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. Part of the storyline and dialogue belongs to David P. Harmon.

Sunday, 11:50 a.m.

The rangy black man gently patted and smoothed his medium-length Afro, taking care not to knock off the snap-brim hat perched on it. He needlessly adjusted the open vest over his dashiki. Balling a hand into a fist, he began pounding energetically on the door before him. He paused after five bangs to yell, "Starsky! Wake up! It's the Bear!"

After waiting fruitlessly for nearly half a minute for a response, Huggy Bear sucked in his lips and pounded harder. "Fe-fi-fo-fum, little white piggy! Wake up and let me in before some cop comes along to bus' me for disturbin' the peace!" He put his ear to the door and identified shuffling that slowly got louder. He grinned when he heard the tumblers for the two locks slide and click.

A very sleepy man with tousled dark brown, curly hair and an unshaven face opened the door. "What the hell do you want this early in the mornin', Hug?" He turned and stumbled clumsily back to his bed.

Huggy Bear followed him in, closing the door behind him. He could see his friend's knee still bothered him, but knew better than to bring it up again. Starsky had always been intensely close-mouthed about his Vietnam tours and hospital stay. All he knew about the injury was that it was severe enough to send Starsky back to a stateside VA hospital, and he only knew that from a few less-than-informative conversations with Starsky's mother. Well, my man, I can keep my trap shut just as good as you. "Starsky, it's almost noon. We're supposed to go out for lunch, remember?"

David Starsky tugged up on the pajamas bottoms that threatened to fall off. He flopped down on the lone twin bed, closed his eyes, and moaned. "I got a hangover, and I didn't get through at Fat Rollie's 'til five." Fat Rollie's Photo Finish was the camera and film shop where Starsky, a professional photographer, rented a darkroom. Starsky, along with a reporter named Ken Hutchinson, had recently documented the inhumane smuggling and use of illegal aliens in sweatshops. Publication of the story with photographs in Plainclothes California, a magazine specializing in investigative journalism, had brought the young photographer a number of orders for photographs, in addition to a permanent job with the magazine.

"You got a real job now, man. Why you still workin' at and livin' above this Italian eatery? That candle with two ends you been burnin' has to be almost outta wax." Huggy lowered himself carefully onto the fragile wicker chair on the other side of the single-room flat.

Starsky raised his pulsating head slowly so he could one-eye his friend. "It's only been a few days, Huggy. I got pictures to develop and deliver to those other magazines and that can't wait, and I can't afford a real apartment yet, so I gotta keep workin' here." He let his head fall back onto the thin pillow. His head objected by throbbing even more.

"You makin' a lot of bread from those photos, right? Should be enough for a security deposit and first month's rent."

"I got a few debts I gotta pay off first, if that's okay with you."

Huggy Bear laughed mockingly. "You? Debts? Yeah, and I'm the King of Siam."

"That's right, your majesty. If you don't mind, your court jester is going to shave and shower." Starsky sat up in stages, trying not to encourage further the coal miners hard at work in his head. Last time I let Mario talk me into a chianti-drinkin' contest, he vowed.

With considerable amusement, Huggy watched his friend clump heavily to the miniscule bathroom. "And speaking of royal pains, how's the King of Snob? You know, that big, blond, white boy."

Starsky lumbered to a stop. "Oh, Hutch? Cut him some slack, Hug. He's all right."

Huggy Bear shrugged his shoulders. "Yeah, if you say so. You're the one's gotta work with him."

Starsky threw Huggy an annoyed look before resuming his limp to the bathroom. Maybe I should've invited Hutch to join us. He denied the disappointment that popped up and emptied his head of all things except for the task at hand.

"Ya know, Starsky, I don't know what to think about you."

"Whaddya mean?" The white man turned on the cold water, filled a glass, and drank it in one swallow.

"I mean you been in town for nearly three whole weeks. You tell me you're gonna stay awhile, and you even get a real job. What's up with you, my man? Since you quit that cabbie routine - what, a year or two after school? -- you've been in this overstuffed burg four, maybe five times, always just passin' through, never stayin' more'n a few days. You my hero, bro. Footloose, fancy free, seein' the country . . . hell, seein' the world."

Starsky cursed the nick under his chin his slightly unsteady hand caused. Undaunted, he kept shaving. Between short strokes of the razor, he said, "The only part . . . of the world I saw . . . was . . . 'Nam."

"Don't forget Japan."

"Two days. . .in a army. . .hospital. Don't hardly. . .call that. . .seein' the world." He lanced himself again, this time near his Adam's apple. "Dammit!"

The black man craned his neck to get a look at Starsky hurriedly tearing off little bits of toilet paper to stick on the cuts. "What're you tryin' to do -- donate blood the hard way?"

"Careful, Hug, or I'll shave your 'fro right off."

Huggy Bear chuckled. "I ain't studdin' you, Starsky. You forget -- I seen you in a knife fight."

"That was high school. I'm better now."

"Yeah, yeah, I hear ya. But back to what I was sayin'. You got a real job. Why the sudden change, m'man?"

Huggy's conversation was getting more personal than Starsky would have liked or was willing to have. Yet, he couldn't help but think it would be nice to tell someone about this latest burden. He is a pal, a good one. Huggy was his most consistent friend over the last ten years; their friendship was deeper than acquaintance, but well shy of his most intense relationships. Bringing the black man into the most recent turmoil in his family would surely result in them getting closer -- something he still avoided, something he didn't want, though it had nothing to do with Huggy.

Shrugging off his thoughts, Starsky started closing the door. He stopped it a few inches short of the threshold. "I've missed you so much, Hug," he said in a sweet, effeminate voice. "I just couldn't bear being apart from you any longer." The door slammed shut before his bed pillow hit it.

He climbed stiffly into the shower stall, and turned the water on full force, shivering in the stream until it warmed up. As he lathered shampoo into his hair, his thoughts returned to friendship. He turned a deaf ear to it, and a blind eye to the golden-boy image taking up residence within the cage he kept around his heart, and sang, as loud as he could, Jumpin' Jack Flash.

1:05 p.m.

Ken Hutchinson hunched over his fifth cup of coffee, his seventh of the day, at his extended lunch at Papa Teddy's. Who's counting, he thought irritably. Who cares. He ran his fingers through his blond hair before returning his attention to the Bay City Times newspaper spread out on the table. Once again, he read the story of the illegal alien slaves -- a lot of it gleaned from his and his then-itinerant photographer's story in PC. His eyes were constantly drawn to their names in print: Hutchinson and Starsky. Absent-mindedly, he lightly ran a finger over one of the mentions several times.

"Hey, suge."

He jerked out of his meditation at the unexpected intrusion of Lavelle, his waitress. Annoyed, he rolled his eyes. "What?" he asked sharply.

"Theodore wants to know if you're gonna eat anymore of his slop," said the chunky, middle-aged woman. "Them's my words, not his, and if you tell him I said that, you get to switch sides in the Sunday choir."

Hutchinson chuckled. "I'm done. And where's Melvin?"

Lavelle huffed. "Took the weekend off so he could go to Vegas. Gettin' divorced from number five and married to number six." She turned toward the kitchen. "Hey, Teddy!" she shouted coarsely, "Boy Wonder Reporter says he don't know why he even eats here at all!"

Hutchinson pointed his index finger at her and smiled widely. "One of these days, Lavelle. . ."

"Yeah, you keep promisin', but you never come through. I ain't gonna wait forever, Hutchinson, money or no. That curly-headed fella is some serious competition for my affection." The waitress pulled out an unfiltered cigarette from under a loop in her bleached beehive coif. Hutchinson's mouth dropped open. "Don't mind if I join ya, do you? I'm due a break." From one of her apron pockets, she withdrew a pack of matches and tossed them on the table in front of Hutchinson. She wedged her ample body into the space opposite him. Elegantly, she placed the cigarette between her orange-red lips. "You ain't gonna catch flies here, honey; they won't have nothin' to do with the food in this dump," she said, the cigarette bobbing along with her words. "And didn't your mama teach you it was proper to light a lady's coffin nail for her?" She waited expectantly.

Unsuccessfully suppressing a small amount of heated embarrassment, Hutchinson closed his mouth. He fumbled for the matches, half-hidden under his coffee saucer, struck one to flame, and held it to the cigarette's end. He almost jumped again at the strong, feminine hand that wrapped around his. Self-consciously, he drew his hand away and shook out the flame.

Lavelle took a long draw, inhaling deeply and moaning in displaced sexual ecstasy. "Oh, yeah, that's good." The words rushed out with a lungful of smoke.

"Uh, why just one cigarette?" Hutchinson almost added, "in your hair," but thought better of it.

"Tryin' to cut back, honey. Now, let's get down to business."

Hutchinson blushed a bright red. "Lavelle, I-I-I. . ."

"Not that business, so keep your pants on. This is about you, not us." She took a sucking puff on the cigarette.

Hutchinson, completely baffled, stared at her.

"Why are you here, alone, on a Sunday afternoon? You should be with a lover or a friend."

"A lover? I'm going through a divorce, and I don't cheat on my wife." He gulped when he realized he still considered Vanessa his wife. To make matters worse, he realized he was opening up to his waitress. "I don't see how that's any of your business."

"Oh, yes, it is, gorgeous. I see you almost every day, for years now. I've never seen you here with anybody that's not related to your work. Even that hunk-a-curly-hair you've been in with the last few days." She took another drag and blew smoke before speaking. "He'd be a good buddy for you. Wouldn't take none of your shit. And that's what you need."

"Lavelle, you're out of line," Hutchinson seethed.

"The only thing I'm out of, honey, is this cigarette." She stubbed the butt out in the ashtray. Leaning over the table toward him as far as her vast bosom would allow, she arched her penciled eyebrows. "Look, Hutchinson, I'm only half serious about you and me doin' the hootchie-kootchie. I'm not sure you could last. But I do care about you as more than a sex snack. Eatin' alone on Sunday . . . well, that just ain't right." She patted his cheek affectionately. "Now, you and your shutterbug get to be good friends, then come see me for a little fun. You can spell each other. Increase your chances of survivin'." She grunted and pushed herself out of the booth. "More coffee, darlin'?"

He couldn't find his tongue, a condition that had visited him several times lately, so he slowly shook his head. He watched her walk away, but her broad, swerving hips didn't register. Several shallow breaths later, he stared down into the almost empty cup and shuddered involuntarily.

4:10 p.m.

Starsky had noticed the storm clouds moving in from the west when he got back to his flat a little after two. Accordingly, the huge clap of thunder that woke him from his nap did not surprise him. He plodded to the bathroom, relieved himself, then headed for the Depression-era table in the kitchen area. Adopting the rhythm of the rain that had just started, he sorted the most recent batch of prints he had made into their proper envelopes for mailing to their buyers. He admitted to himself that they were very good and worth every penny he was getting paid.

It suddenly occurred to him that his last batch of photos was the best he'd ever shot, as if he had developed a third eye. Maybe it was the stability of having a job that had freed his "sight," but he wasn't entirely buying that explanation. It was something else, too. Quickly abandoning any further attempt at analysis because of the neverending headache and fatigue, he let his mind roam into the past week, unaware that he smiled on recall of conversations with Ken Hutchinson. He was licking the last envelope when there was a knock at the interior door.

"David, it's me, Johnny." There was just a trace of Italian accent to the voice.

Both of Starsky's eyebrows rose in surprise. Giovanni (AKA Johnny) Giannini, the owner, didn't work Sundays. Wonder what's up, he thought as he unlatched the door. "What brings you out on a day like today?" he asked, stepping back so Johnny could enter.

The short, husky man on the far side of 60 quickly surveyed the room, pleased to see it was kept neat and clean. "David, I hate to ask you to do this, but I need your help tonight. Vinnie -- well, you know he burned his hand pretty bad last night. And Mario's mother is in da hospital. Maybe a heart attack. I think we'll be slow, and Theresa and me should be able to handle it, but a special party came up unexpected. So, you and me, we cook, Theresa waits tables, and I promise you'll be out of there by 11:30, 11:45. No later."

"Sure, Johnny, be happy to. I'll be down there by 5:30. Okay?"

"You're a lifesaver, David. I know this goes beyond our agreement, so I'll make it up to you." Another clap of thunder, very close by, rattled the building. "What a storm we got. Supposed to last all night." The restaurateur smiled and nodded before heading back down the stairs.

Starsky shrugged and closed the door without locking it. "Looks like I'll be in the kitchen all night. Who needs tips anyway?" The twenty-five grand of debt suddenly felt ten times that.

Sighing, he checked his watch. He still had enough time to read a few chapters in the latest Louis L'Amour novel The Quick and the Dead while his knee got treated to the third ice pack of the day. He smiled when he thought of the attractive librarian who had helped him find the book and check it out. Maybe I'll ask her out for coffee when I return it.

4:45 p.m.

"It'll be good seeing you tonight, testaduda," Johnny said into the telephone in his office off the bar. "I got me a new cook, a young man kinda down on his luck. He'll make you such an antipasto you'll think he's a wop and not a Jew. But it won't be as good as my stuffed veal. See you around midnight." He grinned; it was always good to see his old friend from the village, though he disapproved of how that friend had chosen to live his life in the United States.

Johnny left his office to find Theresa readying the restaurant for opening. She was new as well. Two months ago, when he had hired her, she had known nothing about the restaurant business. Now, she was the best waitress he ever had. And tonight, she would have the chance to prove it again. "Theresa," he called out, pronouncing her name as Italians would, "come here, please." He opened the antique cash register to check the status of coin and currency within.

"What is it, Johnny?" asked the young, slender woman.

He closed the register drawer. "Tonight, we have a special guest. He'll be here at midnight. Just him and a couple of other people. Could you stay a little later than usual? Just long enough to get them settled?"

"Sure, Johnny. Who is this guy?" She knew the answer, but had to play the game, had to keep her boss from getting suspicious.

"It's Vic Monte."

Theresa felt her gut churn at actually hearing that name out loud.

"He's a friend of mine from the old country," Johnny continued. "He comes by every few months for some good food, good wine . . . Hey, whattsa matter? You white as a ghost."

Theresa half-sat down on a barstool. She was sure she was going to faint. She also thought it odd that all the moisture in her mouth had shifted to the palms of her hands. "I-I . . . I'm okay. Haven't eaten anything since breakfast." She smiled feebly.

"Finish setting up after you get something in that skinny belly of yours," he chastised her mildly. "Think you can handle all the tables by yourself tonight? I'll need David in the kitchen."

She laced her fingers into a tight fist on her lap, out of Johnny's sight. "Sure. Should be slow, with all this rain."

Johnny reached over the counter and put his hand on her cheek, his fingers into her long, dark brown hair. "Sweet child. You like a granddaughter to me, Theresa." He gave her a toothy, tender smile. "I better see if David can help us out tonight. Mangia, you hear me?"

Theresa returned his smile, though it did not reflect her true attitude. She watched Johnny enter the kitchen, then gave him a minute to get out of earshot. Quickly, she slid off the barstool and ran to the phone behind the bar. After wiping her damp hands on her skirt, she dialed a memorized number. "Room two-ten, please," she stated, surprised that her voice didn't transmit the tremors the rest of her body had.

