the cargo hold. His hands shook and his chest ached at the unimaginable suffering and maltreatment laid out before him. "My God, Hutchinson, these are -"

"Incredible." Hutchinson, surprised and trembling at the profound emotion the tiny photos evoked in him, faced Dobey. "I'll be right back."

Dobey watched Hutchinson bolt from the room. He reached for the other two sheets but halted. He decided he had better take a long moment before delving into that world again.

Hutchinson exploded onto the sidewalk in front of the Bradford. Quick glances up and down did not yield Starsky. He swore under his breath and took off for the cross street to his right.

Relief replaced anxiety when Hutchinson saw the dark-haired man at the bus stop. "Hey, Starsky!" he yelled as he ran toward him.

Starsky looked skyward. Oh, for chrissakes! I can't take this jerk right now. He started a brisk walk, which was all he could manage with his injury, away from the fast-approaching man.

Hutchinson caught up and passed him in seconds. He used his body to prevent Starsky from continuing. When Starsky grunted in anger and turned to go back the other way, Hutchinson grabbed his arm and pulled. "Wait, dammit! I need to talk to you!"

Starsky looked down at the hand holding him back, then menacingly at the blue eyes. He was startled to see what could be sincerity. But he didn't believe it. "About what? To tell me how bad my shots are? How I wasted your time and blew your story? Jus' go fuck yourself." He yanked his arm from Hutchinson's hold.

"Okay, I deserve that. Just hear me out, all right?"

Starsky thought he was imagining things at first. Yet the mea culpa on Hutchinson's face intrigued him. "Make it quick. My bus is due in a couple minutes."

Hutchinson inhaled deeply and said, "Starsky, I'm sorry. I can't be any sorrier. Those shots are nothing short of brilliant. They tell a story I don't have. I need the details behind those pictures to make this work. My story isn't strong enough without those details of what you saw and heard and smelled." He paused. Starsky's expression was inscrutable. He plunged on. "I need your help, Starsky. Help me help those people. I can't do it alone."

Starsky barely knew the man, but he could tell this pleading was very difficult for him. This isn't about fame or money for him. He really does care about these people.

"Please? I'll treat you to dinner. Your choice." Hutchinson held his breath.

Starsky's mouth slowly turned up at the corners. "Okay. But I gotta get cleaned up and catch some z's. Meet me at The Pits, 8 a'clock."

"Where is that?"

Starsky shook his head. Of course rich boy wouldn't know his way around the ghetto. He waved for the bus to wait. As he limped for it, he said, "It's on 35th near Parker. Anybody hassles ya, tell 'em you're an old friend of Huggy Bear's."

Hutchinson knitted his brow. "This Huggy Bear is a person, right?"

The bus door clanked closed to separate them, though that didn't prevent Hutchinson from hearing Starsky guffaw.

The Pits, a bar and grille with pool tables and pinball machines, existed peacefully in the gray area between Bay City's ghetto and a middle-class neighborhood. Whites and blacks who would not speak to each other outside would eat, drink, and play together without a second thought in the welcoming, relaxed-yet-charged atmosphere engendered by the host and proprietor, Huggy Bear Brown.

"Now, this is my very own special Bloody Mary mix," Huggy Bear said to the attractive blonde at the bar. "Just the right amount of heat to make you come back for more, with a little dash of my secret ingredient." He winked at her. "I guarantee you'll love it." As he watched her take a cautious sip, he felt fresh evening air enter the smoky bar. He turned to see who was coming in with it.

"Starsky, my man!" he exclaimed. His broad smile turned into a scowl when he saw the limp. "Hey, my brotha, take a load off."

Starsky chose the stool closest to the door. "How about a draft, Hug." He smiled at the tall, thin black man.

Huggy already had pilsner glass in hand and was reaching for the tap. "You gotta ask?" When he finished, he placed the brew with a half-inch head in front of Starsky. "Okay, give it up, bro. I can see your knee is hurtin' again and I bet you didn't go to the VA."

Before Starsky could answer, both men's attention was drawn to a soprano giggle from the blonde. "I don't believe that," she said shyly.

"What would that be, my beauty?" Huggy asked.

"That you're brothers. You don't look alike at all."

Huggy Bear ran his hand over his face to cover his laugh. Starsky snorted through his nose and into his beer, spraying the area around him. Recovering first, Huggy said, "Electra Burton, meet Dave Starsky, my twin brother."

Electra blushed and batted her eyelashes a few times. "That's not possible. You have different skin colors."

"Different mothers," said Starsky matter-of-factly.

"Oh. Well, that explains it." She took another sip of her mixed drink.

"Electra, my dear," said Huggy smoothly, "if you'll excuse us for a few moments? Family business, you understand."

She smiled seductively at the black man. "Sure. I'll go put some money in the juke box."

"Good idea. And don't forget to make your selections." Both men watched the shapely woman jiggle away.

"Good lord, Hug, you sure can pick 'em. Ever since high school."

"What can I say. It helped hangin' around your sorry honky butt. I mean, I look fine all on my own, but next to you, I just look that much finer." Huggy Bear looked back at his friend. "Okay, let's hear it." He crossed his arms on the bar and leaned toward Starsky.

"Look, Huggy, I got someone meeting me here in a few minutes. He's a reporter for PC, and I just did some freelance work for him. Just windin' things up tonight."

"So you didn't get the permanent job, huh?"

Starsky sighed. "I'm not sure yet, but I kinda doubt it."

"Well, you know if there's anything the Bear can do, all you gotta do is speak up. Now, about the knee?"

"It's nothin', okay?" he snapped. Instantly, he mellowed. "It's just actin' up a little. Should be fine in a day or two."

"Look, man, I know money is tight, but this is service-related. Treatment is free, right?"

"Huggy, I'll be fine. Just drop it."

The bartender straightened, hands up in a surrender. "You don't have to tell me three times." More fresh air being injected into the restaurant shifted Huggy's attention to the entrance again. "Come in, my man! All are invited to imbibe and feast at my humble establishment." He waved in a tall, white man carrying a legal-sized portfolio.

"Uh, Huggy, this is the reporter I was telling you about. Huggy Bear, Ken Hutchinson."

The black man extended his hand, which Hutchinson hesitantly shook. "Mighty pleased to meet you," Huggy said. "I know you two have business, and so do I. What can I get ya?"

"A draft sure would be good." Hutchinson couldn't believe another human being would purposely wear a red-and-blue tam o'shanter, a paisley print silk shirt, and very tight, hip-hugging, striped polyester bellbottoms.

"Comin' right up. Hey, Starsky, use that big booth in the back. I'll bring you another beer and menus."

"Thanks, Hug." Starsky drained the last half of his beer. He edged off the stool and flicked his head toward the table. He started for it, with Hutchinson a step behind.

Hutchinson, not to his surprise, found himself feeling uncomfortable in The Pits. Hope my food doesn't taste like cigarettes. He didn't fail to notice the mix of customers or Starsky's continued limp.

Again beating Hutchinson to first seating choice, Starsky claimed the side that would allow him to stretch out his right leg. "Nice place, huh?"

Hutchinson slid into his side. "I'm, uh, still forming my opinion."

A second later, Huggy Bear was placing their beers on the table and giving them menus. "I'll give you cats a little time to make your decisions. When it comes to my cuisine, ain't none of it mean. And I mean that in a bad way."

Starsky caught the quick, sour twitch in Hutchinson's upper lip as he read the menu. What a snob. "Ya know, I'm real surprised that an investigative reporter in this town dudn't already know Huggy Bear."

"Well, this is a big city. I'm sure I would've run into him sooner rather than later." He paused briefly. "I see you're still limping. You okay?"

Starsky waved him off. "It's no big deal."

"I think you should get it checked out. It's your knee that's bothering you, isn't it?"

For the second time that day, Hutchinson surprised Starsky. He felt his neck heat up. "Lookit, Hutchinson, the story is the only thing right now. Remember the deadline?"

"That's true, but I shouldn't have left you alone with those hoods chasing you. I should've made you get in -"

"I told you to go, Blondie," Starsky interrupted. "It was the right thing to do. So, come on. We gotta help these folks right now." He was sick of seeing Asians, especially Vietnamese, suffer. Now that he had the power to stop some of that, instead of cause it, a little pain on his part wasn't going to interfere.

There was no mistaking the urgency in Starsky's voice. All right--you win this one. Hutchinson dug into the portfolio and took out the legal pad he used for outlining his stories and the folder of contact sheets. He pushed the latter to the photographer. "The ones we want are circled in red. All 8 by 10s. Since some of them are grainy, we may need to use the negative."

"Yeah, I figured. Pushing 400 to 1200 ASA will do that." Starsky searched for Huggy in the growing crowd and gestured for him to come. "Let's order first, then you can take dictation," he said with a playful grin.

An hour and a half later, their hunger was sated. They also had a clear picture of at least two companies benefiting from slavery, crooked customs officials, fire safety inspectors, immigration officials, and labor board representatives. And they had documentation of the transport of illegal immigrants into the country and to various factories in the industrial park, the workplace, and the inhumane conditions of all of it.

Though neither journalist realized it consciously, they both had kept the verbal barbs at bay and concentrated on the task at hand. Neither had taken the lead exclusively, but had let it shift as the story necessitated. In putting the powerful and humbling story together, they had put their egos and mutual mistrust aside and had come together in cooperation and mutual respect.