The wait of thirty seconds was excruciatingly long. She jumped at the abrupt, "Yes?"

She swallowed air before saying, "This is Theresa DiFusto."

"Yes, Theresa."

The cultured voice with the unidentifiable accent chilled her. She gripped the receiver tighter and said, "Mr. Monte will be here at midnight."

"Are you absolutely sure of the time?"

She was shocked at the casualness of his tone. "Yes. My boss told me himself. He'll be here at twelve o'clock sharp."

"Well, then, in that case, I want a reservation for two." He hung up without further conversation.

This time, it was his civility that disturbed her. "I am doing the right thing," she whispered passionately, as if trying to convince herself of the statement's truth. Just as she replaced the receiver, a clap of thunder seemed to bang at the restaurant's door and rattled the glass around her. She knocked the phone to the floor and muffled her scream with her hand.

4:49 p.m.

Tom Lockly smiled thinly at his companion in the second-rate motel room they shared. "Here we go, Joey. Just a few more hours."

"Yeah, well, it's about time," snarled Joey Martin. "It's been three days already, man! Three days! I'm not supposed to be in this state, man. I got warrants out on me, ya know?"

Lockly looked at the pale, shaggy, pacing man as if he were six years old, not the twenty-six he actually was. "Yes, Joey, I know. A few minutes after midnight, you'll be on your way out of this state a richer man. In the meantime, why don't you go back to your half-time festivities. You wouldn't want to miss your boom-boom girls and your marching bands."

Joey fought the anger that Lockly's patronizing attitude kindled in him. I can put up with this snooty asshole just a little longer. Hell, for ten grand, I can put up with almost anything, he thought. "Oh, yeah?" he started lamely. "Yeah, well, it's a lot better than that garbage you read."

Lockly's lips curled up in a self-satisfied twist. Sighing audibly, he returned to his book.

8:17 p.m.

The bullpen at Plainclothes California at this time on a Sunday night was usually empty. Tonight, however, found Hutchinson as the solitary inhabitant. Seated at his favorite typewriter, he four-finger-typed his story from the outline to his right. Spread along the left side of the desk were Starsky's photographs of the now-safe illegal aliens and courtroom proceedings. To the right were his notes from the interviews he -- and Starsky, he acknowledged -- had had with several of the illegals on Saturday morning.

Hutchinson stopped typing. Intertwining his fingers, he stretched his arms toward the ceiling and yawned. Returning his fingers to the keyboard, he paused. He looked at the pictures closely for the zillionth time, and was astonished again at how Starsky could capture the fear, gratitude, and uncertainty in the immigrants' countenances, as well as the poisoned arrogance of the shackled prisoners during their arraignments on multiple charges. Hutchinson had seen the TV news reports, but frankly, they paled in comparison to Starsky's stills of images in time.

He resumed writing. The words came easily for him; they always had. He had graduated third in his class at the Columbia School of Journalism. But now he felt truly inspired for only the second time in his life -- the first being a few days ago -- and that was largely due to Starsky's photographs. They challenged him to seek out the most important but often overlooked angles of a story, to write with nothing less than a deep passion for his subject, to tell a truth as no other writer had told before. His fingers flew over the keys as he found the right words, and his heart pounded as the words formed sentences, then paragraphs, as the follow-up story was born.

Minutes later, he pecked out -30- at the article's end. He grinned widely and exclaimed, "Yes! This is better than sex!" He blushed at his proclamation. Well, better than sex with Vanessa for the last year anyway, he added to himself. He was putting the pages in order when one of the telephones rang. Jumping a little at the unexpected sound, he pushed his chair back and reached the phone on the third ring. "Yeah. PC newsroom. Hutchinson."

"Oh, thank God I found -- I mean" -- suddenly the accent changed from Californian to Indian -- "thank Ganesh for allowing me to find you in my time of need."

"Harry? Harry Sample?" asked Hutchinson.

"Perhaps. In a different life. I am the Maharaja Jeru."

Hutchinson rolled his eyes. "You're irritating me, Harry. I wouldn't do that if I were you. Now drop the act, okay?"

Several seconds passed before Harry responded as Harry. "Sorry, Hutchinson. The fuzz was a little too close, and I had to keep up appearances. Man, I need your help. Me and Mary've been busted."

"What?"

"Yeah! The cops just came chargin' into our place, yellin' it was a raid."

"Why are you calling me? Shouldn't you be contacting your lawyer?"

"That's kinda hard to do. You see, Sam Garner got pinched, too. And he was just there going over papers with me and Mary about buyin' the place next door."

Hutchinson shook his head. "Why me, though? I'm not your only student."

"Well, it's kinda urgent that I talk with you. I was just about to call you with a hot tip when the shit hit the fan."

Hutchinson perked up at this. "So tell me what it is, and I'll come post bail."

"Oh, no. You post bail for me and Mary, then I tell you. We're at Metro."

"For such a religious man, Harry, you sure do lack trust in others," Hutch said tiredly. "All right. Give me, oh, thirty minutes."

"Uh-oh," Harry whispered frantically. "Piggies returning to the trough." Then louder and as Jeru, he said, "The light of Asia shines in your inner being, O New Flower of the Himalayas."

In the background, Hutchinson heard a familiar voice say, "Come now, my good Maharaja. Your time on the telephone has expired, and I am afraid that your faith in the white snows of India may be melting." He smiled, pleased that he might get to speak with Detective Clive Bennett briefly at the police station. The line went dead. He recradled the phone and said to the empty room, "On my way, Harry. And this tip better be scalding."

9:15 p.m.

The heavy rain had little impact on pizza-to-go orders, but the dining room had been exceptionally quiet. Starsky made the pizzas, since Johnny's arthritic hands had trouble kneading and shaping the crust. Starsky enjoyed the process of building a pizza, almost as much as he enjoyed eating one. One reason was that it permitted his mind to wander. And it wandered back to the change he'd noticed in his photographs in just the last few days.

He had been unusually and inexplicably energized while taking the shots, not to mention experiencing a widening, more in-depth vision. He considered it might be the result of working with someone closely for the first time. He also considered that maybe it could have something to do with whom he was working. Hutchinson had a way of interviewing people, of reaching them, that almost hypnotized them into revealing themselves and the information they possessed.

Starsky checked the order again -- pepperoni, green olives, and mushrooms. He spread the cheese on the crust, delicate in his movements so as not to tear the dough or stir up the sauce. He returned to his thoughts as he decorated the pie with slices of the dark red sausage.

The photographer was amazed that he had opened up with Hutchinson as much as he had, considering what a pain in the tuchis he had thought the reporter was at first. He found himself thinking of Hutchinson as a friend. That, and getting a permanent job doing what he loved, were the only things that had changed in his life the last few days.

"Hey, David," called out Johnny from across the kitchen where he was preparing the stuffed veal for the special guests. "What you thinkin' for the antipasto, huh? Something special, yes?"

Starsky stopped his current task and grabbed a thick cloth. As he opened the pizza oven, he said, "Real special, Johnny. Hope they like garlic and proscuitto. How about some toasted ravioli?" Masterfully, he used a wooden, long-handled paddle to remove a pizza then slide it onto a cutting board.

"Toasted ravioli? Mama Mia, what would they say back home?"

Starsky tossed his favorite knife high in the air. It spun so fast that it was a blur. He caught it solidly by its handle. A few seconds later, the hot pizza was in eight sections. Sure is a lot better cutting pizza than throats. "How do you say, 'm-mm good' in Italian?"

Johnny laughed as he toothpick-closed a stuffed veal steak. "Things ought to slow up soon. You hungry? How about I make you your favorite, okay?"

"I'm always hungry if it means your linguine with clams."

10:13 p.m.

Hutchinson, eyes and ears closed to the continuous turmoil inside and outside Metro Division of the Bay City Police Department, sighed with frustration at his third unsuccessful attempt to meditate. Guess it's not a charm this time. He opened his eyes to see Harry Sample and Mary Polanski approaching him at a quick pace. Internally he snorted at the couple he thought of - affectionately - as Jack Sprat and his wife.

There was little doubt in people's mind, on meeting Harry for the first time, that he was a flake. Six and a half feet tall and weighing 170 fully clothed in his beads, chains, sandals, and gauzy shirt and trousers, his long, thin face carried a perpetually peaceful, surprised expression. He was into organic living, and was a superlative yoga instructor. And he liked living with one foot in the snows of India and the other on the mean streets of Bay City. He freely admitted that he would actually be living on those streets if it weren't for his common-law wife, Mary Polanski.

Mary was a full foot shorter than Harry and outweighed him by at least 60 pounds. She chose to dress as a gypsy fortuneteller, her only lawful occupation, hiding most of her thick, curly black hair beneath a paisley scarf. Calling herself "Madam Yram" ("I ask you, who would even come see a psychic, much less pay her, named Mary, hm?"), she had adopted another line of work also closely associated with the honorific. While Harry/Jeru catered to those seeking spiritual enlightenment and the names and locations of organic grocers, Mary - actually her stable of first-rate women and one man - catered to those seeking sexual catharsis along with their fortunes. She herself was a top-flight businesswoman.

"Harry, Mary," Hutchinson said in greeting. He stood, grateful to be out of the torture chair and getting down to business. Mary giggled as she took him by an arm. "Okay, Harry, you and your lovely, uh, lady are out. So what do you have for me?"

"Criminy, Hutchinson, no time for the social graces, huh?" Sample looked around, eyeing everyone with a great deal of suspicion. "All right, but not here. In your car," he whispered conspiratorially.

Hutchinson rolled his eyes, hoping Harry noticed his annoyance. "Fine. This way." He took off with Mary still on his arm and jogging to keep up with his long, swift strides.

A few minutes later, all three were crammed into the front seat of Hutchinson's LTD. Wiping away the rain that fell from his hair into his eyes, Hutch asked, "Well, Harry, whatcha got?"

Sample leaned over Mary to get closer to Hutchinson. "A few nights ago, this kid, in his mid-twenties, I guess, comes in and pays to spend some time with one of Mary's girls. After he leaves, Sandy comes rushin' out to show off the big tip he'd given her. Mary notices that one of her eyes looks to be red and swollen -"

"It didn't looked to be," Mary interrupted. "It was red and swollen. Turned black and blue before the night was over."

"Yeah, sweetie, you're right. Anyway, Sandy says he'll be coming back and she wants him again, because he's due to come into some money and she don't mind a little rough stuff from such big tippers."

"Just want to let you know, Ken, I'm working with Sandy on her self-esteem."

Hutchinson nearly choked on his stifled laugh at Mary's dead-serious statement. Hastily, he cleared his throat and said with matching sincerity, "Your girls can always depend on you, Mary. Ah, go on."

"Sandy says this guy was boasting about being back in town for a hit. You know, pumpin' somebody full of lead." Harry jittered in his seat.

"Okay, Sample, I get the drift. Get to the point, will you? I don't have all night."

Harry's eyes opened fully. "You may be right about that. So, I call you, remember? This guy comes back today for a nooner."

"He should've been in church."

"Mary love," Harry said, "that type of miscreant don't go to church. Except to rob the poor box."

"You're right, lover. So, I gave him Bobbie, since Sandy wasn't available, thanks to her black eye," Mary said, not hiding her anger.

Hutchinson began to think he had been condemned to the third circle of Hell and had simply gone there, skipping death altogether. He closed his eyes, counted a quick ten, and said, "The tip? Before I go back in and ask for my money back?"

"Oh," Harry said sheepishly. Mary flushed deep red. "I see him. Recognize him as some two-bit knee-breaker who tried to crash my religious ceremony a couple of years back."

"And that would be the ceremony where you and the 'congregation' do a little hashish?"

"Yeah. Religious freedom, and all that constitutional shit. I'm not breaking any laws." Harry puffed up with self-righteousness and defensiveness.

And this from a guy who helps run a house of prostitution and heaven knows what else. "Go on."

Sample calmed down. "Bobbie finally told us this evening that his talking about this hit seemed to get him real excited, you know? He told her if she wanted some real 'action' from him, she should show up at Giovanni's restaurant around midnight every night for the next few nights. Told her that after he wasted this guy, he'd treat her to a fuck she'd want to pay him for. Knowing his rep, I don't think he was making this crap up."

Hutchinson's every sense stood at attention, along with the hairs on the back of his neck. He barely heard Mary say, "My girls don't fuck or get fucked. That's so crude, so unprofessional." He reached for Harry and grabbed several strands of his numerous necklaces. His grip tightened as Mary tried to pry him loose. "How many restaurants in Bay City with that name, Harry?" he asked, worried and intense. He knew the answer, but he didn't want to acknowledge it. He wanted hope that he was wrong.

Harry added fright to his expression. "Only one, Hutchinson. By the docks. Great place."

Hutchinson released the chains. He checked his watch -- 10:35. I can be there in fifteen minutes. But how do I get him out of there? "Did you tell the cops any of this?"

"NO!! Do I look stupid or sumpin'? They'd pull me in for questioning. Do the rubber hose thing. Break a chair over my head. Get me to confess to the assassination of Abe Lincoln."

Hutchinson frowned as he considered the consequences of the police not knowing a murder was in the making. One possible scenario strengthened his resolve to get Starsky away from the restaurant as soon as possible.

"Uh, Hutchinson," asked Sample timidly, "could you give us a ride home? The buses have stopped and we don't have enough jack for a cab." As Jeru, he added, "May the snows of the Matterhorn fall gracefully upon your kind and generous consciousness."

The reporter cranked the engine hard and pulled out of the parking space swiftly. "Harry, the Matterhorn isn't in India. And, Harry?"

"Yeah?" he replied as Hutchinson stomped on the accelerator.

"Shut up." Then, as an afterthought, he said, "And thanks for the tip." Hutchinson didn't question his compulsion to get Starsky out of harm's way, nor did he notice that Jack Sprat and his wife clung to each other as he took them on a thrill ride, skidding and squealing through the rain-drenched streets.

11:07 p.m.

Theresa could feel the tension in her muscles increase with every glance at the clock. And the glances were becoming more frequent. She pulled her eyes away from the timepiece to stare her impatience into the brown eyes of her boyfriend. "Anything else you want?" she asked, barely able to mask her frustration and growing anxiety.

The solidly built young man with sandy hair and a T-shirt purposely one size too small smirked lustfully and shifted forward on the barstool. "You know what I want."

She rolled her eyes and sighed. "Not tonight, Jimmy." Though the other night was fantastic, she thought. And probably the last time for us, too. An instant of regret flitted its way into her churning emotions.

"Why not? Things are pretty slow -"

Cutting him off, she said sharply, "No, they aren't slow. The old man and David are in the kitchen, cooking for a special party tonight."

"You're gonna break this ol' linebacker's heart here, Theresa."

"Well, maybe you better call the next time you come all the way out here," she admonished. Now, her tone turned to plaintive. "Please, Jimmy, go home."

He snorted audibly through his lumpy nose. "Theresa, you been on my case since the minute I came in. Hell, you're even paying more attention to the damn clock than you are to me. When you're not busy tryin' to get rid of me." He paused, his attitude softening at the tight look on his lover's face. "Hey, now, if it's something I've done . . . or have you got a thing for that New York guy?"

Theresa swallowed imaginary saliva. "No, no, Jimmy, it's not that at all. I, well, I have some personal problems, okay?"

The couple was so involved in their conversation that they both started a little when the sound of the pouring rain became louder. Both heads turned in unison to the front door.

Unconsciously, Theresa held her breath. When she saw a tall, handsome, blond man she recognized as a recent customer, she exhaled hard enough for her soured pant to tickle Jimmy's ear. It can't be him. The voice just wouldn't fit. David's friend? "Uhh, would you like to place an order to go?"

Hutchinson, having ruffled as much water as possible from his hair, proceeded to brush the rain from his leather jacket. Be cool. Don't push it. "Sorry, miss, but I'm not here to eat. Could I see Dave Starsky? If he's here, of course." He smiled hopefully. He couldn't explain the eeriness that crept over him when her near-panicky expression changed abruptly to one of relief.

"Oh, sure. He's in the kitchen. I'll get him for you."

"Uh, could I go back there?"

Theresa shrugged. "Okay, I guess." She and Jimmy watched the lanky man saunter to the kitchen. As he swung the door open, Jimmy turned his attention back to Theresa. "Now, where were we?"

11:10 p.m.

Starsky was halfway through cutting the freshly made ravioli into squares when he looked up at the opening door. Eyes widening at seeing his new partner, he asked, "What the hell brings you here at this time of night, huh?" Not surprisingly, his suspicious anger flashed as he remembered the first time Hutchinson "visited" him at Giovanni's. It had been a controlling maneuver, the reporter's scheme of establishing himself as head of the team, of subjugating the photographer to mere flunky status. It had started out that way, but had changed into . . . something else. Starsky had sensed regret and shame in Hutchinson as he had left that night. Now, he sensed none of that initial patronizing pity; instead, this appeared to be friendly concern. Don't jump to conclusions. He really is an okay guy.

"Hi to you, too, Starsky," Hutch said pleasantly, after catching the subtle bite in Starsky's voice. I probably deserve that. Two long strides later, he stood at the junior chef's table. "I didn't mean to barge in here, but I, uh, well, I just had this great idea, and I wanted to come over to tell you about it right away."

Starsky narrowed his blue eyes slightly as he studied Hutchinson's face and tried to identify the underlying truth beneath his words. The face and tone didn't match, and that sent up warning flares. I'm not gonna let you humiliate or control me, golden boy. "Oh, yeah?" he asked evenly as he gently placed two of the raviolis on a wooden tray. "So, what is it?"

"I was just thinking about how much is still going down with the illegal immigrant smuggling ring. You know, more arrests, more arraignments. You know Detectives Bennett and Parson will call me first when something is going to happen, but it's awfully hard to get in touch with you. So, to make sure we get first crack at everything new happening in the case, I thought, well, um . . . I thought it might be a good idea if you stayed at my place until this story wraps up. Or at least slows down." He held Starsky's eyes, which bored into him, unwaveringly. Shit. I knew he wouldn't fall for this load of manure. And you call yourself an undercover reporter. You can't act your way out of a paper bag.

Starsky smiled internally while maintaining a straight face. Damn, Hutch, you're good. Just the right amount of casualness and openness. And sincerity. But time and place, partner. Time and place give you away. "Okay, now out with the real reason." He brushed bits of flour and drying dough from his hands before placing them on his hips.

Get your act together, Hutchinson. He'll never believe the truth; that's why you concocted this stupid story. Now, follow through with it. He pushed away the fear that had been riding on his shoulder. "That is the real reason. I don't want to be scooped, okay?" He breathed deeply before continuing, this time roughly. "I wouldn't think you would want to be scooped, either, but maybe you're not the journalist I thought you were."

Starsky bristled at the accusation. And just when I was beginning to trust you, you pull this crap. He leaned toward Hutch and said through clenched teeth, "Fuck you, Hutchinson, and that damned holier-than-thou attitude you ride around on. I'm twice the journalist you'll ever be, or ever dreamed of being."

"Hey, David, what's going on? Everything okay?" Johnny, a bottle of wine in each hand, stood at the top of the stairs to the cellar.

His boss's presence took a little steam out of Starsky. He backed away an inch. "Oh, sure, Johnny, everything's fine. This is Ken Hutchinson, my 'partner' at the magazine. We're just having a . . . disagreement, that's all."

"Well, sonny, David has work to do, and you'll have to leave if you're interfering. David, you'll have the antipasto ready by quarter to midnight, won't ya?"

Hutchinson's heart pounded on hearing the time mentioned. Oh, Christ! It's tonight! Starsky, don't make me knock you out and drag you outta here by your ratty hair. He had to exercise immense control over the fear that had returned to his shoulder and cackled in his ear.

"Oh, sure. All I gotta do is pull the artichoke hearts out of the marinade and toast the ravs, Johnny. And eat. I'm starved."

Hutchinson dove for the opening Starsky had inadvertently given him. "Hey, why don't we go to my place, scramble up some eggs, huh? You can leave in a few minutes, can't you?"

Starsky chose to interpret Hutch's offer of a meal as an apology. He grinned his own. "Hey, I want dinnah, not breakfast. What about some Italian food? I mean, this is an Italian restaurant and all. There's plenty of great stuff to chow on here. You gotta have some of Johnny's linguine with clam sauce. Every time I eat it I think I've died and gone to heaven." Starsky peaked his thumb and fingers together on one hand and kissed them.

That may just be the case tonight, dummy. Christ, you are so stubborn! Just humor me, please. "Nah, I wanna go home. Eat there. I don't want anything heavy."

You sure are persistent. Gotta give you that. "Lookit, Hutch, I'll leave here when I'm good and ready, and I'll eat whatever I want. Unless . . ."

"Unless what?"

"Unless you give me a good reason to go to your place now. The real reason." He folded his arms across his chest and shifted his weight to his back foot.

He's not going to budge until you tell him, Hutchinson. He moved into Starsky's space. Whispering, he said, "Okay, you want the real reason? Fine, then, here it is. Something really bad is supposed to go down at midnight, right in this restaurant. I want you out of here before that. As soon as you lea-"

A terrified scream from the dining room cut off Hutchinson's explanation. In one motion, Starsky grabbed the utility knife by the blade with his left hand and shoved Hutchinson to one side with the other. He dashed for the swinging door, Hutch close on his heels. He pushed the door outward.

It took him only a moment to size up the situation. An older man with the look of a watchful, sadistic college professor had Theresa by one arm. The other man, much younger and wearing wild eyes with a matching full-body tic, waved a short-barreled handgun between her and Jimmy. He could feel Hutchinson moving behind him to come up on his right. Gunfight, and all I got is this lousy knife, he thought as he raised it in preparation to throwing it. Before he could do so, twitchy-man aimed the gun at him and Hutchinson, whom he sensed was now exposed. Immediately, he body-blocked Hutch, sending the reporter stumbling backward into the kitchen and the unyielding edge of a stainless steel table. Making the necessary adjustments in his own aim but having lost valuable time to set it up properly, Starsky began the throw.

He grunted softly when he felt fire etch an angry line along the left side of his head. In the background was thunder that smelled like gunpowder. The room rotated a quick half-turn for him. A harsh punch into his left shoulder and more thunder pushed him into Hutchinson. He sighed a wounded whimper.

Hutch, still tender from the fray a few days ago and gritting his teeth, had just straightened up when Starsky's weight thrust him into the table a second time. He gave a muted cry of pain. Looking straight into Starsky's eyes, he read surprise and shock and . . . apology, he surmised. As Starsky slid down him, Hutch tried in vain to stop the fast descent. Through the ever-decreasing arc of the closing door that banged on Starsky, he saw Theresa's friend thud to the floor on his knees, blood pouring from his nose.

11:15 p.m.

Brilliant lightning strobed the restaurant for several moments. No one moved, even breathed, it seemed. The tableau switched to activity with the next crack of thunder. Johnny dropped the tray of stuffed veal to join Starsky and his friend. The gunman kicked away the knife, which had landed several inches in front of his feet. Grabbing the edge of the door and pulling it toward him, he kept his weapon trained on Hutchinson and arrived at the pair just as Johnny did.

"Okay, gramps, I got no problem wastin' sissy men who cook." Joey laughed shrilly.

"You shot Davey! You miserable -"

"Shut up, old man!" Joey shouted as he turned the gun on Starsky. "Or I'll put him out of his misery."

"Joey," said Lockly calmly, "lock the old man up in the basement. I'll watch things here." He cocked an eyebrow when Joey hesitated. He cleared his throat forcefully as he thrust Theresa ahead of him to use as a doorstop.

Joey took the hint, but not before kicking the downed man in the side and muttering, "That'll teach you to try an' stick me, punk."

Hutchinson closed his eyes tightly on hearing a muffled cry from his partner and fought the temptation to grab the firearm from the gunsel and beat him with it. He gasped at the unexpected steely jab in his ribs. He opened his eyes to glare at the hitman.

"Hey, Blondie," Joey taunted, "you can be next if you wanna." Again he laughed, this time with obvious self-amusement.

"Joey," warned Lockly.

"Okay, okay." Joey forcibly turned and pushed the restaurateur to the cellar door.

Theresa, finally out of shock, struggled against the fierce hold Lockly had on her. "They said only Monte'd be shot. Only Monte!"

Lockly looked at the waitress dispassionately. In the same cold, calm tone he had used with Joey, he said, "It couldn't be helped. And remember, Theresa, you must think of your mother. Just do what you're told, and maybe nobody else will have to be hurt."

Starsky's current world was a frigid, windy gray, that limbo between full awareness and unconsciousness, punctuated by a hot-red headache and acid-green nausea. Gotta lie down . . . which way is that? Eyes pinched shut, he moaned as he shifted his position from a heap at Hutchinson's feet to one minutely less uncomfortable on his left side. Doing so caused his entire body to heave several times and the moans to change to strained sobs.

Hutchinson felt a surprising but not unfamiliar thickness in his throat. As he stepped around the semi-prone man cautiously, Lockly ordered him to stay where he was. He stopped, his body hovering over Starsky's head. For the first time, he noticed the older assassin had an automatic weapon in his hand and a calculating emptiness in his eyes. Hutch felt his testicles race for the protection of his pelvis. He bit off the curse that had jumped to the tip of his tongue and said instead, "I don't care what your business is here tonight. I'm going to help my partner." He left no doubt of his earnestness and determination.

"Your partner? That sounds like an interesting topic to explore, but I'm afraid any discussion will have to wait." Lockly paused for a moment. "All right. Go ahead, go ahead."

Hutchinson nodded his head once, curtly, then squatted beside Starsky. Oh, hell! What do I do now? He shivered for an instant when he realized just how close to death they all were. And that it would be up to him, probably with little help from anyone else, to fight for their survival. His throbbing aches began fading into the background on their own accord, as if they knew their owner needed to be free of them.

Joey, having returned from locking Johnny in the wine cellar, snickered. "Awww! I say we waste him." He twirled the gun several times around a finger. The slap of the butt in the palm of his hand was loud enough to be heard over the driving rain and distant thunder.

Hutchinson rested a hand on Starsky's right arm. He could feel micro-tremors rumble through Starsky's body and into his own. This can't be happening! With more anger than he had intended to reveal, he said, "If you're gonna blow me away, you'd better do it now."

Lockly snapped a back-off look to Joey. "I don't believe that will be necessary. Go ahead, look after your 'partner.'" Maintaining close observation of the blond man as he edged closer to the injured chef, he said, "Joey, turn off the ovens and stove, then see to our young muscle-bound yet slow friend." He swore silently at the begrudging attitude of his partner and wondered what had ever happened to the work ethic in today's young people.

The door to the restaurant swung open, the wind bringing in a short man with thinning hair and long, rough years etched on his face. Behind him was a tall, well-proportioned woman with wavy red hair and an attitude as foul as the weather dulling her green eyes. "Hey, hey, hey!" exclaimed the man as he took his coat off. "This must be the place!" When he noticed his companion had stopped partway through taking her coat off, he looked up and into the restaurant. Immediately, he turned to leave.

"You're not going to make it, friend," Lockly said, managing to perfectly balance threat and congeniality.

"Uh, just wanted a drink. We didn't want any trouble." The new man's eyes came to rest on the gun aimed at him.

"Sit at that table," ordered Lockly, using his gun to point to the one he meant, "and be quiet. If you do what you are told, you won't get hurt. And neither will your beautiful escort." The couple nearly stumbled in their speed to comply.

Starsky's world began to lighten up once he smelled the adrenalin-soaked Hutchinson. He exhaled with relief when he felt gentle, callused fingers turn his head gently to the right. "Hey, Hutch," he whispered hoarsely. He coughed weakly and grimaced.

With a light but sure touch, Hutchinson palpated the area on Starsky's head that had developed a new part and matted hair. Warm, sticky. This is not happening. Not again.

"Hutch?"

The quaking fear in Starsky's voice jolted Hutch fully into the present. "Oh, hey, buddy, hey." He gulped, but that didn't keep the "Oh, my God" from escaping his mouth. Dammit! "It's okay, buddy. I'm right here."

Starsky relaxed somewhat at his friend's reassurance. He grunted as nonchalantly as he was able. "Hey, Hutch." It was half greeting, half prelude to continued communication.

"Yeah? Yeah, okay, take it easy." He eased Starsky's head to a resting position. He jerked off his jacket, balled it up, and gently placed it under Starsky's head. He winced along with the photographer. He scuttled around Starsky to get a better view of his back.

"Hey, Hutch? I really goofed, huh? Huh? Did you . . . d'ya get 'em? Huh?"

"With what, Starsk? My pen?" Can't believe this guy is making jokes!

Lighten up, or the fear'll kill ya first. "Iz mightier than the sword."

Hutchinson snickered softly, his thoughts slowing and becoming less jumbled. Set you up good for that one. And I get the message. "More like they got us." He tore the thin cotton of Starsky's white shirt at the bullet hole. He felt bile rise from his gut on seeing the oozing hole in his friend's back. He knew enough that Starsky needed medical attention soon.

The simple action of his shirt being ripped sent waves of chills through the photographer's body. A moment later he heaved from head to toe and issued a strangled cry. He settled down when he heard Hutch say softly, "Take it easy. Take it easy now." The corners of his mouth curved up a few millimeters. Still here. That's good. "Uh, how d'I look? How d'I look, huh?"

Without thinking, Hutchinson stroked the right side of Starsky's head several times. "Well, I-uh-I, well, ah, one of the bullets bounced off that thick skull of yours. The other one found your shoulder."

Starsky smirked. "The shoulder?"

"Yeah." Hutchinson, keeping one hand on Starsky, reached for a blue towel he had seen on the table where they huddled.

"Iz that all?"

Hutch pressed the cloth into service over Starsky's back wound. When he didn't even flinch and with the towel saturating rapidly, Hutch's fear grew again. Okay. Keep it light. "Whattaya mean, is that all? You got shot twice, Starsk. You were wanting more?"