Starsky twirled the empty coffee cup around on its saucer as he watched Hutchinson continue to scribble words and draw arrows on the yellow pages. He knew the reporter was fine-tuning the outline, and laughed at himself. Despite his earlier opinion of the blond man, he found himself actually liking the guy a little. He's taking this slavery thing personally, almost. He could be at home in front of a fireplace with servants waitin' on him, and just give money to charity. Instead, he's here on the streets.

The cessation of the fountain pen scratch and Hutchinson's meditation of the page in front in him gave Starsky an opening. "I think this is enough to take to the cops," he ventured. "And get some warrants."

Hutchinson considered that, then sighed with finality. "I would hope so, but I have to type all this up before 6 a.m., and you've got prints to make." He recapped and set his pen down, then looked at Starsky. He saw a guileless intelligence in the cobalt eyes. He saw a man who judged him by his actions and words, not his background or wallet. Hell, he's probably just eager. Dirt poor and desperate. My first impressions have been known to be wrong a time or two. . .this might be one of those times.

"We got time. So you know any cops we can trust with this, Blondie?"

Hutchinson smiled inwardly at the commitment to these people that Starsky shared with him. "Yeah. A detective team at Metro Division. I'll call to see if they're on duty tonight."

"Hang on." Starsky scanned the mostly empty restaurant for Huggy Bear. He was at the bar, head to head with Electra. "Hey, Huggy!" he shouted. "C'mere!"

Huggy strode quickly to the table. "Hurry it up, Starsky. I'm about to put the final move on that foxy lady. You know how I hate to go home alone."

Starsky grinned knowingly. "This won't take long. I need to know what you know about this story we've been working on." He gave the barkeep a detailed rundown of the story before asking, "So, we get this right? And are we leavin' anything real important out?"

The black man eyed the white stranger uncertainly at first, but a slight nod from his friend's curly head loosened his tongue. "Word on the street is you be right, but ain't nobody been able to prove nothin'. Or they be too scared to take it to the fuzz or the press, you know what I'm sayin'? Pretty disgustin' stuff, if you ask me. My kind don't cotton to enslavement of nobody. However, methinks you might be missin' a company or two that're profittin' off this very cheap labor."

"And those would be. . ?"

Huggy bowed at the waist until his head was even with Starsky and Hutchinson's. "Pagoda Originals and Gray's Western Wear," he said softly as he looked back and forth between the two men.

"Thanks, Huggy."

"Back atcha later, bro." He sauntered back to the bar and his conquest for the night.

After several long moments, Hutchinson sputtered, "Wuh-why would he know? How would he know?"

Starsky crossed his arms and leaned on the table. "Huggy knows stuff. He hears things. People tell him things. And if he don't know already, he can usually find out."

"Look, Starsky, I don't mean to question your judgment, but just how well do you know this guy? I know I just met him, but he doesn't seem too. . .well, could he be feeding you a line?"

Starsky, with a small salute to Huggy across the room, snickered quietly. "Don't let his appearance and jive talk fool you," he said, shaking his head. "He's a straight shooter. And smart. I've known him for a long time, and he wouldn't lie to me. Unless, of course, it was to save me from a serious ass-kickin' or two." He chuckled and looked at nothing for a few heartbeats.

Hutchinson, still not sure about Starsky, his friend Huggy Bear, or his change in attitude about Starsky, shrugged in acquiescence. "Okay. I admit that at least one of those companies is on my list of suspect businesses. But the other one seemed to be completely legit."

A small, confident smile shone on Starsky's face. "Ten bucks says Huggy's right about both."

Hutchinson matched the smile. "You're on. And be prepared to pay up, because I'm right."

They laughed quietly together, sharing a moment of companionship and sealing the bet, before Hutchinson got up to use the restroom and make the call to his contacts in the police department.

The clock on the wall in the detectives' squad room at Metro Division read 11 p.m. when Hutchinson and Starsky came through the swinging doors. Six faces turned toward them. Hutchinson acknowledged only one pair. Starsky stayed on his heels as he approached the two men.

One of them, a tall, slender man with brown hair graying at the temples, held out his hand to the reporter. "I say, Hutchinson," he said in a proper British accent, "your call has our interest piqued. If this is as important as you say -"

"It is," Hutchinson said, cutting the detective off even as they shook hands. He dived into the portfolio for the contact sheets and his notes. For a brief moment, he glanced at Starsky, who was busily sorting through the incongruity of an Englishman wearing a Hawaiian shirt, khakis, and cowboy boots. Smiling shyly, he said, "Clive Bennett, Lance Parson, this is my, uhm, partner, Dave Starsky. He's responsible for these photographs."

Starsky covered his startled amazement at Hutchinson's introduction. Imitating Hutchinson's expression, he politely shook hands first with the man with the British accent, then with the somewhat shorter, younger, and well-dressed man with features that defied ethnic typing. "Pleased to meetcha."

"I'm Parson, he's Bennett," said the younger cop. "So, Hutchinson, what you got for us, dude?" he asked in his Louisiana drawl.

"Is there somewhere we can talk privately?"

The partners looked at each and spoke in that silent language born of necessity and long hours together. "I do believe the viewing room for Interview 3 will suffice," Bennett replied quietly.

Twenty minutes later, after viewing the photographs and listening to the evidence Hutchinson presented, after grilling both of them thoroughly and considering the magnitude of what had just been laid in their laps, Bennett held up his hand to signal silence. He looked to Parson, who was already looking at him.

Parson nodded his head of jet-black, tightly curly hair at his partner. "Christmas is early this year, man."

"So it is, Lancelot, so it is." Bennett faced the two journalists. "Gentlemen, you have just made our day, if not our year. Of course, something this significant obligates us to bring our captain in on this before we go to the district attorney."

"Wait a minute, Clive," Hutchinson said anxiously. "Can your captain be trusted? How do you know he's not one the cops who have let this go on?"

"Dude, Cap'n Ferguson has an outstanding record of righteous busts. And he ain't known as 'Iron Mike' for no reason," interjected Parson. "Dude is straighter than my Indian gran'mama's hair."

"Be that as it may, we really don't have a choice. But I echo my partner's certitude in our captain's integrity. I believe him to be unimpeachable."

With only a minor qualm, Hutchinson accepted their reassurances. Then an uneasy look spread over his face. "But before we go any further, I, uh, have a small favor to ask."

Both detectives looked at him expectantly.

"I think there may be a warrant out for my arrest."

"WHAT?!" three voices chimed in together.

"Well, it's like this." Hutchinson blushed at the rapt attention being paid him by three sets of eyes. "I was being chased by a couple of bad guys in a black Chevy Impala. I thought if they caught me, they'd probably kill me, or at least steal all the film Starsky had shot." He hung his head and studied his fingernails. "I may, well, I may have come close to running over a few people," he blurted out.

The only sound heard for several seconds was the ticking of the clock. Parson made the first human sound--a giggle that rapidly progressed to a belly laugh. Bennett smirked, and Starsky looked stunned.

Finally, Bennett spoke. "So, that was you this morning."

Hutchinson closed his eyes and exhaled heavily through his nose. "Yeah, but I was fleeing for my life. I didn't actually hit anyone." He paused. "Did I?"

"My good man," continued Bennett, "I'll have you know that an all-points went out on a tan Ford LTD with a license plate beginning with CPL."

"But mine begins with RXT." Hutchinson's statement was nearly a question.

"Of course. It would seem that the CPL most likely referred to the aforementioned Impala. The all-points was cancelled when the Department of Motor Vehicles notified the line sergeant that there were no Ford LTDs with those letters."

"What does that mean?"

"It means, Hutchinson, that we are now looking for a Ford with significant damage to its passenger side. It means that I will have to arrest you." Bennett raised an eyebrow.

Starsky, who had been curious as to why Hutchinson was driving a Rambler, now was dumbfounded. Why didn't he tell me? You didn't ask, dummy, and you haven't been exactly up front with him, either. He found his voice. "You can't do that, Bennett. Not yet, anyways." He caught Hutchinson's glare at him, hunched his shoulders, and gave him a half-smile.

Bennett waited until he saw beads of sweat form on Hutchinson's twitching upper lip. "However, considering the circumstances, I believe I will be able to convince the captain to cancel the all-points entirely and allow me to write you a ticket for reckless driving." He grinned. "I believe that carries a substantial fine, but no imprisonment. If, of course, this is your first such offense. Isn't that right, Lancelot?"

Parson had quieted down to mere sniggles. "You got it, partner."

Hutchinson thought he would faint from relief, but stayed on his feet. "I don't know what to say."

"Oh, that's not good--a reporter without words?" teased Parson.

Hutchinson shot Parson a joking sneer. "Careful, Lance. I may misspell your name. Or leave it out entirely."

"Hey," said Starsky before Parson could speak again, "how long will it be before this all goes down?"

"As your partner indicated, Mr. Starsky, there are many people involved. Ideally, the only way to ensure that no one escapes our net is to execute every warrant we can get within a short time frame. This will take time and coordination, at which, I assure you, Detective Parson excels. If all goes well, what time would you estimate, Lancelot?"

As he ticked off time on his fingers, Parson whispered aloud to himself: "Get the cap and the DA up. . .then a judge. . .some clerks. . .map it out. . .available units. . ." He cleared his throat. "I'm thinkin' 6 in the a.m. sounds right."

"Excellent!" said Bennett. "Would you two gentle journalists care to be present for any of the arrests?"

"Hell yes!" whooped Starsky.

Hutchinson grinned broadly, astonished at his own excitement at the prospect. "We'll be at the newsroom. You have the number. Count us in on the arrests in the park, okay?"

"Consider yourself counted, dude. No trouble to make another phone call," said Parson.

"One last thing. Any way I, um, we can get exclusives for statements and interviews?"