Starsky gurgled a little laugh and slipped a few steps back into the gray.

Hutch couldn't believe that Starsky had actually laughed at his pathetic joke. Once he realized Starsky was out of it again, he considered it safe to assert his concerns about his colleague's condition. Looking up, he saw he already had Lockly's attention. "Hey, I gotta get him to a hospital," he said with quiet urgency.

Lockly arched one eyebrow. "You just said yourself it's only a shoulder wound."

Hutchinson glanced quickly at Joey, who had just returned to stand slightly behind the older man. Another glance showed him that Jimmy was in a chair, head back, pinching his nose tightly with a bloodied cloth napkin. "Look, I don't know who you are, and I don't know why you're here. Right now, I really don't care. What I do know is that my buddy here has got a bullet in the back." He stopped to breathe, and hoped he was striking the right balance between demanding and begging. "And unless I get some help for him, now, you're gonna have a dead -"

"Dead?" interrupted Joey. "You mean he ain't dead already?" He snorted several times. "I can take care of that." He raised his .38, its hammer cocked, until it was directed at Starsky's head.

Moving faster than he ever thought possible, Hutch bridged his body over Starsky's. "You'll have to kill me first to get to him," he stated as he stared into the dark, thin shaft of death. "And if you kill us both, you'll have to keep our bodies out of sight. Wouldn't whoever you really want get suspicious right away when there aren't enough live bodies in here to explain the cars out front?" He could feel his breath involuntarily change to shallow pants.

Joey, now not as sure of his proposed action, said with some trepidation to Lockly, "Heyya, heyya . . . maybe he's right."

Meanwhile, Starsky had returned to a more lucid state. It took him several heartbeats to realize what his buddy was doing. NO! Just me, not you. He tried to throw Hutch off him and away from immediate danger. All he could manage was a meager one-inch flop. He squeaked his frustration at Hutch's "Easy, Starsk" but was pleased to feel some anger and defiance in the man's muscles.

Lockly yanked Theresa's arm and ignored the squeal it caused. "Is there any place we can put him?"

Too scared not to answer, she stuttered, "Uh, th-there's an office b-b-back there." She pointed with her free hand. "There's a couch in it."

Lockly stared a threat at Hutchinson, who had already returned to sitting on his heels at Starsky's back. "Take your partner into the office." Eyes not leaving Hutch, he continued, "Joey, if there's a back entrance, take care of it. And, if there's a phone, pull it out. Go!"

Hutchinson exhaled through pursed lips in part out of relief that he had bought them some time, in part out of self-recrimination for not telling the police Harry's tip before he came to "rescue" his associate. He took two more deep breaths in preparation for the only way to get Starsky into the back room. He shoved one arm between Starsky's legs and the other around his shoulders. "C'mon, buddy," he whispered firmly.

Starsky felt a strong hand wrap around his leg near his right knee. He hissed in through his teeth at the pain too easily exacerbated in the recently reinjured joint.

Eyes widening in contrition, Hutch breathed a quick, "Sorry," and shifted his hold a few inches higher.

"Iz okay, okay, huh, Hutch?" The knee pain lessened minutely. "Where we goin'?"

To hell if we don't come up with something pretty quick. "Gonna take you someplace where you can be comfortable," Hutch said with unfelt peppiness. "C'mon."

Mistaking Hutch's last word as a command, Starsky told his arms to move, to grasp Hutch around the neck. He was too deep into the gray to notice they weren't obeying. "Sounds nice," he said animatedly.

Hutch smiled to himself. "C'mon, ya big lug," he said just before silently grunting and lifting Starsky from the floor. His first few steps faltered from both Starsky's dead weight awkwardly splayed in front of him and from the pains that howled anew in his back. Just get him on the couch, Hutch, then you'll be fine. He said to Theresa as he passed her, "I need some clean towels. Tablecloths. Water." Agonizing moments later, he and his "burden" were in the back office.

11:26 p.m.

Joey had beat them there, and had already torn the phone from the wall. He threw it in a far corner, grinning at the chirpy sound the breaking instrument made. With a morbid satisfaction, he watched Hutchinson work painstakingly to place, rather than drop, the wounded man onto the sofa. Disappointment supplanted satisfaction when he heard the latter yelp. Screw him! He ain't gonna ruin my perfect record. Swaggering, he closed in on the couch.

Hutchinson wedged himself onto a piece of cushion in front of Starsky's hips. He found himself breathlessly telling the writhing and grimacing man to once more, "Take it easy, buddy. Take it easy." An instant later, he sensed Joey's presence close by. He growled almost soundlessly.

"Listen, Blondie, I could put your friend out of his misery. No extra charge." Joey tried to sound nonchalant, so as to hide his eagerness to complete his secondary mission.

Hutchinson whirled his head to face their tormentor. "Get the hell out of here," he said evenly.

Joey sneered. "Don't forget, hero. When you come out, I wanna see your hands in the clear, huh?" He guffawed once and pranced out of the room.

The move had sent Starsky rollercoastering in his gray world. The loud laugh a few feet from his pounding head sent him into a plunge. He twisted on the couch, breathing deeply, erratically, unable to find one square inch that didn't feel like a bed of daggers. His stomach twisted inside him.

Hutchinson firmly took him by the right arm. "Come on, Starsk, easy. Don't move."

The smell of stale sex and sweet cigars pushed his stomach to its limit. He reached for his friend, his right hand quickly finding home on a tense upper thigh. "Oh, Hutch" - tiny swallow - "oh" - a breath, unfinished - "I feel sick." Most of his body levitated off the couch as he retched. Translucent pearls of sweat erupted on his face, his armpits, his neck, the small of his back.

Hard memories ruptured into Hutch's consciousness. This won't end like with Jack - I promise. I will not sit back and let you die. "Just a second." His eyes searched for something to help. He pushed himself to move to grab a towel on the far side of a roll top desk that stood perpendicular to the sofa.

Starsky suddenly felt cold, deserted, alone. Hutch was gone, his bolstering presence a distant memory. His right arm droopily pawed the empty air around him. "Hutch . . ."

The fear, loneliness, and panic in his name stabbed his heart and sped up his return to Starsky's side. "I'm back, okay?" He noted that Starsky's thrashing decreased as soon as his hand returned to his thigh. He also noted that his own internal thrashing calmed some as well.

Getting a grip again on the only good piece of non-gray reality marginally helped Starsky's spiraling sensations. "Oh, Hutch . . . Hutch . . ." He whaled forcefully with one jab of nausea, and nearly tumbled from the sofa.

Stopping Starsky from falling cost Hutch a jarring burst of back pain. He bit the inside of his cheek to give himself a different pain to think about as he gently repositioned Starsky's top half. Through gritted teeth he said, "Take it easy. Take it easy." That goes for you, too, Hutchinson.

Starsky's roller coaster seemed to be on a slow incline, his brain clearing slightly. His tongue licked salty moisture from his stubbly upper lip. "Hey . . . wha' happened? Would ya tell me what happened?"

Hutch dabbed the worst of the perspiration from Starsky's face. Memory problems are normal at this point . . . aren't they? Jesus H. Christ, what have I gotten us into? Why didn't I just go right back into Metro . . . "You got shot, remember?"

"No kiddin'?" Don't feel like when I got shot before . . . oh, my head.

"You got a little crease on the side of your head." He carefully patted the wound with the towel, pleased to see that the bleeding there had essentially stopped. Suddenly, another memory, of a much younger Ken kneeling on the mossy floor of a forest performing almost the exact action on his best friend Ricky, flashed, burning his heart. He held his breath.

That attention to his head wound was enough to send Starsky's precarious equilibrium twirling. "Hutch . . . oh, Hutch." On reflex, his fingers dug into the fleshy part of Hutch's leg.

Hutchinson exhaled and tried not to squirm away from the new ache. Swiftly, he put the towel against the shoulder wound. In one shredded breath, he said, "Where in hell is that girl? GET IN HERE WITH THAT STUFF!"

Starsky's head reached an even keel quickly. Must be comin' outta shock. He released his dig to lightly swat Hutch's midriff. "Hey, you-you-you sound like Dobey." He could taste the sharp edginess in Hutch's scent, the subtle tremulousness in his bark.

"Sorry. Didn't mean to bellow like that." He snorted a half-hearted laugh. "You sure got Dobey's number in a hurry." His free arm's elbow found his knee, his fingers found the bridge of his nose.

Starsky's vision brightened and focused to near normal for the first time since the shooting. He knows we're in deep shit. Okay. Keep him positive. "Just like ev'ry editor I know." Not even a smile. "Guess I didn't get 'im good 'nough with my knife, huh?"

"You didn't 'get' him at all. Now I know why you're a photographer - you couldn't hack it at a sideshow attraction in some sleazy carnival."

For a moment, Starsky wasn't sure if Hutch was joking or serious. Then he noticed the microscopic upward curl at the corner of his mouth. "You should see me do circumcisions."

"I'll 'pass over' that one."

Theresa entered, a large silver pitcher in one hand, a bundle of red-and-white checkered linen tucked under one arm. "Here are the things you wanted."

Starsky tried to look up at the waitress, but the effort increased his nausea. "Oh, Hutch," his lips said without sound.

"Put 'em over there," Hutch said, head indicating the desk. After she had done that, he clasped her wrist and pulled her close to Starsky. He put her hand on the cloth at Starsky's back. "Here, keep pressure on that." She settled on the edge of the couch's arm. "What's your name?"

"Theresa," she said simply, quietly.

"Well, Theresa, this is some fine mess you got us into." Hutch unfolded a tablecloth and began folding it along the diagonal.

Starsky chortled high in his throat, drunk from the dizziness that had joined his nausea. "Tha's 'Stanley,' Ollie."

"What are you talking about?" Theresa replied over Starsky's statement.

Hutchinson shot a swift, quizzical look at Starsky, then one of disbelief at the waitress. "Monte. 'It was only supposed to be Monte.' I heard ya. You're talking about Vic Monte, aren't you?"

Starsky, back to baseline nausea, shivered at the thinly masked anger in Hutch's words. He couldn't let Hutch alienate Theresa, who they desperately needed as an ally. He did the only thing he could think of to bring down the hostility level. "Any kin to Del?"

"No!" they said simultaneously.

Starsky recoiled from their antagonistic tones and cursed his failed attempt at clearing the air between the two. His roller coaster took another nose-dive that he couldn't stop.

Hutchinson felt Starsky pull away. Hastily, he chuckled. "Could be, Starsk. Vic may not be into fruit, but he's into almost everything else. Numbers, extortion, prostitution, for starters. Big mob boss. The cops haven't had any luck making anything stick." He paused, then turned back to Theresa. "You set him up, didn't you?"

"No!" she said emphatically, quietly. Exposure to Hutchinson's hot, accusing stare melted her resolve to keep her secret. "You don't know how it is."

Hutchinson softened both his expression and his tone. "Well, then, how is it?"

Theresa pressed her hand harder on Starsky's back wound. "Vic Monte had my brother killed." Her free hand coiled into a fist on her lap.

"Which brings us right back to my point," Hutch said evenly. "You set him up."

Theresa glanced at the ashen, sweaty Starsky and finally felt regret join the hatred that had consumed her existence for the last few months. "Well, they can be very convincing when they wanna be."

Hutchinson, his reporter's curiosity insatiable, continued to press. "Who can? Huh?" When she didn't respond during a pause, he continued, "Your brother was 'family,' huh?" Starsky convulsed hard, once. "Take it easy, buddy. Take it easy. I'm right here." He rubbed the man's lower back. He turned his eyes - compelling, nonjudgmental - back to Theresa.

Her resistance yielded to the eyes. "Do you think I wanted to get involved in this? My brother was a baby! He was just nineteen years old!" She shook with rage and fear. How could he possibly understand what it's like to be part of the family? But his expression told her he probably did.

Hutchinson held eye contact for several seconds before returning to Starsky's needs. Rapidly but smoothly, he snaked the tablecloth around his partner until it looked like a red-and-white bandelero. With no small effort he pulled Theresa's hand from the wound. He stuffed several more towels over the hole and tied the tablecloth's ends together as tight as he could.

"Vic Monte has to pay," she said, meekly, without confidence, to break the silence from Hutchinson that had become unbearable.

Forcing himself not to let his anger and frustration show, Hutch said, "Well, then, what the hell is Starsky paying for, huh? If not for you, my partner here -" He stopped himself abruptly, realizing he was losing control and the soon-to-be tongue lashing would put him in the bad-guy position. A deep breath later, he said, "Look, Theresa, you better understand what you've got us involved in." Starsky retched again, this time with almost enough force to knock Hutch off the sofa. "Take it easy. Slow and easy, buddy, okay?" He rubbed a few small circles on Starsky's right shoulder blade. Addressing Theresa again, he said, "This is no personal vengeance killing. Monte's an important gangland figure, and those two men out there are hired professional killers. What you've done is to put all of us in the middle of a shooting war."

The probable upshot began to sink in, but she tried once more to allay her guilt. "No! No, that's not it at all! It's because of my brother. They said Monte has to pay. And that's why!"

Starsky's injured shoulder chose that moment to brutally wake up. The gray turned black briefly, as he convulsed again. Hutch, feeling sweat trickle into his eyebrows, wrestled to keep him on the couch. "Easy, Starsk, easy. Easy now. I have to pick up your head." He lifted the dark head so he could put one of the folded towels beneath it, surprised to feel resistance. You're a tough bugger, aren't you? Hope you're tough enough to last, buddy. Hope we all are. He twisted to grab the pitcher, and turned white from the spastic back pain that activity caused. His vision turned into a chalky fuzz. As he placed the container on the floor near his feet, he could feel himself toppling forward. It took biting the inside of his cheek once more to return him to functional status. Cautiously, he dipped a smaller towel into the pitcher. With a barely perceptible tremor in his voice, he said, "And besides killing people for a living, I got a feeling those two guys out there might lie just a little, too. You understand?"

"Hey, hero! Come out here," Joey called from the dining room.

The triggerman's interruption gave Theresa enough motivation to turn on her self-delusion once more. "None of those people are gonna get hurt."

Hutchinson exhaled heavily and closed his eyes for a moment. My father told me to never strike a woman. Well, Dad, you haven't met this one. "Here, take a bite of that," he calmly instructed his friend. He gently placed the moistened towel between Starsky's lips.

The foul taste yanked Starsky out of the deep gray. He shrank away a few millimeters, scowled, and uttered, "Ugh. Awful." Realistic memories of lying cold, petrified, and wounded in extraordinarily brackish water came. He didn't let them linger.

Hutch chuckled, and realized his latest surge of anger at Theresa had faded, as had a fair amount of his back pain. "Yeah?" he asked rhetorically as he withdrew the cloth. "Okay." Turning back to the waitress, he said, purposely sounding like a parent guiding a child through the task of figuring out why the cat clawed her when she pulled its tail, "Don't be stupid, Theresa. You're safe. They won't touch you. But, do you think for one minute, after they've killed Vic Monte, they're gonna let any one of the rest of us walk out of here alive?" He squeezed her forearm with subtle seductiveness, poured on the pleading puppy-dog eyes, and gave just the right amount of smile and frown. For a nanosecond, he hated himself for being such a manipulative bastard. But it was his stock in trade, a necessary skill for an investigative reporter. Now Starsky's life depended on it. I'd do anything . . . He let the thought evaporate.