"My good man," said Bennett, "you must understand that the police cannot guarantee exclusive access." He pointed an index finger to the ceiling when he saw Hutchinson begin to object. He smiled impishly and slowly placed the finger perpendicular to his lips.

"What the hell does that mean?" asked Starsky in a stage whisper.

Parson cocked an eyebrow and slapped the photographer on the back. "Mum's the word, dude."

It was nearing midnight before the journalists left the police station. They had left the contact sheets with the detectives after Starsky had jotted down the roll and number of each photo he had to print. Bennett had made copies of Hutchinson's notes from the records he had searched. From the station, they headed for Fat Rollie's, where Starsky's Nikon and negatives were, in amiable and anticipatory silence.

About halfway to Garfield Street, Starsky stretched and let loose with a massive yawn despite the impending climax. "I didn't know it would be this hard workin' for a magazine."

Hutchinson glanced quickly at the dashboard clock. "Damn! I had no idea it was this late."

"Is this unusual for you, you know, workin' past midnight, 'specially two nights in a row?"

"I never had a story this important before," the reporter admitted. "Or one I'm still working on this close to deadline. The heat's really on us. With the arrests happening in a few hours, we have to make this week's edition. Otherwise, this'll be old news, since the details will be out in the papers and on TV before next week's PC."

Starsky was quiet for a couple of minutes as he counted the streetlights that flashed by. "So what happened with this car chase thing?"

Hutchinson felt his heart rate pick up as he recalled the harrowing experience. He told Starsky about it in as few words as possible and ended with, "but it was no big deal."

"No big deal?! Man, you had bad guys gunnin' for you! Like in Bullitt. Why didn'tcha tell me about it?"

Hutchinson waited a few seconds before replying, "I didn't think you wanted to know."

Can't say I blame him for thinking that. "Sure I want to know. Somethin' like that dudn't happen every day."

Hutchinson decided to turn it back on him. "Well, last I saw of you this morning, two guys with bullwhips were after your tail. I would think getting chased by thugs with medieval weapons doesn't happen every day, either. Want to tell me what happened? They hurt your knee?"

"You really wanna know?"

"Yeah, I really do."

Starsky told his chase-and-fight tale hitting just the highlights. "So, ya see, wudn't nothin'."

Hutchinson steered the Rambler onto Garfield a few blocks from the photo lab. "Is this Fat Rollie business open at this hour?"

"Naw. I got a key. Just call when you're ready to pick me up. He's in the book."

Hutchinson stopped the car abruptly a few yards from Rollie's, sending Starsky forward into the dash. "Whattsa matter wit' you?" Starsky snarled.

"Why don't you use one of the labs at PC? We've got all the latest equipment."

"I can't do that. I'm not an employee."

"You are tonight. And I nuh--want you there. We can't be late for the bust."

Starsky thought about it for one second. He couldn't turn down anything free. And Hutchinson was right. "Okay. Just gimme a few minutes." He bounded as best he could from the car. Once inside, he grabbed his camera, the cellophane sheaths of negatives, and a few rolls of unexposed film. He left a note that read, "Fat--I O U 3 rolls Fuji B/W 400, 36 exp. Starsky."

Hutchinson showed Starsky around the newsroom. It was a huge open area with desks topped with manual typewriters of all brands. Interspersed were larger tables that served multiple functions--cutting and pasting stories, comparing photographs, sleeping. At the right far end of the room was the entrance to the negative and print developing labs. At the far left were small offices for senior reporters.

Tonight, the newsroom, or the bullpen as it was sometimes called, was brimming with activity. Starsky felt an adrenalin rise as he drank in the sights of men and even a few women hammering away on typewriters and arguing over how a certain picture should be cropped. He inhaled the familiar, comforting odors of photographic chemicals and strong coffee. His heart quickly fell into sync with metal keys pounding out a strangely rhythmic clatter, with each bell ring providing the upbeat. This place is great--feels like. . .home.

Hutchinson checked an empathetic laugh at seeing Starsky's awed expression; in fact, it reminded him of his own first exposure to a real newsroom during his internship. Now he smiled inwardly at the memories. "It's always like this just before a deadline," he informed the photographer. "I'll introduce you around later, when things are quieter, but right now--well, it's just not a good time."

Starsky permitted himself a glimmer of hope. Hutchinson seemed to have accepted him for the long term. He had met the first condition for a permanent position. At least the glass is half full. Now, there was only one hurdle. But being superstitious as well as optimistic, it seemed nearly impossible to jump at this moment.

Hutchinson surveyed his associates, trying to determine who among the photographers could help Starsky get started. When he saw one of them tilt his chair back and start rocking, he knew he had his man. "Hey, Babcock," he said loudly over the din.

Ray Babcock, a stocky man with thinning, light brown hair and a well-worn camera case on the desk in front of him, looked to the source of his name. He rolled his eyes. "What, Hutchinson?" he said irritably.

Hutchinson huffed sardonically but quietly, and gestured for Starsky to follow him. Once at Babcock's side, he introduced the two. "And at the typewriter," he said, indicating the tall, thickly muscled man with a dark brown crewcut, "is Bob Simmons, cub reporter."

Simmons continued to type as he said, "Cub my ass, Hutchinson. I got two years on you. Now go away."

Hutchinson disregarded Simmons's surliness, though Starsky noticed both men's less-than-positive attitudes towards Hutchinson. Does anybody get along with him? the photographer thought.

"Babcock," said Hutchinson, "Starsky needs to develop some prints. Show him the labs, would you?"

Babcock looked more closely at Starsky. He leaned forward, and the front legs of the chair returned to the floor with a thump. "Sure, why not. Beats sittin' here listening to all this hullabaloo." Without another word, he stood and headed for the newsroom's periphery.

Starsky shot a questioning glance at Hutchinson and followed the other photographer. Hutchinson set up shop at his customary desk and typewriter. In moments, he had tuned out the noise and was deep into the final draft of the story.

After Babcock had shown Starsky how to work all the equipment, including the light system above the doors that signaled what was going on in that particular lab, he said, "We also have radios in every room, too. Feel free to tune it to whatever station you want."

"Terrific. Thanks."

"Just one more thing. How did it go with Hutchinson? We heard he threw a fit in Dobey's office. Something about you being a loose cannon? That true?"

Starsky swallowed hard. "Word sure does travel fast around here."

"Well, this is a news organization. We all make our living by being nosey." Babcock cleared this throat. "So?"

"Maybe that's his opinion, but it's not mine. All I did was go get the shots he needed to back up his story. He couldn't come with me, so why bother him? I don't need anybody tellin' me how to do the job. So, I just, well, did it."

Babcock leaned on the counter behind him. "Okay, I hear what you're saying. And I know he can be a real jackass. But you gotta tell him where you are, when you'll be back. . .you know, that sorta stuff. After all, a picture is worth a thousand words. Things can get pretty dicey out there when something big's going down. The guy you're workin' with is probably the only one who could pull your backside out of a mess." He looked at Starsky's knee. "Would you be limping if you'd told Hutchinson where you were going?"

Starsky colored with guilt. He knew Babcock was right. He knew it before Babcock asked him. He had known it since his short employment for a wire service. He had decided long ago not to risk someone else's neck when his alone was enough. Taking photographs for army intelligence had taught him that. He didn't want to count the number of fellow troopers who died or were wounded protecting him and the film.

Babcock could tell he had hit a nerve. "What good's a great shot if nobody'll ever see it? Or you're not there to take another chance further down the road, huh?" He paused for several long moments. "Happy printing. You know where you can find me if you got any questions." He left the print lab, closing the door softly on a subdued Starsky.

It was 3:30 when Starsky was finally satisfied with the quality of the prints. He left the lab to find the bullpen with several additional people, and Hutchinson taking a sheet of paper out of the typewriter. He threaded his way through the desks and tables, nodding at those eyes that cared to make contact with his. Gently, he tossed the stack of prints onto Hutchinson's desk before he grabbed a chair and sat on it backwards. "What now?"

"I just finished, so now you read, I suppose. I'll take a look at the photos and decide where I think they need to be cropped. You read this"--he handed the papers to Starsky--"and let me know if I left anything out or got anything wrong."

"I'll check for spellin' mistakes, too. I was the spellin' champeen in Miz Hodges' fourth grade class."

"Yeah, I bet. Everybody else must've been out sick the day of the bee."

"And by the looks of the lead paragraph, seems you got your journalism degree from the Burpee catalog."

It registered with both men that this latest verbal sparring lacked the thorns earlier bouts had had. Hutchinson liked it. "Are you calling my writing 'seedy'?"

Starsky was delighted that Hutchinson continued the match. "Hey, if the shoe fits. . .I call 'em like I see 'em."

"Well, the only thing seedy around here are your clothes."

"And this from a guy who drives a car that even dirt would be ashamed to be on? For anybody else, that pink Rambler would be a step down. For you, it's a major step up."

"Well, I prefer to call it 'salmon-colored,' and it was the only color available," Hutchinson said with pained and snooty disappointment.

Starsky started chuckling low in his throat. Quickly it turned into a belly laugh and Hutchinson joined him. The others in the newsroom stopped what they were doing, astounded at the very rare sound of Hutchinson engaging in laughter.

"You're weird, Blondie, you know that?" Starsky pushed the prints closer to Hutchinson. "Took a little work, but they didn't come out as grainy as they could've. I'm pretty sure they're good enough to use as is." He began reading and was instantly caught up in the story.

Hutchinson studied each photograph carefully, first noting composition and what had to be left to maintain its integrity and to support the story. Cropping anything off these is gonna be a tough job. Then he attended to the content.