Theresa finally and fully expunged her bone-deep need for revenge. She had been, and still was, fine with having a hand in the mobster's death, but she wanted no part in David's -- or Jimmy's or anyone else's -- demise. "What do you want me to do?" she whispered, remorse apparent even in the hushed words.

Hutchinson lowered his head quickly so she couldn't see his relief and second-phase desperation. Her question hung over them, an aural sword of Damocles, a reminder their time was running out. How the hell should I know? I'm a reporter, not a cop. He caught Starsky furrowing his brow over tightly shut eyes, as if he were thinking -- or maybe he's gonna hurl again. Dammit, Starsk, I didn't want to this to happen. But you gotta help me figure out what to do, partner.

Starsky couldn't explain, and didn't want to, Hutch's voice resonating in his own chest, hearing no words in his ears but knowing what he . . . said? Shit. Goin' nutso. But I'm tryin' to come up with something, Blondie. Hard to think real straight, though. His shoulder now throbbed constantly, and his head made its own thunder.

Joey's voice, increasingly impatient, filled the room, lowering the sword closer to the journalists. "Hey, hero, I'm not gonna tell ya again. Now come on out here."

"Okay, okay," snapped Hutchinson. Swiftly unfolding a tablecloth and draping it over Starsky, he said to Theresa, "Listen, you stay in here. You keep him covered and warm, and keep his face cool. If he needs me, you call me." Reflexively, he squeezed Starsky's arm as he stood to leave.

"Yeah, but -"

Hutchinson silenced her with a stiff index finger, timed perfectly with a thunderclap. He stood tall and straight, and strolled into the wolves' den. As he entered with his hands in the air, he felt less frightened, more determined, than he'd expected. What he didn't expect was not feeling alone.

11:37 p.m. -- the dining room

Joey, slouched in a chair at the table with the reluctant customers, grinned widely and waved his gun like a battlefield flag at Hutchinson. "Nice of you to join us, hero. You don't know how close you came to being laid out with your partner."

Hutchinson suddenly had enough of Joey's pet name. "I'm no hero," he buzzed through bared teeth.

"Oh, yeah! My mistake! Your partner's the hero. He's the one pushed your sorry butt out of the way and took both bullets." Joey started to laugh, his legs swishing side to side ever faster. He toasted Hutchinson with the long neck beer bottle he held in his other hand.

The salute made Hutchinson involuntarily envision Starsky's wake, a testament to his failure to protect his partner. His own imminent death simply didn't occur to him. His shoulders and knees slumped, his arms fell to his sides, his brain and footsteps slowed to a shuffle. Surprisingly, he was rescued from drowning by the senior hitman.

"All right, Joey, that's enough," Lockly said from his table in the front corner opposite the bar. "I'll take it from here." Shifting his gaze fully to the reporter, he asked, "How is he?"

Hutchinson shrugged. "He's still alive," he pronounced hoarsely.

"Too bad all this had to happen."

Hutch forced a small smile. Yeah, too bad for you this hit isn't going smoothly. Too bad you won't get paid for killing more than the contract called for. "Yeah." He looked around the dining room and gestured half-heartedly with his arms. "Where do you want me?"

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

The reporter did as he was told. On his way to the table closest to the front entrance he passed a sulking Jimmy seated at the bar and decided to ignore him for the time being. He eased himself into a chair, electing to sit near its edge, hoping to move quickly should one of the assassins drop his guard or make a mistake. One ear tuned into the conversation between Joey and the mismatched couple, the other straining to hear anything from the back room. Starsky. He let the name roll around in his head. His spirit began to ache at the thought that he might not be able to come through for Starsky and the others. Just like he hadn't come through for Ricky or Jack. That old, familiar hopelessness returned to cloud his faith in himself. To chase it away, he stopped dwelling in his head and focused on the small world around him.

". . . hittin' the big time, huh?" goaded Joey. "Only the up-and-comers play the Galaxy Bowl-a-Rama, huh, Sammy?" He snorted a supercilious laugh. "Come on, funny man. Tell me a joke. Make me laugh, huh?"

"What?" asked the comic, disbelieving.

"You do get paid for tellin' jokes, don'tcha? C'mon, make me laugh. Yeah, that's it. Ol' Monte'll walk in and see everybody laughin', havin' a good time, won't think anything's wrong. Until I whack" -- he smacked the table with the flat of his hand, causing Sammy, the woman, and Hutchinson to startle -- "him, right, funny man?" He laughed with delight at their reactions before taking a long pull from the beer bottle.

Scared nearly witless, Sammy stuttered, "Well, uh, uh, gu-gu-gimme a second or two. Uhhh. Uh, okay. You see, there's -"

"What are you doing, dummy?" interrupted the redhead. She nudged his leg under the table. "Can't you see he's just baiting you? He really doesn't want to hear any jokes!"

The comedian looked at her, seeing no one but her, his knitted eyebrows and pursed lips asking why she hurt him in so many ways. Guiltily, she looked down at her hands.

Joey snickered. "It's easy to tell who's the smart one in this team. Hey, Red, what's a good-lookin' bimbo like you doin' with a toad like him, anyway? Gotta be another funny man out there more your speed." He gestured to the bottles in front of them. "Go ahead, drink up. It'll relax you." He stood, drained the last of his beer, and winked lecherously at the woman.

"Do I have to sit with him?" she asked, unable to disguise her contempt.

Oh, yeah, she's mine for the takin'. Play her a little. She'll come crawlin'. "Ya came in wid 'im, you're gonna hafta go out wid 'im." Joey swayed a little, stoned on power and sexual arousal, and laughed. "Hey, dat's funny, huh? Huh?" He snorted at the mousy man's impotent head-hanging. "Some comic. Next week, you're gonna be playin' car washes." Smirking at his joke, he twitch-sauntered to the table where his partner sat.

Hutchinson squirmed and slumped in his chair when he recognized the look the redhead gave her partner. It was the same mix of scorching disgust and icy pity Vanessa wore on her gorgeous public mask when she walked out on him. He watched in empathy as the comedian appeared to shrink to an earlier stage of physical development.

The woman took a deep breath and pushed her chair away from the table. "I'm gonna get outta this." She stood, tugging the hem of her glittery blouse into its proper place on her slim hips.

"Yeah, but how?" asked Grovner, sounding as small as he looked. "They got us nailed here."

Through her teeth, she spat, "I said me, Sammy. I'm gonna get me outta this." She puffed out a strong sigh. "You're a loser, Sammy, always a groomsman, never a groom. A second banana to a second-rate rock group in a third-rate Vegas lounge. I'm going over to the winners." She sneered and walked away.

Hutchinson wondered if women were secretly trained in certain techniques used to dump men, since the redhead's speech was almost verbatim what Vanessa had said to him. It rang in his ears, the death toll of their marriage: The best you'll ever do, Ken, is Number 2. Always the runner-up, never Mr. America. You're a second-rate reporter for an almost-ran west-coast magazine. I'm going to find me a winner, because I'm one. For an instant, he wanted to scream at the redhead as she passed him. Instead, he sat forward and grabbed her wrist.

She stumbled to a stop and tried to pull her arm away. Her green eyes fired a threat at him.

The crease between his eyes deepened. "You don't want to do that," he said, half plea, half command. Slowly, he unwound his fingers from her wrist.

She caught the simmering pain in his eyes. She looked at the younger thug, and her stomach turned at the lewd, cruel expression he wore. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw that Sammy had turned his back to her; nevertheless, she read the hurt reproach in the tilt of his head. Shame crashed into her with the force of a sledgehammer. Humbly, she rapped her knuckles a few times on the blond man's table.

Hutchinson used a foot to push the closest chair out. "Ken Hutchinson," he said softly.

She sat in the offered chair, keeping her back straight, placing her forearms and folded hands on the tabletop. She contemplated her fire-engine-red thumbnails. "I'm Robin Morton. Nice to meet you."

"I suppose -- under different circumstances." Hutch shrugged. "No matter what the move, it's always the wrong one, huh?" I should know. Sure have made my share tonight.

"Hmmph. Story of my life." Robin cast a sidelong glance at Hutchinson. "Sammy's been good to me, really good, y'know? So what do I do? Bury him alive. Maybe I deserve some flaky hood like -" She stopped when she noticed the young woman she had assumed was a waitress there coming toward them.

Instantly, Hutchinson was sitting upright and twisting around. His back protested. Between the pain and the dart of fear that Theresa had the worst news possible, he couldn't speak.

"I think he needs you."

Hutch didn't know whether to believe her strong, simple opinion or her quivering body. He looked at the older hitman, giving him a bold warning that nothing would stop him from returning to his friend's side.

He was rounding the end of the bar before his chair hit the floor.

11:37 p.m. -- the back room

Starsky, in one of his low points, first noticed that the aura of affection that cloaked him had thinned. Next, it was his empty hand. Then it seemed he was having an out-of-body experience, like those flower children told him he'd have if he'd eat the mushrooms. Part of him seemed to be facing the bad guys. Forcing himself to a lighter shade of gray, he raised his arm and waved it around, searching for the aura's center. "Hutch?"

Theresa began to cry at the melancholic cracking in David's voice. She took his hand in hers and opened the dam. "Hhhhhe's gone, David."

Panic and loss crushed him as he assumed the worst meaning in her words and tears. I am a freakin' jinx! I start caring about somebody, then . . . "Nuh-no! You're wrong! He ain't dead, you hear me?" Don't you dare be dead, Hutch. He tensed, hyperventilating.

Theresa cleared the tears from her face, only to have them quickly replaced. "Oh, no, David! He's just gone out to the dining room."

Relief calmed his breathing. "Okay, okay," he said, more to reassure himself than to respond to the waitress. Forcing himself into deep concentration, he tried to recall what happened in the last half-hour. The memories were spotty at best, though he did remember that everyone's life was forfeit. There's a way outta this, there's always a way out. It's in the combat photographer's manual. He shifted his body toward the sofa back and lifted his head as he said, "Theresa." But the movement got the better of him. The pain -- also from the hand Theresa squeezed too tightly -- and nausea almost drained him. It was only his absolute determination to keep Hutch alive that kept him conscious. Won't do that again real soon. "Theresa," he tried again, "tell me everything you can about these hitters, okay? What they said, what they did, okay? Don' leave nothin' out." He took a few deep breaths in an attempt to put a lid on his overactive stomach.

The waitress haltingly but economically told Starsky all she could about Tom Lockly and Joey Martin, from her first contact with them earlier in the day to the unspoken threat from Joey as she brought the pitcher and linen to the back room. She included the fact that Hutchinson had placed himself between Starsky and sure death twice. "That's it, that's everything, David," she said with an exhausted sigh. "I'm so sorry that you and your friend got dragged into this. I'm sorry about all of it." She lapsed into silence, loosening her grip on Starsky's hand.

He had listened with every fiber of his being in hopes of identifying any weakness he or Hutchinson could exploit -- it served to take his mind from the enduring agony in his head and back -- until he heard what Hutch had done. Son of a gun. Guess I was wrong about him. He really can care about someone he actually knows. He snickered to himself. Can't let all that good karma go to waste. "Theresa, Johnny got a gun?"

"Considering this neighborhood, I'd think so. But I don't know if he does!"

Starsky cursed silently at everything and everyone he could think of, including his ninth-grade algebra teacher and his own slowness in taking out the younger hitman. He licked his upper lip again, the salty beads tasting like nectar. How stupid can I get! Get mad later, dammit. Get even now. Think, dummy, think! He "circled the wagons" around all that distracted him, just like his father had taught him to do while he was learning to read and write. Soon, his head was clear, his pain blunted, his breathing shallow but even. An idea, possibly even workable, finally budded, but he needed help to make it grow.

"Fa'get about it. Get Hutch back in here, okay?"

Theresa touched her lips to the back of his hand before letting go and leaving Starsky alone with his wits and his will to see Hutch make it out of this mess.

11:42 p.m. -- the back room

Trailing behind the speeding reporter but going no further than the doorway, Theresa said insistently, "It's gonna be all right -- I know it is."

Hutchinson shook his head vigorously, not to signal a negative but to try ridding himself of the frustration at the woman's irritating and relentless pollyannaism. "Sure," he replied without thinking or agreeing with his own statement.

Starsky had felt his partner before he heard him, and had begun beating the air around him with his arm. "Hutch?"

Hutchinson whispered a prayer of thanks on hearing the stronger, optimistic tone in Starsky's voice. "Hey, buddy, how ya feeling, huh?" He was back on the small wedge of sofa that was his. One hand worked to control Starsky's waving arm; the other went to his head.

"Hey." He winced at the jolt of agony, shying away from the touch that caused it despite its gentleness. "Feel like I went fifteen with Rocky."

"Let me check this out." Even more gently than before, he assessed Starsky's head wound. To distract him from what was obviously painful, he said, "Didn't know you liked boxing. Marciano fan, huh?"

"Yeah. Sure could use the Brockton Blockbuster now, huh?" Thunder rolled, which he hoped masked his moan. "Iz okay, iz okay." He snorted, relieved, when Hutch stopped probing his head. How to keep him away from my back? "Theresa filled me in. What's happenin' out there?"

"Nothing good. When they're finished with the Vic Monte linguine, we're dessert."

"You really know how to cheer a guy up, Hutch. Anybody ever tell you you're a regular shaft of sunlight?"

"Well, I do my best, and no, nobody's ever told me that. But I do get called something else that begins with an S and ends with another name for a female dog."

Starsky's hoarse laugh came from deep in his belly. Hell, I've thought that about you a few hundred times! "I hear that. So, what're we gonna do?"

"I think I can jump one of 'em. Wild man Joey out there is wound tighter than a guitar string, and he's been boozing. I'm pretty sure I can take him."

"Naw. No way a blintzkrieg'll work."

"Blitzkrieg," Hutch corrected automatically.

Starsky glared briefly at his friend. "Whatever. Anyway, second man'd take you out before you could finish Joey. He's a pro, Hutch. I was thinkin' you somehow get one of my guns -"

"No!" Hutchinson interrupted once more, hands clenching into fists, one of them pounding his thigh.

Starsky was taken off guard by Hutch's adamant tone and the shocked, who-the-hell-are-you look on his friend's face. But his expression also had something else -- horror? -- come and go in a blink, and this concerned him. He let it go, not willing to argue their chances of staying alive without a gun to help. He didn't want to risk Hutch decompensating, though he very much doubted that would happen. Hutch had already impressed him as a fighter -- both physical and mental. "I ain't exactly been hangin' out in safe places, Hutch. Been in more tight situations than Flash Gordon." He paused to add emphasis to his next words. "We gotta fight fire with fire."