Each photo rattled him, dragged him into it, made him a part of that appalling experience. His entire body clenched at the suffering, the degradation, the hopelessness. Dear God, how could any human being do this to another? He couldn't stop his eyes from tearing at, nor could he pull them away from, one particular shot.

It was of young girls, huddled in the charcoal gray of a crate and clinging to each other. Their bodies were lighter shades of gray, of shadow. In that shadow, the whites of their eyes seemed to leap off the paper, as if the image were three-dimensional.

Quickly returning the photos to the desk, he sniffed back and swiped away his unshed tears. He scooted back in his chair, which grated fingernails-on-chalkboard-irritatingly across the floor. In the abrupt silence, every body except Starsky's cringed at the sound; every eye except Starsky's centered on him. Hutchinson felt his ears burn. "Uh," he said in a low, cracking voice to the curly head bent over the story pages, "I'm going for coffee. You want some?"

When Starsky didn't respond, Hutchinson's first instinct was to smack his hand on the table and yell at him. But that urge quickly disappeared when he realized Starsky had every ounce of attention on the story. He left, anxious for fresh air and something less tragic and disturbing to think about for awhile.

Starsky was enthralled by the first-rate telling of the crimes visited upon those innocently seeking opportunity. It was documentary prose that flowed with a cadence, but there was nothing poetic about it. Even Hutchinson's recitation of public records information riveted him to the page. He forgot the room and the people around him, and the toothachy knee, and the fatigue, and the hunger.

When he finished, he took great care in putting the pages just so on the desk. The sounds of the newsroom crept back into his awareness. His chest was heavy, making it hard to breathe. His eyes stung, and it was difficult to focus. He looked around, but no Hutchinson--only strangers. He laid his forehead on his arms, closed his eyes, and forced himself to recall his last trip to Disneyland.

Hutchinson had taken 45 minutes to rejuvenate himself and pick up two large coffees and a half dozen doughnuts. He had even stuffed his jacket pocket with sugar packets for Starsky.

On his return, Hutchinson found Starsky with his head down and breathing deeply. How can he sleep through all this racket? He put the coffees and the sack of doughnuts down and lightly touched Starsky's shoulder. He opened his mouth to speak, but was thwarted by the edge of Starsky's hand chopping into his gut. He doubled over, hugging his abdomen and choke-coughing, and staggered back into a table.

Though instantly awake, it took a second or so for Starsky to realize what was going on. Dammit! Been back for years, and I'm still doin' this crap. He rose and hobbled the few feet to the reporter. First I slap 'im, and now I slug 'im. I ain't never gonna get this job. "God, Hutchinson, I'm sorry. Army training." He smiled feebly at the wary, glistening blue eyes. Arm around his "victim's" shoulders, he assisted him to the nearest chair. "Guess some things ya never forget." He swiftly retreated to his chair and avoided eye contact.

Hutchinson waved away the prying eyes that once again fixated on him and Starsky. The pain was easing, but the surprise was still there. "I'm. . .will be. . .okay soon," he said in frazzled gulps to the remorseful face. As he worked to control his breathing and pain, some of his questions about Starsky began to be answered. Bet he served in 'Nam. . .wonder if he's one of those who can't stick with a job. . .His breath wobbled in his throat when he realized he hoped that wasn't the case.

Finally, Hutchinson declared himself comfortable, though still shaken. He nodded to one of the foam containers and said, "One of 'em's yours. And doughnuts in the bag." Moving carefully, afraid that normal speeds would provoke increased pain, he emptied his pocket of sugar packs and tossed them on the desk. "If you call me Lavelle, I'll kill you."

Starsky grinned, knowing he was forgiven. "I could never confuse you with her; she's got lots more hair." He sugared up his drink and ripped open the sack. "My favorites!"

Hutchinson first looked at the pastries, then his companion, quizzically. "Starsky, how can they all be your favorite? There are six different kinds!"

"Well, they're favorites for different reasons. The plain one? Perfect for dunkin' in coffee or milk. The glazed is just right for heatin' up on a griddle and serving up with ice cream in the hole. The one with sprinkles -"

"All right--I get the picture," Hutchinson interrupted as he put up one hand in surrender. He chose the chocolate iced cake doughnut. "Millie gets in at 5 on D-Day -"

"D-Day?" Starsky interrupted.

"Sorry--deadline day. She gets in early so she can organize Dobey's reading and make copies for the magazine's attorney. We have to make sure this story is the first one he reads, because it won't be finished before it's due in editing and layout." He grinned smugly. "For the first time ever, I get to say, or write really, 'stop the presses!'"

"I'm right--you're weird," Starsky declared, though secretly he was excited about it as well. "What makes you think he'll hold everything up?"

"Because the arrests are this morning, and there's no way the cops can guarantee us an exclusive. I think Parson and Bennett will try to keep this quiet for a lot of reasons, but there are TV and 'paper reporters whose beat is Metro." Hutchinson sighed. "The story's ready to go as is, but it would be great if this edition included the busts, too."

Starsky took a big swallow of the now-warm beverage. "We did it, didn't we?" he asked through a huge grin.

Hutchinson mirrored the grin. "Yep, we sure did."

"Feels good," he said with satisfaction in his voice.

"Feels terrific. We really helped these people."

"And we helped get the bad guys."

Hutchinson laughed lightly through his nose, his satisfaction and sense of accomplishing something that made a real difference in people's lives evident in the laugh. "Yep."

They devoured the little meal in silence, though the activity in the room neared a fever pitch. While Starsky remained in the newsroom so as not to miss the call from the detectives, Hutchinson sneaked out a few minutes before 5 a.m. and accosted Millie as she got out of her car in the underground garage. He pleaded for their story to be first for Dobey's review. She had no problem promising that when she saw the photographs.

Before giving her the story, Hutchinson scrawled something on the first and the last pages. He gave her an excited smile and a kiss on the cheek. He jogged back to the elevators, leaving behind a bewildered Millie, one hand on the cheek, the other holding the folder to her bosom.

The call came around 5:45. Bennett said the arrests were timed for 6:15 to 6:30, and included building and fire inspectors, two people at customs, executives of the two businesses, the officers of both ships, and the supervisory personnel onsite at the factories. "Lancelot and I will be serving the warrants at the Rising Sun. We assumed that was the one you would most be interested in documenting."

Hutchinson smiled. "That's why you're a detective, Bennett. We'll be there."

"One more thing, Hutchinson. I'm afraid your colleagues from one of the telly stations have found us out."

Hutchinson winced from disappointment. "That was bound to happen, I suppose. We're on our way." He hung up before Bennett could say more.

Starsky, camera dangling from his neck, was already on his way to the elevators. Watching him from behind, Hutchinson frowned at the limp. Wonder if he's this stubborn about everything? he thought as he followed him.

They didn't speak during the ride down to the garage--both were too keyed up to say anything. Once in the Rambler, Starsky's entire body seemed to be in motion, and Hutchinson played the steering wheel as if he were practicing scales on a piano.

The reporter had to think about something other than the upcoming arrests and the culmination of the story. Gruffly, he cleared his throat of the lump that had grown in it. "How's the leg? Is it doing all right?"

"Yeah, it's no big deal. It'll be fine," he said as he gazed out the window into the early morning light. Perfect time of day for shooting.

"Are you sure?"

Starsky snorted in exasperated good nature. "I'm sure."

"After all this is over, I could take you to the emergency room. You really should get it checked out."

"You're worse than my mother, Hutchinson," he said. "It's been hurt before, it'll get hurt again. Don't sweat it--I'm not."

"Okay," Hutchinson agreed reluctantly. He returned to playing the steering wheel.

They drove in silence for a few minutes. The only sound was the fabric of Starsky's jeans swishing against the seat as his left leg rolled side to side. At a stoplight, Hutchinson picked up the conversation. "So, where's your mother?"

Starsky, taken aback, looked at Hutchinson. "Hunh?"

"You said I'm worse than your mother," he replied with a grin. "But if she saw you limping like that, I'll bet she'd be all over your case. It'd be a safe bet that you'd be living with her, rather than over a restaurant, if she lived here. So, where is she?"

Starsky laughed. "You figured that out all by yourself? I bet you'll make a good investigative reporter one day."

Though surprised at the back-door compliment Starsky had just paid him, Hutchinson began laughing as well. "That's a bet I'm counting on you to win."

They continued to laugh for another block. Once it was quiet again, Hutchinson asked, "Well?"

"Well what?"

Hutchinson rolled his eyes. "Your mother?"

"Oh, yeah." He paused. "Brooklyn."

"Thought so--the accent. You're a long way from home."

Starsky sighed as he looked farther off into the distance. "Yeah, I guess, in some ways. New York hasn't been home for me since my dad died when I was 12. My ma sent me out here to live with my aunt and uncle after that."

Taken off guard, Hutchinson stammered, "I-I-I'm sorry. . .about your dad."

Starsky shrugged and twisted one side of his mouth.

"What happened, if you don't mind my asking? Was he sick?"

"Naw. He was a cop. Shot on his way home from work one night."

Hutchinson said softly, "Damn, I can't imagine." He drove for several blocks while he absorbed the information. "Did they catch who did it? And why would someone shoot an off-duty cop?"

Starsky now had his chin hovering over his right shoulder. His body was completely still. "Don't know if they even really tried," he muttered.

Hutchinson barely heard the statement. The meaning sank in immediately, however, and he was disgusted. That can't be right. Cops will do anything to get cop killers. "What?!"

Dammit! I can't believe I said that out loud. Starsky shook off his sad and resentful mood. "Never mind. It's not important. Anyway, we're here." He pointed to the industrial park entrance.

Hutchinson, shifting into reporter mode, made note of several nearly empty city school buses and a rescue squad in the process of parking along the main street. He steered the Rambler into the park. Within a few feet into it, a uniformed cop stopped him. He whipped out his press credentials and was promptly waved on.

Starsky, meanwhile, was readying his Nikon. He wondered if this thudding in his chest, this boiling in his stomach, this trembling in his hands, was what his father experienced when he served a warrant. Enjoy it, 'cause this is as close as you're ever gonna get to bein' a cop.

Hutchinson pulled in behind the last police cruiser in a long line of them leading up to Building 17. Ahead, he saw the Ford station wagon with wooden side panels he knew to be Bennett's car parked next to the building just before #17. He also saw the KZAM van, with its brand new satellite transmitter lashed to the roof. When the hell did they get that new equipment? he grumbled to himself. "Okay, Starsky," he said to the photographer over the Rambler's roof, "you know this place much better than I do. What do you suggest?"

Starsky thought for a moment before answering, "Loading dock. Only place big enough to handle all the people."

"What are we waiting for?" Hutchinson gestured for Starsky to take the lead. The latter started off at a crooked trot that favored his right leg. Hutchinson stayed close on his heels.

They reached Bennett's car to find him, Parson, and four uniformed officers strapping on bulletproof vests. Starsky and Hutchinson exchanged worried looks.

"Ah, gentlemen, you have arrived just in time for our little party. The six of us will enter first and secure the area. Please, don't ask to accompany us--orders from Captain Ferguson. Lancelot and I would like to keep our jobs and pensions."

Both civilians bristled. "You can't do that!" they said together without realizing it.

"What delightful harmony you two have. Nevertheless, the answer remains the same." He snickered and turned to his partner. "I say, Lancelot, are you ready?"

"Born ready, man. Let's get this show on the road before they see we're here."

Starsky and Hutchinson did follow the police officers until they got to the loading dock. Starsky shot their entry into #17, as did the TV crew. The waiting began. "Okay, Hutchinson, stick close," he said as he handed the reporter two canisters of unexposed film. "Since I don't have a second camera, you're gonna have to be ready to give me a fresh roll when I call for one."

"But you said you had a Hasselblad. Where's that?"

"Geez, Hutchinson, don't you know anything about cameras? A Hasselblad is very expensive, an' I can't afford to risk it on a job like this." No wonder he's a reporter--not much gets past him.

"If I knew anything about photography, I wouldn't need you, now would I?" I can't believe I said that.

"Oh, yeah? Bet you couldn't take a decent shot to save your own life. You need me, buddy boy." Go on, admit it's a two-way street.

"Like I need a boil on my butt. Pictures can't tell the whole story, you know." But yours tell a hell of a lot of it. "They need words. You need me."

Before Starsky could retort, plaited leather snaked swiftly around his left arm. Both men were too shocked to speak or move. In the next instant, the bullwhip jerked upwards. Starsky's hand released the camera unwillingly as his arm stretched above his head. He was pulled to his tiptoes before he could yell, "Hutchinson!"

That snapped the reporter out of his open-mouthed paralysis. Without thinking, he jumped up and grabbed the whip with both hands. The weight was too much for the whip-wielder--the Korean man whom Starsky had photographed the previous day--so he let go before he could be pulled through the second-story window.

The two newsmen tumbled to the ground, with Hutchinson cushioning Starsky's fall. As if being sandwiched between pavement and a man weighing about 160 pounds wasn't bad enough, Starsky's right elbow made matters worse by stabbing Hutchinson mid-chest. Air whooshed out until his lungs were almost empty.

Starsky, slow to move because he was protecting the Nikon and his knee from further injury, finally rolled off Hutchinson. "Hey, you okay?" he asked as he lay beside him.

Hutchinson nodded his head uncertainly as his breath restored itself. Suddenly, he became aware of being watched. He craned his neck around until he saw the KZAM reporter pointing to them. "Shit," he squeezed out in a hasty exhalation.

Starsky ignored them and eased himself to a standing position. Once stable, he unwound the whip and tossed it aside. He winced at the deep spasm of pain in his left shoulder. Extending his right hand to Hutchinson, he said, "Can't promise I won't fall again helpin' you up."

Hutchinson scowled at the TV crew that was now totally focused on him and Starsky. "Hey, we're not the story here, Davis," he yelled at the TV reporter. Once satisfied that they were not being filmed, he grinned up at Starsky. "I'll take my chances." Lungs still laboring slightly, he clasped the offered hand, and then he was standing. His entire body ached, but his back and chest throbbed. Slowly and cautiously, he worked his joints and palpated his ribs and sternum. He said to Starsky, "Nothing's broken. But it wouldn't hurt for you to lose some weight."

"Can't--all muscle. Hey, something's happenin'!" Starsky sidestepped Hutchinson and resumed shooting.

The uniformed officers had four men and one woman in custody in handcuffs and were escorting them to the cruisers. As they neared Starsky and Hutchinson, both men recognized the Vietnamese man, who now had two black eyes and a piece of wide tape over the bridge of his nose.

The Viet also recognized them. As he was passing Hutchinson, the Viet pushed against the cop holding his arm. The officer stumbled and released his hold. The Viet shot away from him and toward the reporter. He started a jump kick, aimed for Hutchinson's chin and meant to snap his neck.

Starsky, a couple of feet to Hutchinson's left, saw it coming and was in motion instantly. He cried out, "Huuuutch!" as he stepped between the two, facing and shoving Hutchinson away and taking the kick in his back just beneath the left shoulder blade. His arms flew up and he pitched forward.

Hutchinson maintained his footing. He reached out and caught Starsky under his arms. He staggered back and somehow managed to remain standing despite Starsky's weight and momentum and the lens poking him where Starsky had so recently socked him. In the V made by the photographer's head and raised arm, he could see the police regaining control of the Vietnamese. He shifted his hands to Starsky's waist and helped him recover his balance. The dark blue eyes were glassy. "Hey, Starsk, you okay?"

He grunted and nodded his head once, but didn't dare speak yet; the new pain seemed to have stolen his voice. He turned back to the action, stumbling like a drunk. He failed miserably when he tried to lift the camera.

"Come on, let's find somewhere to sit for a few minutes. We both could use a break." Hutchinson wrapped his left arm behind Starsky's waist. Automatically, Starsky put his right arm around Hutchinson's shoulders and held on for dear life. Soon, they were at Bennett's station wagon.

The detectives, having already put their suspects in the back seat, rushed to the newsmen's aid. "Cool move, Starsky," said Parson as he took over from the obviously hurting Hutchinson. "But the idea is to git yo'self out the way, too." He helped Starsky take a seat on the opened tailgate. Hutchinson gently sat down beside him, gritting his teeth through the growing pain in his lower back. They fell toward each other until their shoulders met.

"Anybody got asp'rins?" asked Starsky after another minute. "Didn't think journalism in America would be hazardous to my health." Hutchinson snorted his agreement.

"Sure, dude, Bennett keeps some in his glove compartment. Be right back."

Five minutes after dry-swallowing three aspirins each, Starsky and Hutchinson felt rested enough to continue. Besides, neither was willing to let the TV news crew beat them at getting shots of the girls being loaded onto the school buses, which Bennett had called in a couple of minutes before. However, Bennett kept them in the immediate vicinity of the wagon for a few moments longer.

"Here you go, my good man," the former Scotland Yard inspector said to Hutchinson as he handed him a sheet of paper. "Your citation for reckless driving. You do not have to appear in court or serve any time. Compliments of Captain Ferguson. Now, aren't you the lucky bloke."

Hutchinson folded the ticket in half and stuffed it in his jacket pocket. Masking his relief with a half-smile at Bennett and pretending not to hear the photographer's sniggers, he said, "Let's get back to work, Starsky, and leave these turkeys to harass someone else."

Starsky documented the de-shackling of those girls in irons on the second and third floors, as well as their tentative trek to freedom. He documented interpreters and social workers and paramedics doing their jobs. As soon as Starsky started his third roll, Hutchinson left him to begin his interviews.

Unexpectedly, a Korean girl about twelve years old broke away and ran to Starsky. Keeping her head bowed, she hugged him quickly, then ran to Hutchinson. She hugged him as well, and returned to the others.

Hutchinson observed that Starsky had stopped shooting. He asked the interpreter he was speaking with to ask the girl why she had done that. He listened to what sounded like incomprehensible but musical chatter as the two conversed.

"She says she saw that man"--the interpreter pointed to Starsky--"taking pictures of them yesterday. Now he is back, and they are free, so he did something to help. She saw you two together, so you must have helped to free them, too. She doesn't know how to say 'thank you' in English."

Nonplussed, Hutchinson ran a hand over his face, squared his shoulders, and looked at Starsky. He watched as the photographer slowly limped away, presumably to find new sights to shoot.

Harold Dobey, a human force 3 hurricane, stormed into Millie's office around 7:30 a.m. "Where the hell is Hutchinson? He's not in the bullpen!" he blustered. "Did he file his story? That Starsky boy bring in the prints?"

Millie, still savoring Hutchinson's thank-you kiss, let her boss's fury thunder right past her. "Check your desk, Harold," she said. "And good morning to you, too."

"I wanna see him the very instant he gets in," Dobey ordered. He stalked to his office and slammed the door shut. "Dammit. . .all over the TV. . .can't believe we've been scooped," he muttered fiercely as he went about his routine of ridding himself of briefcase and suit coat. He jerked his chair out and plunked himself down in it, ready to speed-read and do first edit.