"We've got enough time to try another way, all right?" Not waiting for Starsky to reply, Hutch continued. "Okay, let's do this. We get one of 'em in here. While he's here, I'll take care of the other one. When the first man comes back to the dining room, I-I-I . . . you know." He paused, fearful that his rapid speech would overtake his racing pulse. "What do you think about it? My plan?"

"Shit, Hutch, I think we oughta be in Bolivia, knocking off banks. Sure would be less dangerous than investigative journalism."

For a split second, they stared at each other before sharing a short laugh. "Journalism wasn't hazardous at all until you came along, Gordo," Hutch stated, his tone lacking any anger or bitterness. "I can do this. And I don't have to sshoot" -- Starsky caught the subtle falter -- "somebody to do it."

Gloves are comin' off, partner. "You got no backup if that hatchetman gets back to the dining room before you've got th'other one . . . handled. Which is probably what will happen." Starsky let the implication haunt the air between them for a few heartbeats. He sighed loudly. The expression on Hutch's face told him the reporter was totally unfazed. Okay, so appeal to the Don Quixote in him. "The only chance anybody's got of makin' it outta here alive is if we even up the odds some."

Hutch closed his eyes tightly. He's right, and you know it. It was different with Ricky. You can do this. Have to do it. "Fine. It's your way." Opening his eyes, he leaned in closer to Starsky and whispered brusquely, "Now how the hell do you expect me to get one of your guns, huh? I don't think they'll just let me stroll on up to your place."

"We get someone they trust to do it." You I trust. Pretty damn sure they don't trust you.

"Theresa?!" Hutch sat straight up.

"Who else? Nobody else has the freedom to move around."

"But I don't trust her!"

"No choice, Blintz. Trust me."

You're the only one I do trust, Starsk. Hutch gave a reluctant half-nod.

Starsky sighed again. "Now what excuse can she use to get up there?"

"Where are they? The guns?" Hutch said the last word as if it kicked him in the groin.

"My army .45 is under my mattress, and my dad's service revolver is in the bathroom closet. Locked and loaded."

"Jesus, Starsky, you got a grenade launcher in the pantry, too?"

Starsky opened his mouth to retort, but Joey's jeering shout sounded first: "Hey, you two've held hands long enough. Out here now, Blondie."

They looked at each other, reading the panic in each other's eyes, then seeing the solution grow until it choked out the terror -- in less than two seconds. Hutchinson said, "Hope this works, buddy. Wouldn't want this to be the end of a beautiful friendship." He smirked. "I'll get her in here so you can explain it."

Impending embarrassment sent Starsky into near hysteria. "Why me? You're the one so damn good with words."

"It's your gun. And your plan." Hutch hunched his shoulders and patted Starsky's right cheek a couple of times. "Besides, I have a command performance." He was up and out the door before he could hear Starsky say, "Why, you sonuvabitch."

11:45 p.m.

Hutchinson ambled into the dining room, hands in surrender position. It took more than he thought to hide the hope that had sprouted in the last thirty seconds. "Uh, I'm back, as ordered." He suppressed a snarl at Joey. A quick look around the room showed him little had changed. Robin had rejoined Sammy; now both were as pale and stiff as corpses. On every occupied table were covered baskets of what he assumed was bread, and everyone had some sort of beverage. He noted that his was the only table with something more -- a bowl of soup cold enough that a small amount of fat had congealed on the surface. For some reason, this ordinarily innocuous sight made his stomach perform gravity-defying gymnastics.

After several deep breaths, he righted his stomach and his fallen chair. Standing behind it as if it could hide him from the frosty examination Lockly was subjecting him to, he smiled, worried with an inkling of docile. "I was wondering if . . . well, he was bleeding pretty briskly, and I was hoping you'd agree to let Theresa stay with him. Keep an eye on his wound." He paused and cursed the elder assassin for his inscrutable expression. "Please."

Several long seconds later, during which Hutchinson thought he would risk jumping either one of the hitmen just to satisfy his need to do something, Lockly replied, "I think that can be arranged. Theresa?"

The waitress, behind the bar across from Jimmy, kept her face unreadable as she looked first at Hutchinson, then at Lockly. After a noncommittal glance at her lover, she headed for the office.

"Thanks," Hutchinson said quietly. He sat as he had before, on the seat's edge, ready to move at the slightest opening. Do something stupid, so I don't have to shoot anybody. Then he thought himself stupid for believing, even hoping, that these two professionals would slip up now.

"Hey, Blondie," Joey said with more familiarity than Hutchinson ever wanted from him, "she's quite a number, ain't she?"

Deciding it was the better part of survival to respond to the young hitman, Hutch said, "Sorry, I don't understand."

"I'm talkin' about Red over there. She comes on to me, but she goes to you instead. Now, she's deserted you just to go back to that toad. Fickle broad, ain't she?"

"Joey, that's enough." Lockly's tone, though still cool, had a slim edge of impatience.

After a petulant roll of his eyes, the younger killer sat up straighter in his chair. "Just tryin' to have a little fun, make things more 'comfortable' for our audience, pal."

Hutchinson scowled faintly in Joey's direction. You're doing just the opposite, and you know it. You feed off fear, you son of a bitch. He shook off his anger, determined to save the energy for when he'd need it. He shifted his attention to Robin and the comic when he heard a conversation begin between them.

"How's this one, Robin? I say, 'No matter what I had -- pneumonia, a broken arm, a bad haircut -- my mother always gave me chicken soup. Jewish penicillin.'" He winced at the look of pity on her face. "Well, maybe there's a Polish joke there, someplace . . ."

"Nobody uses Polish jokes anymore, Sammy."

Deflated, he said, "I guess you're right. Gotta think of some class material for Vegas."

"I didn't mean it that way. I-I'm sorry." She sighed. "I'm always saying and doing the wrong things, aren't I?"

"Listen, doll, in my life, I've made more mistakes than I can count."

"Can you say something funny? Make me laugh?"

"How 'bout, uh . . . I lo--love you?" He paused, his face whipped and vulnerable. "Isn't that a scream?"

The redhead whimpered, with Hutch joining her silently as he recalled a similar situation during his last argument with Vanessa. You can't leave me, Van, I love you, he had said. She had countered with an insolent, What are you trying to do -- make me laugh? Defeated, he had replied, Yeah, ain't that impossible. He ripped himself from the past that should have been dead to focus on the present that promised to be deadly in a matter of minutes.

11:47 p.m.

"I can't do that! How can you expect me to say that to some man I don't even know?!" Theresa exclaimed, her voice pinched with mortification. She began wringing her hands.

Starsky didn't think it possible, but his face and neck flamed even hotter and colored to a deeper red. Nice to know not all my blood's gone out my back. "'Cause if you don't give that reason, he'll just tell you to use the restaurant's bathroom." Hutchinson, I swear I'm gonna drop-kick your butt into tomorrow.

"I don't have to do this. They'll just take care of Monte and leave."

Right after I kick hers into orbit. "No. We're all dead, 'cept you and maybe Johnny. Dammit, Theresa, it don't matter that this embarrasses you. It's Hutch's, uh, and everybody else's life."

She shook her hands vigorously for several seconds. "Okay," she replied uncertainly. A wavering breath later, she continued with slightly more confidence. "I said I'd help. But don't blame me if Jimmy tries to tear your head off after all this is over."

At least I stand a chance against Jimmy. "Good girl. You know how to answer any question he shoots" -- he winced at the unfortunate choice of words; she gulped -- "at you, right?" A tiny nod from her. "You can do this." His hand captured her restive forearm and squeezed it warmly.

Her free hand wiped away the moisture clouding her sight. She gave him a sickly, unsteady smile and left, her gait full of stutters.

Starsky relaxed as much as was possible into the couch. I ain't ever gonna live this down. The cops are gonna find out, then it'll be in all the papers, but if it ain't, I know Hutch'll tell everybody at the magazine and I can just hear the jokes. Oh, God -- what if my mama finds out? To the moon, Hutch, ya lousy putz.

11:49 p.m.

On seeing the hesitation in Theresa's walk and her hand chewing her skirt, Hutchinson couldn't help the chortle that rose from his imagining the conversation that had just occurred between her and his partner. He returned to all seriousness when he saw the fear and doubt in her eyes, knowing they merely reflected his. He offered her encouragement and assurance in the minute nod of his head and the slow blink of his eyes. As she passed him on her way to the assassins' table, he could taste her dread. You can do this.

Theresa stopped a couple of feet in front of the table and simply stared at Lockly. Her hand stilled, clenching a fistful of skirt.

With oily indulgence, Lockly said, "Yes, Theresa. What is it?"

"I have to go upstairs to David's apartment. I have to take care of some . . . urgent personal business."

"Can't it wait, my dear?"

"No, it can't." She stopped and ground her teeth. The tilt of his head and the arch of an eyebrow bid her to continue. "You know . . . that time of mmmonth . . . that time has come a little early." She clamped her eyes shut and gazed blindly at her shoes.

Joey sputtered out an astonished laugh, spraying Theresa with his spit. "You're jokin', right?" He hee-hawed at seeing her face turn beet-red. "Aw, Theresa, why don'tcha just wad up -"

"Joey," Lockly admonished. "Theresa, I don't understand why you would have to go to this David's apartment. Isn't that the name of the unfortunate man in the office?"

Hutchinson felt his ire soar at the phony civility in Lockly's tone. He wanted to scream that yes, David was his name, and that he wouldn't be there if it weren't for the two of them. Only the knowledge that doing so would delay Theresa from getting the weapon kept his mouth shut and his butt in the chair.

The waitress nodded shyly, her head still lowered.

"Why don't you have those, um, supplies here with you, Theresa? Why would that young man have them?"

Hutchinson held his breath. Felt the heat rise to his neck. Heard his heart pound in his ears. C'mon, Theresa, you can convince him.

She felt the confidence continue to grow. Her voice lost what was left of its hesitation. "Since I've been, um, staying the night with him, I asked if I could keep those . . . things there. Just in case."

Jimmy Lee slammed a hammy fist onto the bar. "You slut!" he yelled. He swung around to face her. "I was right! You are seein' that heeb!"

"Jimmy, no!"

A goddamned goliath in the ointment, cursed Hutch as he tensed to react.

"I had about as much as a real man can take." The football player's feet hit the floor.

An instant later, Hutchinson launched himself at the bigger man. He slid his left arm between Jimmy's trunk and right arm, then lifted and twisted his own arm out and forward, effectively preventing Jimmy from using his temporarily. He plowed his right fist as hard as he could into Jimmy's washboard abdomen as he simultaneously stomped on his instep.

Jimmy doubled over, breathless and fiery purple. Before Hutchinson could do anything else, Joey was on them. When it became obvious what Joey's intention was, Hutch tightly closed his eyes and held his breath. The hitman clubbed Jimmy over the head with the butt of his pistol. The weapon discharged, kissing Hutch.

11:51 p.m. -- the back room

The gunshot broke through Starsky's attempt to figure out the lyrics to Louie, Louie as a way of staying alert and controlling the pain. NO-NO-NO-NO-NO! he screamed in his head as his ears were filled another -- a woman's -- scream. Immediately hyperventilating, he rolled to his side. His right hand found the pitcher. Gritting his teeth, he umphed through them as he flung the vessel against a wall. Lightning filled the room, illuminating his fall off the sofa in jerky scenes as if it were an early silent movie.

Face down on the inhospitable linoleum, he thought he could hear consciousness in the distance mocking him. He held on to that taunt, his only aid to keep from sinking into the beckoning arms of oblivion.

11:51 p.m. -- the dining room

Hutchinson reeled backwards, still tangled with Jimmy. Gunpowder clogged his nostrils, dusted his face. His left arm itched. To make matters worse, the maddening sensation rapidly spread down the arm. Intellectually, he knew Theresa screamed, but he perceived it as a faraway echo. His shoulder protested as he yanked away from Jimmy.

How he remained standing was a mystery to him. The lingering gunpowder irritated his eyes. Tears streamed down his face, making ant-size tracks in the soot. He swiped a quick hand across his eyes. In the next millisecond, he heard a louder-than-expected metallic crash from the office. Hearing okay. He sneezed, spraying blackened mucus over Joey's left side from head to waist.

The younger executioner stood and swung his handgun around to aim it at Hutch's head. "Why, I oughta -"

"Joey, that's enough." Lockly had left the security of his table and stood between Joey and Theresa.

Hutch noted that Lockly's right hand was in his jacket pocket and that the pocket bulged just a bit more than it should have if it contained just a hand. Just keep it there for a few more minutes.

Joey kept his venomous eyes on Hutchinson. "You stinkin' bum," he growled. "I shoulda killed you when I had the chance. Well, you don't get no more chances, Blondie. None of you get -"

"Joey, will you shut up!"

Hutchinson smiled inwardly at Lockly's first real show of something other than tight control. It gave him hope that the lead assassin may have given up some advantage. Silently, he thanked Joey for being such an obnoxious bastard.

"Take him" -- Lockly indicated Jimmy with a head move -- "to the cellar and lock him up with the old man. Be quick about it." Without wasting a second, Joey viciously wrenched his charge to a standing-but-stooped position. "Then take Theresa upstairs." He checked his watch. "You have five minutes."

"But -"

"Theresa," Lockly interrupted, "no more. How does one get to this David's flat?"

Any vestige of hope the waitress had about all of them surviving was dashed on the hardness of Lockly's eyes. Praying her swelling defiance wouldn't come through, she said, "There's a staircase off the kitchen that leads up to his place."

"Then go with Joey and your . . . friend."

She acknowledged the order with a small inclination of her head and jogged the few yards to catch up with them. She took Jimmy's free arm in both of hers to ease his journey to his confinement.

"Hmm," started Hutchinson tentatively. Lockly glared icily at him, daring him to speak, pulling himself up to full height, jutting out his chest. Hutchinson knew all that was to evoke fear and obedience. Well, I'm fresh out of both. But I'm up for a little "chicken." "I thought I heard something fall back in the office. I'd like to go check my partner out."

Several heartbeats passed. "All right. Go ahead."

Hutchinson nodded his thanks respectfully, but inside, he was enjoying his small victory. He stood away from the wall that had been holding him up and took the first steps back to Starsky.

"But first, clean off that powder and bandage your arm so that it doesn't show. Joey's bullet seems to have drawn blood."

The face he had been keeping in neutral instantly changed to surprise. Feeling strangely energized, he strode to the cash register and helped himself to one of the paper napkins next to it. In a few seconds he was behind the bar. He studied his visage in the mirror behind the shelves of glasses while he dampened the napkin -- streaked gray face, discolored hair, bloodshot eyes. He began to feel his skin burn. He tossed the napkin and instead used his hands to douse his face, ears, and neck repeatedly with cool water. I must've been shot. Why doesn't it hurt? Jesus H. Christ, I'm shot! Half a minute later, most of the gunpowder residue was gone, leaving his complexion a sunburnt red. He grabbed a bar towel and stuffed it under the ripped and bloody upper sleeve of his sweater. Then he tore off for the office and Starsky, already having forgotten his injury.

11:53 p.m.

"Hutsh?" Starsky slurred when he heard the footsteps.

"Yeah, I'm right here."

Still fighting the lure of unconsciousness, Starsky felt a glimmer of hope through the curse of death that seemed to rain down on those he cared about. "Hutsh?" he asked again, not believing quite yet that his partner was still alive.

"I'm right here, Starsk, right here."

He was convinced. His head cleared rapidly, as did his speech. "I thought they killed you."

"Give 'em a few more minutes." He shuddered briefly, finally realizing how close he had come to having his head blown off. He squatted at Starsky's head. "Is that why you're on the floor? Huh?"

Starsky's laugh blended with a whimper of jolting pain brought on by the movement. "Nah. Thought I'd join ya, kick some bad-guy butt. Can't let you have all the fun."

"This isn't fun. Fun is getting a major dose of food poisoning. You want me to sit you up?"

"Think ya can?"

"Underneath this mild-mannered plaid shirt and pullover is my T-shirt with a huge S on it."

"Yeah, for 'sonuva-'"

"Now, Starsky, what would your mother say, you talking like that about your buddy, huh? Okay, ya big polooka, here goes." Taking his partner by the shoulders, Hutch began working him up to a sitting position. Starsky was proving once more to be essentially dead weight that taxed his back. "C'mon, buddy, move your legs a little more for me if you can."

Slowly, he inched his legs around and turned his aching head until he came eye-to-eye with Hutch. He recognized the few dark sprinkles on his friend's face as gunpowder tattoos. Searching further, he spied the tear and underlying lump in his sweater sleeve. "Shit, Hutch, you did almost get killed!" His initial reaction of impotence swiftly yielded to one of anger -- at himself, the situation, Theresa, Vic Monte.

"I probably would be dead if young Happy Trigger had actually meant to shoot. I think his gun went off by accident. Anyway, it must be just a scratch. I don't feel a thing." Hutch positioned Starsky's legs until he was sure they were just right in keeping the man sitting upright. He let out a long "Ah" as he sat beside his friend on the floor. "How's your arm?"

"Oh, terrific," Starsky replied jovially. "If I never want to pitch again."

How could I not have noticed he was a lefty? Some reporter I am. "Somehow, I don't think the baseball scouts were ever knocking at your door."

"Like you would know. You don't know talent when ya see it. I was one of the top hurlers in the Southeast Asia League."

"There is no such thing as the 'Southeast Asia League,' dummy."

Hutch's prissy attitude rankled Starsky. "Who are you -- Bowie Kuhn?" he barked.

"The baseball commissioner? What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"It means . . . oh, hell, just forget it, okay, Hutch? We ain't got time to argue. Have you decided how you're gonna take these goons out?"

"Yeah, yeah. I got an idea." Maybe somebody walking by heard that last shot. Oh, who am I kidding? Who would be out on a night like this?

Starsky again sensed something more than just the expected loathed necessity of having to wound, if not kill, a couple of people. Something that seemed to turn Hutch almost as dark as his shadow. "You know how to shoot a gun?"

"Of course. I grew up in Minnesota. Every boy gets a hunting rifle for his third birthday."

"What about the first and second birthdays?"

"Skates and a hockey stick, and a fishing rod and tackle box for the second."

"You ever shoot a handgun? A revolver?"

"Yeah. Target."

"Shootin' targets or Bambi is real different from shootin' people."

"Yeah, I know."

Starsky wondered if Hutch meant he knew on an intellectual basis or by firsthand experience. He strongly suspected, given the soft voice, avoidance of eye contact, and the fidgety left hand, it was the latter. Sorry, buddy, but I gotta push ya. We can't let everybody die. "Think you can do this?"

"Yes."

The answer was so lilliputian that Starsky had to strain to hear it, even with Hutch sitting so close. Intending to give Hutch an encouraging pat on his thigh, he reached with his dominant hand, which simply floundered at the end of his wrist and slid between them. Electric currents of pain played speed-tag up and down his arm, making his breath come in catches. He teetered on the brink of the gray.

"Easyeasyeasy," Hutch rattled off hurriedly. He covered Starsky's hand with his own until he felt no more movement from it. After gently replacing it on his thigh, he said, "No more of that, okay?" He scooped up a towel that had fallen on the floor beside him. With it he wiped away the sweat that had reappeared on Starsky's face. "Why didn't you tell me your shoulder was hurting?"

Starsky quirked a smile. "Would it have made any difference?"

"No." Yes. Dammit, Starsk, and you knew it. You cheated, just to keep me focused. "You know something?"

"Wha'?"

"I knew. And you look terrible."

"Previous experience." When Hutch's eyes strayed to his right knee, Starsky continued, "I played Camille in high school."

"Yeah? Now I know another reason why you're a photographer."

Starsky, trying hard to ignore the hot rivulet down his back, laughed weakly. "Lucky for you I wasn't takin' all those calls from Broadway or Hollywood." Lucky for me.

Hutchinson chuckled. Lucky for me is right. "Just my luck you don't know how to answer a phone."

The photographer quivered with an unexpected spike of nausea. Sweat broke out anew. He felt a jump in the tension of Hutch's muscles.

"Starsk . . . ?"

"'Sokay, 'sokay. Better already," he fibbed around a few pants. "Hutch, ya gotta promise me something," he said with a quiet intensity.

"Sure, anything."

"Don' let 'em take me to the VA, 'kay?"

"You got it, buddy." So he probably did serve in Vietnam. Probably where he got the bad knee.

Starsky gladly released that nagging concern from his mind that was under heavy occupation by several other large worries. I knew I could count on you. "Uh, what time is it?"

Hutch looked at the clock on the wall, but it wasn't there any longer. Damn, partner, you really can hurl. He pulled out his pocketwatch and, opening it, said, "Five 'til." His right arm could sense the beginning of contractions in Starsky's left arm. Quickly, to avoid another bout of pain for him, Hutch took Starsky's right hand and placed his pocketwatch in it. "Hang on to this for me, willya? I don't want to get it scratched." For an instant, his brain froze. He had never allowed anyone, not even Vanessa, to touch his most, his only prized possession. He had sworn that no one except his son or grandson would ever handle the watch in his lifetime. And now? Five minutes . . . a lifetime. Just like this past week has been a lifetime. Einstein was right, but not just about time -- so is family.

Starsky accepted the timepiece, still warm from Hutch's body heat. It tingled in his hand, as if it were infused with his essence as well. Cupping it gently, he stared at its elegantly gold-numbered face. He knew, without knowing how he knew, that this watch was intensely important to his friend. "Hey, Hutch, hey," he whispered, his voice cracking slightly on the last word. Starsky half-smiled at his partner's expectant, almost serene expression. "Next time you want scrambled eggs, don't let me talk ya out of it, huh?" He smiled fully on hearing Hutch's tiny laugh.

Slowly, without realizing it, both men moved their heads toward the other until their foreheads touched.

11:55:45 p.m.

For the moment, Theresa was thankful that David had her pretend her period had started. She was convinced that "fact" was what kept Joey from feeling her up. All she had to put up with was his filthy mouth.

She found the revolver exactly where David said it would be. She pulled it out from under the short stack of clean bath towels. Using only two fingers to hold the .38-caliber police special by the butt, she searched for something she could use to strap it to her thigh. I'll know it when I see it. She jumped at the sound of bundles of papers hitting and skidding along the floor outside the bathroom.

"C'mon, Theresa, get the lead out. I don't want to miss the fun."

"Almost done." She checked the shelf above the one that held the towels. Hope all his underwear is clean. She rummaged one-handed through the neatly sorted boxers and T-shirts until she found what she was looking for. She put the handgun on top of the towels. Thankful yet again, this time for wearing a full skirt, she tied the worn, army-green sleeveless T to her left thigh. With fingers well away from the trigger, she contorted until she had the cold steel secured to the back of her leg. She smoothed her skirt into position, flushed the toilet, took a deep breath, and unlocked and opened the bathroom door. She couldn't believe what she saw.

Every door was open, as was David's footlocker. Clothes joined the full manila mailers on the floor. The mattress sat skewed on its frame. How on earth did he do all this in only a couple of minutes? Joey had David's new camera bag slung over his shoulder and a large locked box in one hand. The Colt occupied his other hand. She assumed Joey's personal gun must be back in its hiding place.

"Good thing I came up here with you, Theresa, or you could'a sneaked this downstairs." He grinned wickedly. "Maybe try to kill Monte yourself? Or maybe us? You wouldn't do that, would you, baby?"

"Of course not. I had no idea David had a gun up here." She could feel herself running on empty; trying to keep the guilt and fear from her voice was costing her dearly. "You can't take that, or his camera or that box. They're his. That's stealing."

"Oh, gimme a break, Theresa. I'm gettin' ready to kill a man. You think I'm worried about stealin'? It's not like he's gonna miss any of this shit." He laughed, a high-pitched malevolent one. "Get your ass downstairs. Too bad for both of us I don't fuck girls on the rag. Though I could make an exception in your case." He added a dimension of animal carnality to his laugh.

"Let's go. I want to see Monte get what he deserves." It was then she realized that her hate of Joey had surpassed her hate of the mobster. And you, too, you disgusting little pervert.

11:56:37 p.m.

Theresa headed for the bar as soon as she entered the dining room, laboring, because of several pounds of steel strapped to her leg, to walk normally. Joey being right on her heels didn't help.

"Made it with time to spare," pronounced Joey. Casually dropping the camera bag and the box on a table, he smirked at Lockly. "Couple of parting gifts."

"Into position, Joey. And Theresa," Lockly called out. He paused to wait for her response.

Almost past the bar, she stopped short and rested a hand on the burnished wood. She looked over her shoulder at the elder assassin. "Yes?"

"Where do you think you're going?"

Plastering an innocent expression on her face that she hoped adequately hid her mounting tension, she answered, "The office. I want to check on David real quick. He's lost a lot of blood."

"Theresa! Is that you?" came Hutch's distressed voice from the back room. "Grab some more towels and HURRY!"

The waitress cast a questioning glance at Lockly.

"Tell him to come out here now, Theresa. Tell him it will all be over in a few minutes and he can tend to his partner then."

She nodded several times and continued on to make her delivery.

Joey, on his way back to his seat, pretend-shot his new gun first in Grovner's face, then Robin's, while he whispered, "Pow, pow." He gave a sharp snort at seeing them holding hands.

Before he could sit, Lockly glared at his associate. "Joey, use your own pistol. That is the one you are more familiar with." As he watched the younger man, now openly resentful, slide the Colt .45 into a jacket pocket, he thought that perhaps he should retire after this hit. He didn't want to chance working with anyone else so sloppy and unprofessional again, who didn't take pride in a job well done from start to finish.

11:57:11 p.m.

"Is he okay?" a fretful Theresa asked as soon as she passed through the threshold.

"Yeah, I'm fine," replied Starsky from the floor. He looked up at Hutch then back to her. "His idea to get you in here. Got it?"

"Yes." Without a thought for modesty or propriety, Theresa lifted her skirt, grasped the gun's butt, and pulled it from its bonds in one fluid motion. "Make sure you get Joey good," she said with a vehemence that surprised and alarmed both men. "And he wants you out there right now."

Hutchinson took the police special with only the briefest hesitation, which was not lost on Starsky. Taking care to point the weapon well away from both Starsky and Theresa, he broke open the cylinder, noted the six rounds, and snapped the cylinder back into place.

He wasn't lyin'. The boy knows his way around a gun. Starsky found some small scrap of reassurance in that thought.

"I heard," Hutch said softly with fatalistic coloring. "Now, there's one more thing I need you to do."

"What?"

"Well, I can't walk out of here with a gun in my hand. And I can't get a clear shot at them from anywhere but near my table. Give me a couple of seconds to get into position, get my hand on the gun, then, I don't know . . ."

"You want me to create a diversion."

"Yeah. Faint, drop a glass . . ."

"Done." Theresa ran her hands over her skirt. Satisfied that every fold was where it should be, she left.

"Hey, Hutch." Starsky waited. His friend seemed frozen, nailed to the floor, far removed from the here and now. "Hey," he said, a little louder, a little more forcefully.

Abruptly, Hutch ticked back. "Hm? What d'ya say?"

"Another command performance, buddy. Time to stop thinkin' and just do."

"Yeah." Hutch tucked the weapon in his pants at the small of his back. Right. No time to let past deeds screw this up.

"See ya," Starsky said with a stronger sense of certainty than he really had.

"I'll be back soon. Just stay right there."

"I ain't goin' nowhere." He paused. "See ya," he repeated.

One side of Hutchinson's mouth rose in a smile. "See ya." He turned away and tripped. He grabbed the door and quickly steadied himself before proceeding.

Through narrowed eyes, Starsky watched Hutch leave, walking on his toes as if he were creeping up on prey, hunching his shoulders as if he were prey trying to lower its profile. Starsky trembled from a sudden chill that played along his spinal column and a new, powerful sense of impending doom. He took a deep breath and focused on the watch, a symbol of his single goal. Clicking the cover shut on the timepiece, he stowed it far under the sofa. Without much effort, he fell to his side, then flopped onto his belly. If I crawled outta that rice paddy under fire and with a busted knee, I can crawl outta here. Latching onto the ripping pain in his knee and shoulder as a sort of crutch, he began the agonizing trip to the dining-soon-to-be-death room.

11:58:05 p.m.

Hutchinson, his hands in plain view, had just passed the bar when Lockly said, "Stop right there." Hutch did as he was told. "You're a lucky young man. I held Joey back from going after you for practice purposes."

"Thanks, I guess." He was relieved to see that neither assassin had moved. Theresa, he noted, was behind the bar at the far end. Sammy and Robin had moved their chairs closer together.

"Get yourself a beer. I want you drinking it when Monte enters."

Theresa, seeing Hutchinson pale and knowing he needed every second to get into position, said, "I'll get it." She nearly ran for the beer tap as Hutch walked toward his table. She had just started the pull when she caught, in the corner of her eye, movement on the floor in front of the office. Shifting only her eyes, she gasped when she identified David.

"What is it, Theresa?" asked Lockly.

Insistently, Starsky held his right index finger over his lips and shook his head.

"Oh, nnnothing," she stammered. "Just a hiccup." The beer ran over, drawing a curse from her lips. She snatched a bar towel to use for drying off both her hands and the glass. Taking care not to step on Starsky's head, she tiptoed around the bar and advanced quickly to Hutchinson, who was now standing behind his appointed chair.

The reporter took the beer with his left hand, grimacing as the movement informed him that his flesh had recovered from the shock of injury. He canted his head as a thank-you. He caught a glimpse of what he took to be some kind of warning in her deep brown eyes. What . . . ? Shit, don't think, he directed himself. Just do. He lifted the glass to his lips, his pinky finger extended, and stared straight into Lockly's imperturbable eyes. As he took a sip of the cold brew, he inched his right arm behind him until his hand touched the revolver's handle.

Starsky, sweat and blood in a race down his back and side, was just an arm's length from the drawer that held the knife used to cut fruit for drinks. Two fingers flicked away the salty beads compromising his vision. He held his breath and bit his lower lip as he lumbered silently to a three-point stance on his right hand and both knees. Daring not to breathe yet, he pushed himself up until he could grasp the edge of the stainless steel prep area. Inwardly he shrieked from the agony this caused. Resting his torso against the cold hardness of the small refrigerator, he grabbed the knife drawer's handle but froze when he heard a faintly recognized voice say, "Sit down now."