He withdrew his reading glasses from a desk drawer and put them on as he picked up the first page of the first story. "What the. . ."

It was Hutchinson's illegal immigrant/slavery story, complete with photographs. He read and re-read the scrawl that followed Kenneth Hutchinson's typed byline: and David Starsky. "What is going on?" he whispered.

As he read the story, which was flawlessly written in Hutchinson's customary style, a grin slowly spread across his face. Their story contained many intimate details that the television reports didn't have. And the competition didn't have film of the crates and stacks of dead bodies in the cargo hold, the welcome-to-America public showers, the young girls in irons. His teeth were showing by the time he got to the -30- at the end. The smile faded somewhat when he read the handwritten note beneath it: stop the presses--we're getting the arrests--KH.

"I'll be damned." He hit the intercom button. "Millie--get in here."

The newsmen stopped in the Bradford Building's restaurant for large coffees and fried egg-and-bacon-on-toast sandwiches to go. Even before they got on the elevator, Starsky had finished his first sandwich. "You have one of those new egg mick-things from McDonald's yet?" he asked as he opened the wrapper on the second.

The elevator door slid open and they boarded along with six other people. Hutchinson used his elbow to punch the correct button for their floor. "Nope. Don't usually eat that kind of stuff for breakfast. Hardly ever eat bacon."

"You're eatin' it now."

"Yeah, but it's more like a late supper."

"But it's 8:30 in the mornin', and that makes it breakfast. Don't matter that we've been up all night."

Hutchinson self-consciously looked around at their fellow passengers. Every one of them was staring at the numbered lights above the door. He shrugged lightly and said quietly, "Breakfast is the first meal of the day after you haven't eaten all night because you've been asleep. You're breaking your fast, get it?"

Starsky rolled his eyes and swallowed the last bite of his sandwich. "You don't get it. Breakfast is the first meal of the day, period. You eat somethin' at night, after midnight, that doesn't count, 'cause it's at night."

The elevator stopped and a man in a dark blue suit glared at the pair before he stepped off. Starsky smiled and Hutchinson nodded his head at him until the door closed.

"'Sides, eggs are breakfast," Starsky continued immediately. "And, you know, graveyard shift people eat during the night, but they call it 'breakfast' if they eat before going to bed."

"And how would you know?"

"I worked nights at a supermarket. And one more thing. . ." Starsky paused when he heard the impatient rustling of suits and attaché cases behind them. "If it's after midnight and dark still, people don't say 'Good day.' Nobody says that 'til it's light outside. So, breakfast is the first meal of the day." Baffled by his own statement, he knitted his eyebrows in confusion. "Hey, that didn't come out quite right."

Hutchinson chuckled. "Are you just sleep-deprived or were you dropped on your head as a baby?"

"Neither. I'm a deep thinker."

The elevator door opened to reveal their floor. They exited to someone mumbling, "Thank God they're gone."

"You go on to the bullpen, Starsky, and get started. I'll let Millie and Dobey know we're back."

Starsky nodded and headed for the newsroom. He stopped short to avoid colliding with Millie leaving the women's restroom. "'Scuse me," he said as he gestured for her to continue on.

Millie saw the reporter opening the door to her office. "Wait, Hutchinson!" she called out. She grabbed Starsky's hand and pulled him along with her. "Dobey'll probably want to see you, too, Curly."

Starsky nearly dropped his coffee cup. He's prob'ly decided not to run the story since it's been on TV. Which means I won't get paid. Which means no way I get the job now. Suddenly and without explanation, his knee hurt more and his limp worsened. The don't-worry look from Hutchinson did nothing to help.

Hutchinson prepared to knock on Dobey's door but hesitated. He looked for reassurance from Millie, who only gave him a quick nod of her head. Seeing Starsky bob up and down an inch or two did calm his fear of the unknown slightly. He rapped twice quickly and walked in with Starsky a good two steps behind. "You wanted to see us?"

Dobey hadn't raised his head at the knocks; he had simply peered over his half-glasses. He didn't budge when Hutchinson appeared and spoke. "Sit down."

Reluctantly, Hutchinson took the chair on the left and Starsky took the right. It took longer than either expected to get comfortable--or actually, to stop squirming.

With deliberate slowness, Dobey reached to the right hand corner of his desk for their story and photographs. He took even more time to leaf through it all. By the time he was ready to speak, Hutchinson was drumming his fingers on the chair's arm and Starsky rocked back and forth. Hate to see this end, because I'm sure enjoying it. He eased into a serene smile before blasting out, "You want to explain this to me?!"

Starsky and Hutchinson exchanged rapid, uneasy, how-much-trouble-are-we-in looks. Hutchinson decided he should answer.

"Explain what, exactly?"

"What the hell kinda answer is another question?! By the looks and smells of you two, I can tell you've been at something for awhile, so I'll cut you some slack. I'm gonna be real explicit. How did this story that you've been working on for almost two weeks wind up on the damn TV news this morning? At the same time the cops are bustin' the illegal immigration ring? The same story you said you couldn't finish 'cause you didn't have a good photographer?" He finally stopped for a breath and an answer.

Hutchinson ceased finger-drumming as he tried to come up with a good and succinct answer. "Well, I. . .I mean, we. . .no, it was me, then he. . ."

Starsky, seeing the reporter's distress and help-me look, jumped right in. "Well, ya see -"

Dobey cut him off with a dismissive wave. "Was I talking to you, Starsky? And what the hell are you doin' here, anyway?"

"No, but I'm sorta responsible for it, and Millie said you'd want to see me."

"Okay, then, go ahead. At least the cat doesn't seem to have your tongue. It's got a stranglehold on my reporter's."

Starsky plunged ahead; he figured he had nothing more to lose. Maybe Hutchinson can keep his job. "It's not his fault the cops busted 'em this morning. And it's not his fault the TV crew was there, either."

Taken off guard by Starsky's coming to his defense, Hutchinson asked, "How is it not my fault?"

"I'm the one who kept insistin' that we help those people. I even suggested we go to the cops."

"But I was the one who approved that, remember? I knew it was time, and I made the call."

"Yeah, but I wouldn't've let us go if Huggy hadn't confirmed the story."

Hutchinson puffed out audibly through his nose and leaned over the side of his chair toward Starsky. "What, so now we wouldn't have done anything if your snitch who dresses like a color-blind circus clown hadn't okayed it?"

"I didn't say we wouldn't've done nothing!" he insisted. He turned in his chair to better lean toward Hutchinson. "Besides, he did confirm it. He's a good source, Hutch! And he's colorful, not color-blind."

"I didn't say he wasn't a good source. I barely know the guy! And what kind of name is Huggy Bear for a grown man?" He paused for a quick breath.

Starsky took advantage of the opportunity. "Hug -"

"What did you just call me?" Hutchinson interrupted.

Starsky, not sure what to make of Hutchinson's borderline inquisitorial tone, tried to remember exactly what he had called him. But his concern of inadvertently insulting or offending a man he had come to respect blocked recall of the name.

Dobey, who had been watching the argument as if it were a ping-pong match, had had enough, despite its entertaining nature. "Hold it."

Only their heads turned to face him.

"Now that I have your attention," Dobey said less gruffly, "I wanted to say this is a good story. But I need some clarification here. You guys took this to the cops?"

"Yeah," responded Hutchinson. "I've got contacts in the detectives division at Metro. We showed them the story and the pictures, and they got the warrants."

Dobey shook his head. "First mistake. You should have come to me first."

Starsky twisted around and leapt from his chair to stand in front of the desk and face off with Dobey. The editor didn't back away. "Now wait a second!" he said. "Those people were sufferin', dyin'! They needed help! Besides, I got caught taking pictures in the factory"--at this revelation, Dobey's eyes widened--"and they probably suspected somethin' was up and coulda started destroying evidence." Starsky shuddered. "Or worse. No story is as important as that." During this tirade, Hutchinson had left his chair and now stood by Starsky, albeit a foot away.

Dobey took mental note of that action. He picked up his red pencil and used it to emphasize his words. "Starsky, I don't know how it was at your other jobs, but I'm the captain of this ship! You follow my orders or get the hell off!"

Starsky stood tall and took a half-step back. He clamped his jaw shut, restraining the impulse to fire back something, to keep from jeopardizing any chance at future freelance work for PC.

Dobey attempted to rearrange his bulk in the chair. The pencil found its way back to the desktop. "What I was trying to say was that I should have looked over the whole thing first. Hutchinson, you've never written a story resulting in arrests before. Plus, the last time I saw you two, Starsky, you were asking for your pay to be ready when you dropped off the prints. And Hutchinson, you were still trying to piece your story together." He leaned back. "Now, imagine my surprise when I get up this morning to find this"--a thick finger pointed to the written story--"on the TV news. Every channel that has live broadcasts had something. I leave home without kissing my lovely wife and kids, get to work late on D-Day, and find this, with a double byline, on my desk." On this, he sat upright and lightly smacked the stack of papers and photos with a chunky hand. It was enough to make Starsky and Hutchinson jump a little.

Hutchinson opened his mouth to reply, but Starsky beat him to it. "With all due respect, captain, the worst the cops coulda done was say there wasn't enough for warrants. That would've given the bad guys more time to do some housecleanin'. But there was enough, and I knew it."

"What makes you an expert?"

"He's right, Mr. Dobey," Hutchinson piped up. "He does have some knowledge. His dad was a cop."

"But he isn't, and never was."

Starsky replied with a hint of defensiveness, "I coulda been. I almost was. I knew it was enough."

With genuine surprise in his eyes, Hutchinson looked at Starsky for an explanation. The photographer merely hunched his shoulders once and canted his head.

Tiring of the argument, Dobey sighed and said, "Whatever! I'm getting too old for shocks like I had this morning. So, from now on, you will keep me informed. No excuses. There are public telephones all over this city. Make sure you got plenty of dimes on you at all times. Understood?"

Hutchinson gave a begrudging nod. "You aren't going to spike this story, are you?" he asked with challenge in his voice.

Dobey tapped the desk twice. "Alex McNulty--he's the magazine's libel attorney, Starsky--has given the go-ahead on this one. It'll be in tomorrow's edition." He analyzed the wide smiles on each man's face; Hutchinson's was one of pride, Starsky's of relief. "Now, about the follow-up for next week's edition. How much of an exclusive are you going to get from the cops?"

"This was a big bust for them. I'm pretty damn sure they'll be expressing their gratitude by giving us first crack at just about everything they can," Hutchinson informed him.

"Great! Tell me who your cops are, and I'll have Simmons and Babcock -"

Starsky and Hutchinson simultaneously erupted in a loud, territorial, "WHAT?!" and hovered threateningly close to Dobey.

"Keep your shirts on, and let me finish. They'll work on this today only, so you two can finish the first chapter of this story. And Starsky, get me those contact sheets ASAP. Hutchinson, dictate the rest of what you have to Minnie. Then you both go home and get some sleep. Report back here tomorrow, bright and early. You do want another job, don't you, Starsky?"

When Starsky didn't answer right away, Hutchinson elbowed the gape-mouthed photographer. "Well?"

"Oh, yeah. I'll be here, all right."

"Good. You can pick up your check for this first batch from Millie. Same agreement for the follow-up. And son, looks like it's one down and one to go." Dobey hid his self-satisfied grin by looking down at the story for a few moments. Can I pick a team or what? And Hutchinson is even giving story credit to a photographer. This is one for the record books.

Starsky stared in astonishment at a spot over Dobey's head. "Yeah, halfway there," he whispered.

"Hey, that's right!" reiterated Hutchinson. "I'm still standing and the story is nearing bedtime."

Dobey rolled his eyes. "Now, get the hell outta my office, you two clowns! I can't hold this edition up forever!" Then, he muttered, "'Stop the presses'--whoever heard of such nonsense."

Hutchinson and Starsky, existing only on the dregs of adrenalin and a little protein, slowly began the short trek to Millie's office.

"Hey, Hutchinson, what did Boss Man mean about 'double byline'?"

"Oh. That. Well, this morning I decided to add your name. I mean, without your input, the story lacked. . .humanity. What you saw and told me made it real. You deserve some credit for that."

Starsky stopped unexpectedly. Hutchinson took another step before stopping himself. "What is it? Something the matter?"

"Uh, no. It's just that I get my name on a story, and not just the photos. Never expected anything like this to happen. Can't wait to tell my ma!" Starsky flashed Hutchinson a wide grin of thanks. He's all right.

Dobey waited until they reached the door to spring one last thing on them. "By the way, you got the cover."

Trying to read Dobey's face to determine if he was serious was impossible. Hutchinson, being a reporter, needed verification. "Really?"

The editor nodded and smiled.

My first cover! "Yeah! Way to go, partner!" he exclaimed as he slapped Starsky's left shoulder. He began laughing with excitement.

A confused Starsky, marginally successful at hiding his wince, smiled back. He was pretty sure what Dobey meant, but not sure enough. "Hey, yeah, that's great. But. . .what is it?" He looked from one to the other with happy puzzlement.

Hutchinson laughed. "One of those shots of yours is going to be on the cover of Plainclothes California when it hits the newsstands tomorrow morning. And our story will be the first one listed in the table of contents."

This has got to be a joke on me. Some kind of initiation, maybe? But they seem so serious. Amused disbelief replaced the doubt on his features. "You're kidding, right?" This time, his eyes darted back and forth between the two. He waited for the laugh at his expense.

Hutchinson gently squeezed Starsky's shoulder to get his undivided attention. "He's not kidding, partner."

Starsky's face returned to doubt. He first probed Hutchinson's sparkling blue eyes for the truth, then Dobey's rich dark brown ones. Finding nothing to dissuade him from believing them, he let his face light up like a Christmas tree. He grabbed Hutchinson in a big hug and started to dance him around the room until his knee harshly reminded him it was injured. "Ow-ow-ow! I forgot!" Starsky would have fallen had Hutchinson not been hanging onto him.

"Easy, I got you," said Hutchinson softly. "Let's get you to a chair." He started to take Starsky back into the office.

Starsky revolted. "No, I'm fine, really. Jus' gimme a coupla minutes, okay? We still got work to do. And I can sit just as good in the darkroom as I can here." He grimaced and rubbed the knee gingerly.

Hutchinson looked to Dobey for guidance. The editor nodded for them to leave. "As soon as you two are done, I want you back here."

"Anything you say. Cap'n," Starsky teased. They left, Starsky with an arm over Hutchinson's shoulder and hopping on his left leg, and Hutchinson with his arm around Starsky's waist.

"You know, I could walk outta here and to the darkroom on my own. But I know you're the social-worker type."

"Sure you could get there, you lunatic. You'd get as far as the door to the hallway, then I'd have to drag you by your stupid hair to the bullpen. You need me, Starsk."

"I need you? What I need is some of my aunt Rosie's chicken soup. What I need is a girl who's a cheap date and easy. What I need--hey, what did you call me?"

Hutchinson huffed as he carefully maneuvered them through the outer office door. "Starsky, will you just shut up?"

"Who are you tellin' to shut up? You're not the boss-a me. . ."

Dobey, who had put his head in his hands early on in this latest debate, looked up to see Millie closing her door, cutting off the rest of what was sure to be a long argument. What have I done? Call me Dr. Frankenstein. "Millie, get me Danby at HQ. And some aspirins, too."

The secretary gave him a sly grin. "Coming up. Captain. You know, things are going to be mighty interesting around here from now on." Dobey's head was back in his hands before she closed his door.

Hutchinson had chosen the most isolated table in the newsroom to sleep on while he waited for Starsky to finish printing the final photographs for the article. He had finished his part, thanks to Minnie Kaplan, a copy editor/researcher who occasionally typed copy when the deadline loomed large, about an hour ago. Now curled up on the hard surface, he slept soundly despite that fact and the aches and pains he had and waited for his partner.

Maximum fatigue made Starsky drag his right leg behind him as he left the print room for the final time that day. He immediately caught sight of the blond man. Geez, what's he still doin' here? He made his way over to Hutchinson. Gently he touched his shoulder and shook him. "Hey, Hutch, wake up, will ya?"

There it is--my name again, Hutchinson thought as he struggled to awaken. "Jack? That you?" he asked quietly and full of hope.

"You're dreamin', buddy. It's me--Starsky. Nobody around here named Jack, that I know of anyway."

Soon, Hutchinson's long, leanly muscled legs dangled off the side of the table. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and stretched carefully. "What time is it?"

"'Bout noon, I think. Hey, who's Jack and what're you still doin' here, huh?"

Hutchinson yawned and quivered. "Did you call me 'Hutch'?"

Starsky felt relief; this time, Hutchinson's tone was friendly, even intimate--not suspicious and harsh. Still, he answered delicately, "Yeah, I did. Is that a problem?"

Hutchinson looked to the ceiling to capture a few memories. "No one's called me that for years. Last one who did was my buddy Jack Mitchell. For a minute there, I thought it was him talking to me."

"Hey, man, I didn't mean nothin'. Just seemed to fit, ya know? I won't call you that again, I swear."

Hutchinson gave Starsky a penetrating, soul-searching look. Starsky met him head-on with the same. Neither spoke; both studied the other.

It was a full minute later before Hutchinson thought, It's time I let you go it alone, Jack. I thought I had buried Hutch with you, but I guess I didn't. I believe he might've found someone he can trust. "That's okay. I don't mind." He pushed off the table with more alacrity than he thought possible, given his exhausted, aching body. "Come on, Starsky. We better get those prints"--he pointed to the folder in the photographer's hand--"to El Capitan before he pops a blood vessel."

Dobey couldn't have been more pleased with the shots or the last part of the story. "Good job, boys. Real good job. Now, go home, get some sleep and food, and see you in the a.m."

Starsky struggled to get out of the wing chair. "Shit," he muttered as the pain in his knee, amplified by marrow-deep weariness, forced him into a heavy sweat.

Hutchinson growled low in his throat. "That's it. I'm taking you to the hospital and you're getting that leg checked whether you like it or not!"

Starsky wobbled precariously on his feet but maintained his balance by sheer will power. "I'm just really tired, and it'll be fine. Really."

"You said that yesterday, Starsky. It's not fine. I think it's worse."

Starsky rolled his head. "Damn, don't get your shorts in a wad, Blondie. Is this why you stayed? To take me to a hospital? It'll be okay, okay?"

Dobey had moved from behind his desk to give Starsky a closer look with a critical eye. "Maybe you should just let them look at it, son. It can't hurt to be safe."

Starsky gave a rueful, tired shake of his head. "No, thanks. 'Sides, they won't tell me anything I don't already know."

The editor, remembering Starsky résumé and the conversations with his references, gave him a resigned nod. "Fine, it's your call. But if it gets worse, get it checked out--for my sake and his," he said, with another nod in Hutchinson's direction.

Starsky chuckled. "Aye, aye, Cap," he said with gratitude and a mock salute.

Dobey acknowledged the tease with a return salute of his own and strode back to his chair. "Get out of my office. I've got a magazine to put out."

Much to Hutchinson's dismay, Starsky hobbled out under his own power. He stopped in front of Millie, who was holding an envelope out to him. "For me?"

"Yep. For the first batch of photos. I'll have the check ready for you in the morning for those you turned in today." She gave him a conspiratorial smile. From him, she got a confused look.

Hutchinson, irritated by what he perceived as his own complicity in Starsky's injury and lack of support from Dobey, nailed the photographer with a frustrated stare as they waited for the elevator. Moreover, he feared that if they went their separate ways now, the tenuous connection he was beginning to have with Starsky would fracture.

"What?" Starsky asked, even though he was sure what the answer would be.

"Well, if you won't let me take you to the doctor, then we're going to get something to eat."

"I'm beat, up to my eyeballs, Hutch. I jus' wanna take some asp'rins and go to sleep. Could ya just drop me off at The Pits? My wheels're there."

"My treat, your choice? As long as it's not greasy hamburgers."

Starsky wanted to deny where he knew this relationship was going. Far too many important men in his life had died violently, so he avoided close friendships; he even kept Huggy Bear and his brother at a distance. But this guy was crashing through the barrier of superficial affability he hid behind. He was still gun-shy, however, and had to stop this breakthrough. "You paid for dinner last night, remember?"

Dammit--don't make me fight for this. "Yeah, but that was a bribe for your help on the story. Today, we're celebrating our first cover. Come on! Whattaya say, Starsk?"

What the hell am I so afraid of? He's not a cop, or a soldier, or a gangbanger. "Compromise, okay? Make it dinner, after I get off work, about 8:30."

Internally, Hutchinson breathed a sigh of satisfaction when his fear wasn't realized. "That works. What's on the menu, then?"

The elevator bell dinged and the door hissed open. They got in and were on their way down before Starsky answered, "My choice, huh? Anything?"

Hutchinson tilted his head to one side. "Within reason."

"How about Mexican? Or. . .I love lobster or steak or. . .A New York strip would be terrific. Hey, are you really loaded? I mean, I wouldn't want to bust your bank account."

Hutchinson surprised himself when he wasn't offended at Starsky's questioning his wealth. He laughed companionably and said, "I don't know what you mean by 'really loaded,' but I would say I don't sweat the monthly bills." Yet. And with any luck, only Vanessa will have to.

A subtly roguish expression appeared on Starsky's face. "In that case, it's steak and lobster." He waggled his eyebrows several times.

It was a heartbeat before Hutchinson interpreted Starsky's communication. Again, he laughed. "That's fine. And I'm not worried if I don't have enough money. I know someone who can wait tables and wash dishes until the meal is paid for."

Starsky gave him a pained, crooked smile. "Ow--low blow, Hutchinson. At least it's honest work. It's not like I go around pretendin' to be some hotshot trickin' secretaries into spillin' their guts. That reminds me. . ." He ripped open the envelope holding his check. "Hey, this isn't the right amount."

"They probably just held out some for taxes."

"No, freelancers gotta pay all their own taxes. And it's not less than we agreed. It's more." A lot more. Millie's look at him began to make sense.

"You got a bonus, dummy! Guess that means dinner's on you tonight."

"What?! No way! This dinner thing was your idea. 'Sides, I got other plans for this dough."

"Hold on a second," Hutchinson interrupted, putting a hand out in a stop-right-there gesture. "You had your 'wheels' at The Pits? If my car is so repulsive, why haven't we been driving around in yours?"

"Well, technically it's not a car."

"It's either a car or it's not. Which is it?" asked an irritated Hutchinson.

Starsky shook his head. "It's a jeep, Hutch. You know, like in the army? A military vehicle. Even got the topper."

"What've you got a jeep on the street for?" The elevator arrived at garage level. Hutchinson held the elevator door open so Starsky could exit at his own pace. "I mean, aren't they meant for rough terrain, bad roads, stuff like that?"

"They're cheap wheels. And it gets me where I want to be. More than I can say about your clunker. Try to make a permanent trade and keep the Rambler, okay? You can always paint it that puke tan."

"It's an awfully long walk to The Pits."

Starsky gave him a little-boy-lost look.

Hutchinson threw up his hands in feigned defeat. "Get in." As they climbed into the car, he decided his first stop after dropping Starsky off would be the customs office. He wanted to check in with and console a sure-to-be-heartbroken Nancy.

Dinner went well, which translated to friendly word-sparring and conversations on safe topics such as sports, movies, and music. There was only one awkward moment when Starsky asked Hutchinson if he was getting a divorce.

"How did you know?" an astonished Hutchinson asked in return.

"You got a tan line where a wedding band would be. If it were some other kinda ring, you'd prob'ly still have it on."

Not much gets past you, does it? "You're right. And it's a part of my life that's over." The manner in which he said this left no doubt that this was not a topic for further discussion, though Hutchinson couldn't deny he was pleased that Starsky was comfortable enough to ask something that personal.

Expertly, Starsky steered the conversation to another subject. "Yeah, breakups are never easy. Like the Beatles a few years ago. Ya know, I'm on my third copy of Rubber Soul and Meet the Beatles." . . .

Most of the next day Hutchinson spent interviewing Bennett and Parson, the rescued immigrants with interpreters' assistance, and immigration officials. Bennett and Parson asked that their pictures not be taken so as to protect them in future undercover operations, which left Starsky nothing to do but pay attention to Hutchinson's questions of them. Unintentionally, Starsky asked the detectives, and later the others, whatever occurred to him if it didn't seem stupid.

At first, Hutchinson was inclined to be miffed at the photojournalist; after all, he was the reporter, and what did Starsky know about that? But once he listened, he was impressed with the man's insightful questions and the intermittent wild leaps in logic that seemed to make sense. He accepted this intrusion into his territory and happily took notes. On the flip side, Starsky, who had never been one to be told what to photograph, smoothly acceded to Hutchinson's rare but very good suggestions for shots.

Before heading back to the office, Starsky asked Hutchinson to stop at his favorite newsstand. The owner, John John the Apple, as everyone knew him, was a man of short stature but large Italian hospitality. He reached up to pull Starsky's face to his level and proceeded to kiss both cheeks. When a blushing Starsky tried to pay for several copies of PC, John John refused.

That evening, after speaking with them and perusing the latest contact sheets, Dobey decided he liked the view from the catbird seat.

"Millie said you wanted to see me?" Hutchinson crossed the room to stand in front of Dobey's desk the next morning.

"Yeah. You and that Starsky boy going to the courthouse for the arraignments?"

"That's the plan. I'm picking him up."

Dobey nodded his approval. "Phone started ringing off the hook yesterday afternoon. I just found out about it. Millie's got a pile of messages for him. Get those to him. Seems a lot of newsmagazines and papers want to buy some of his photographs."

"They can't do that, can they? I mean, he can't sell 'em, can he?"

"He took those as a freelancer, Hutchinson. They're his to sell for whatever the market is willing to pay." Dobey smiled broadly.

Hutchinson's smile came on fast. "Terrific."

"Oh, and there's one more thing. . ."

Millie was on the phone when Hutchinson left Dobey's office. "Uh, could you hold for a moment, sir? Thank you." She cupped her long-fingernailed hand over the mouthpiece. "There's his messages, Hutchinson," she said and pointed to them with a flick of her head. "And that mahara-gee friend of yours?"

"Harry Sample? What about him?"

"He just called. Checking to see if you were in town. Says he may have a big tip for you within the next few days and to stay close to the phone."

He blew her a kiss, grabbed the messages, and left.

"Yep--mighty interesting around here now." Removing her hand, she continued, "Thank you for holding."

Starsky waited in front of Giovanni's for Hutchinson and the battered LTD. He had a hard time containing his excitement about shooting legal proceedings for the first time, so he paced up and down the sidewalk.

Hutchinson pulled up and was out of the car before Starsky could grab his new camera bag and get to the passenger door. "Got some news," he said flatly.

I knew it, I knew it! It didn't make it to PI. "Yeah, so?"

Maintaining a straight face, Hutchinson said, "Our story is the third one in the next edition of PI."

"You're pullin' my leg, right?"

"Starsk, I would never kid about something like this." Now he permitted the wide smile he had been holding back to escape.

Starsky let loose with a loud yip, a megawatt grin, and several jumps in place. On the third one, his knee gave out and he collapsed to the sidewalk.

Hutchinson, his forehead creased in concern, scrambled over the hot hood of his car without hesitation. His feet found concrete a few inches from Starsky's curly head. He looked down to see him laughing soundlessly. "You all right?"

"Never better!" Starsky eventually eked out.

"Look at this. First day on the job, and you're lying down on it." He repositioned himself to better help Starsky up.

Back on his feet, Starsky did the first thing that occurred to him. He grabbed Hutchinson by his upper arms and kissed both his cheeks before giving him a brief, tight hug. "I got a real job!"

Hutchinson made a show of wiping off his face. "And not a moment too soon. You've been hanging around Italians way too much."

Starsky leaned against the car but stood right back up when a honk sounded. It stopped only after Hutchinson banged on the hood. "Blondie, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship," he said in a dead-on Bogart impersonation.

"Oh, let me guess. Was that Edward G. Robinson?" Starsky frowned. "Jimmy Cagney?" The frown deepened. "I know. How could I be so stupid. It's Jimmy Stewart."

Starsky playfully smacked Hutchinson's back. "Get in the car, wouldja? We gotta get to court so you can do your imitation of a reporter."

Home