Hutchinson sighed, more as a means to steady his nerves than to communicate his weariness with and disdain for the hitman. Deliberately, he put the glass on the table as his right hand gained full purchase on the gun. Do it, Theresa, do it now, for Christ's sake.

Theresa had made her way to the far end of the bar front. Seeing that Hutch was finally ready, one hand took hold of the edge of a large serving tray that sat atop the bar.

A streak of lightning, immediately followed by a gut-churning roll of thunder, whited out the dining room for several lengthy seconds.

11:59:08 p.m.

The external thunder jarred Starsky back into action. Don't squeak, don't squeak, he commanded the drawer as he gently opened it just enough to wrap his hand around one of the knives. By the shape of the handle and the weight, he could tell he had a chef's knife. Have to do. He sneaked a breath. Don't worry, partner. I got your back. He visualized where that voice -- full of callousness, of emptiness -- had come from. That would be his target. Don't move, you bastard. He began the long, arduous, wobbly journey to his feet.

Taking a deep breath, Theresa grasped another part of the tray with her other hand. In the next second, she sent it frisbeeing into the shelves of glasses behind the bar.

Hutch crouched, effectively chopping six inches from his frame, and moved laterally several inches. He cleared the revolver quickly, nestled it in a two-handed grip, and aimed at Joey. Not Ricky. Dammit, don't think! Just do!

Joey ejected himself from his chair, which toppled behind him. His surprise at seeing the blond man with a revolver slowed him down. Before he could establish a passable shooting posture, he saw Blondie squeezing the trigger. Fuck me, he thought calmly as he pulled the trigger anyway.

To Hutchinson, the bullet from his weapon seemed to glide leisurely toward its intended target. Another lifetime, this one measured in milliseconds, passed, ending with a human being flying backward from a piece of metal blasting into his chest. Hutchinson, immobile, stared at the lifeless body draped over its chair. Bits of plaster sprinkled his hair, his arm throbbed, a caress of wind flew by, a curse grunted to his right. But it was the strangled cry to his left that broke the spell Joey's body had on him.

Despite the overwhelming urge to go to the source of the cry, Hutchinson turned to the grunt. Astounded to see a knife protruding from Lockly's upper arm, Hutch watched with detached fascination as the hitman's left hand took the pistol from his useless right one. Seeing Lockly's eyes fix on his chest and his left arm raising the gun induced Hutch to immediately drop and roll to his right. He stopped, right knee and left foot on the floor, both hands still cradling the revolver. He fired within the same second Lockly did.

Lockly uttered a stiff cry and dropped his weapon. He careened back, knocking his chair aside, and crashed to the floor. He stared at the blood that now poured from the new wound in his left arm.

No one heard the squeal of tires and the gunned engine directly outside the restaurant.

Several seconds ticked by before Hutchinson became the first to exhale, the first to move. Slowly and raggedly he stood, his body shaking in ever-larger tremors, his wide, dilated eyes shifting in high gear from one assassin to the other. "Tuh-tuh-Theresa," he stammered hoarsely, "you, uh, everybody okay?"

"Yes," the waitress whispered, followed by a soft mew. She ran a finger over the embedded bullet in the bar's edge not two inches from her.

Grovner had leapt from his chair to shield Robin Morton from the hitters as soon as he heard the breaking glass. Now he began the slug-speed return to his seat, supported by both Robin and the table. "You okay, baby?"

Robin, tears dissolving her makeup, said, "Thanks to you, Sammy, thanks to you."

What do I do next? Hutch scowled as he wracked his brain. "Uh . . . uh . . . okay. Theresa. Call the operator. Get her to send the cops and an ambulance -- no, two ambulances -- and tell 'em to hurry!" When he didn't feel her move quick enough to suit him, he shouted, "NOW, dammit!"

Without a word, she ran to the other end of the bar, then behind it. Having forgotten Starsky was there, she stumbled over him but maintained her footing. She found him curled up on his right side, his blood creeping out to further stain his shirt and the floor. "Uh, I think you better get back here." She picked up the phone and dialed the operator.

Hutch's heart, already pounding with the energy of an orchestra of drums, crowded his throat when he heard the strained urgency in her words. "Is it Starsk?" he croaked out, unsure, asking for confirmation of the obvious. He cleared his throat. Louder, he called out, "Starsky?" demanding an answer from him. When he heard nothing over or under Theresa's telephone conversation, he sailed right past frantic to near-hysteria. "Sammy!"

Grovner jumped several inches off his seat. "What?" he asked mechanically.

"Can you handle a gun?"

"Uh, well, sure."

Hutchinson's determined stride closed the distance between them rapidly. "Here," he said, shoving the damp grip into the comic's sweaty palms. "Mr. Cucumber over there even flinches, you blow him away." He was rounding the bar's corner before Sammy could object.

Monday, 12:01 a.m.

The first thing Hutchinson saw was the blood forming a small but expanding puddle. The second thing was his friend's overactive chest. "Damn, Starsk, why didn't you answer me when I called?" Stretching a leg forward to its maximum, he stepped over Starsky so as not to disturb Theresa.

"Too busy," he pinched out between breaths. Thanking God you're okay.

"Doing what, Gordo? Sneaking a beer? Thought I told you to stay put." Hutch eased himself to a cross-legged position on the floor at Starsky's head. He gently lifted it and inched forward until he could let it rest in the valley his legs made. His left hand placed pressure on the saturated bandage.

A tidal wave of nausea erupted within Starsky but immediately subsided into progressively smaller breakers. He turned his head enough so he could more comfortably see Hutch. "You ain't the boss-a me," he buzzed through the gray that hovered at the edges. "'Sides, somebody had to watch your back."

Hutch mastered the alarm that he knew would taint his words as Starsky's color bleached further. Keep it light. He has to think everything's gonna be okay. "That you did. Pretty good with that knife, and right-handed, even. You got 'im this time. Right arm."

"Nah, not so good." He snorted. "Goin' for his heart."

"Impossible, buddy. He doesn't have one."

Suddenly very serious, Starsky said, "You saved us, Hutch. You'd make a good cop."

The reporter felt bright heat in his ears; he knew Starsky had paid him his highest possible compliment. "I-I-I didn't do it by myself, Starsk."

Despite the encroaching gray dulling everything but the pain, Starsky readily identified the sentimentality in Hutch's tone. "One thing you gotta know about me, buddy. Only time I like soap is when I'm takin' a bath." Starsky paused to grab breaths that continued to be hard to come by. Hutch grinned and chuckled his understanding. "Okay, Hutch, you gotta get some shots of this 'fore the cops get here. My camera is -"

"Your camera's already down here," Theresa, now off the phone, cut in. "Joey decided to help himself to it. And he's got your other gun."

Visions of jail time and fines stirred up a miniscule pocket of energy in Starsky. "Where is it? Hutch, I gotta get that back now. Not legal."

"Theresa, do you think you could get it off him? And hide it somewhere in the kitchen?"

Still pumped with adrenalin and her derision for Joey Martin, she figured it would be a pleasure to take something from him. "Okay." She scooted by them sideways. Soon at Joey's side, she could see a portion of the Colt peeking out from his pocket. Without hesitating, she relieved the dead man of it. She said to Sammy and Robin, "You didn't see this," delivered with an intimidating glower. She left them for the kitchen to hide the weapon and to release the two men locked in the cellar.

"'Kay, Hutch, now go take some shots. Don't get twitchy-guy's face -- don't want his mama to see that. And -"

"Shut the hell up, Starsky!" Hutchinson doubted if he'd ever known anyone as motivated, as dogged, as infuriating, as crazy, as giving as his partner. You just don't give up, do you? On anything or anyone. "I'm not leaving you again. I don't care about an exclusive right now. So you are twice the journalist I am, okay?"

Starsky had to admire how someone so magisterial, self-righteous, distant, yet generous, empathetic, and selfless could worm his way through his best defenses and do it in just a few days. He couldn't turn away the unconditional friendship Hutch had shown him. Okay, Blintz, you win. I'm too damn tired to fight you anymore. He sighed, and felt something resembling contentment for the first time in months, if not years. "You got that right." He coughed thinly, sensing the adrenalin leave him even faster than his blood and the pain soar and the gray darkening to black. "An' you gonna pay for makin' me look like Frito Bandito."

Hutch emitted a playful laugh. "It's an improvement. You should be grateful."

"Grateful, my ass. I'm grateful for girls with big, uh, hearts, for clam sssauce, forrrrr . . ." Starsky quickly fell unconscious, his energy sapped and the pain overpowering.

Hutch puffed a few exhausted breaths as he allowed his head and shoulder to sag against the steel cabinet and his right hand to rest lightly on Starsky's head.

The sounds of sirens finally conquered those of the storm.

12:05 a.m.

It wasn't until the pair of uniformed officers came busting in, ordering the luckless Grovner to lower his weapon then throwing him to the floor, that Hutchinson began to consciously realize that he had killed someone, albeit total scum, but a person, nonetheless. At least I didn't kill you, Ricky, though you'd be better off dead. A sob rumbled through his chest, joined by an elongated tear from his left eye. He blinked away more tears that were rapidly accumulating. At least you're alive, Starsky. He attended to his hand, still pressing hard against the wound in his partner's back. Blood was seeping out between his fingers. At least I think you are. You gotta be alive. That's the only way I can make it through my prison sentence.

As if Starsky had read his thoughts, his body fluttered.

Hutch could hear the cops shouting at someone else. He assumed it must be the bloodied bruiser. Then he heard something akin to wailing in Italian. He laughed through his nose. Guess it's time to face the consequences.

As loud as he could, he shouted, "Officers! Behind the bar! I'm the one who killed that man!" He closed his eyes when he observed no reaction from Starsky.

He opened them when he heard the anxious command, "Put your hands where I can see 'em!" For what he thought was the thousandth time that hour, he stared into a gun pointed at him. Slowly, he raised his right hand. "Officer, my name is Kenneth Hutchinson. I can't move my other hand. My friend's been shot in the back and he's bleeding. Please, he needs to get to a hospital right now or he'll die," he said, tongue tripping over the last word.

The officer, a ten-year veteran, took two more seconds to size up the situation and the blond man who had just confessed to a homicide. "Hey, Chance, wait by the door and wave those paramedics in as soon as they get here." He tilted his head at his partner's nod. "Okay, folks, let's all just stay cool. Nobody move, nobody talk until the ambulance and the detectives arrive." He scanned the restaurant; everyone was playing statue.

Hutchinson lived another lifetime, though it was only three minutes before the paramedics were taking custody of Starsky away from him. They lifted him out and carried him into the dining room proper, laying him down near the closest table. Laboriously, he stood and walked to the edge of the bar. He crooked his right arm on it to keep himself standing. He heard himself, though it seemed as if he were speaking from across a canyon, tell them about how and when Starsky was shot.

"What's his name?"

"Uh, Starsky. David Starsky." Then, in a hair-thin whisper, "With a y." He watched in silent, miserable awe as one of them cut open Starsky's shirt and cut through the tablecloth, exposing his chest, slapping on three round patches, snapping colored wires to them.

"Hey, looks like this guy's been shot before. IVs in both arms, Jules."

Hutch's disconsolate eyes searched for what the man was talking about. He found it quickly -- a puckered, shallow crater about a half-inch wide with a suggestion of pink in his left side above his belt.

Next thing he knew, someone had grabbed his left arm exactly where he had been shot and jerked him away. He cried out in pain, and his knees buckled. Another hand grasped his right arm in time to keep him on his feet, the hand's body sidling up to his to provide a walking brace. "Hutchinson," said the lips at his ear, "come along with Lancelot and me, now that's a good fellow."

As if he'd been startled awake from a deep sleep, Hutchinson reared his head back and stared nonrecognition at the patrician face so close to his. Moments later it dawned on him who this man in the vivid Hawaiian shirt and navy windbreaker was. "Clive," he said flatly, his notice of something other than Starsky and his arm pain widening swiftly.

"How observant of you, my good man," Detective Clive Bennett returned. Looking past Hutchinson, he said, "Officer Tierney, I believe I can handle the suspect from here. Thank you so much for your assistance."

Hutchinson exhaled deeply when the vise grip over his bullet wound disappeared and the pain dissolved to moderate intensity. He tried to shy away from the unexpected arm that wrapped around his waist but Bennett's slender solidness prevented that. The former Scotland Yard inspector continued steering them to a table two over from where the paramedics were working on Starsky.

"Hey, dude, you gonna give me a complex, make me think you don' like me no mo'."

The reporter couldn't help smiling his amusement at hearing Detective Lancelot Parson's bayou drawl. "You going to arrest me, Lance? After Starsky and I gave you an early Christmas present just a few days ago?"

"I'm a cop, man. Can't cut you any slack if you've done the crime." Parson shook his head. "You look like your pappy had you out in the wood shed for a couple days. Let's get you sittin' down, dude."

Bennett caught his partner's attention. He arched an eyebrow and sloped his head in his way of communicating "no." Parson nodded his comprehension once, then shrugged a shoulder to ask why. Bennett shifted his eyes to indicate Hutchinson's back.

Parson's dark-chocolate eyes enlarged on seeing multiple shards of glass accented with dots and streaks of liquid red protruding from the reporter/suspect's buttocks and legs. "Come to think about it, dude, no way."

Hutchinson, who was more than ready to sit, frowned his disapproval. "Just gonna take me in right away? Before I see what even happens to my partner?"

"You don't know, do you?"

"Know what?"

"It appears that you have become -- Lancelot, what was that concept you were telling me about the other day?"

"Blood brothers?"

"Yes, quite so. As I was saying, it appears you have become blood brothers with a large, um, family of glass."

"What?" Hutch swiveled his head around to look down his back. "Holy shit," he whispered.

The two detectives immediately hauled Hutchinson over to the paramedics working on Lockly. "Hey," said Parson amiably, "can one of you mini-docs take a look at this stretch of rough road?"

The paramedic tearing off a long strip of wide tape sighed. "I don't know what the hell you're talking about, Lance, but I'll see to your suspect as soon as we stabilize this knife."

Hutchinson peered over Parson's shoulder at Joey Martin's body, just being covered up with a large checkered tablecloth by one of the six uniformed officers now on the premises. "I killed him, you know. And I shot the other one. They were gonna kill -"

"Hutchinson," snapped Parson, "shut up. We ain't read you your rights yet, dude."

The reporter grunted. "I know my rights. Or didn't you read the story I wrote last year on Ernesto Miranda after he was released on parole?" Suddenly, Hutch jerked forward and kecked several times, unable to rid himself of the ambivalent feelings he had about killing Joey.

"Hey, hey now, friend, it'll all work out," said Parson as he and his partner struggled to keep Hutchinson standing. "Clive?"

"Lancelot is absolutely correct, Kenneth. Now, please, do not say anything more about this event. And you, Mr. Randall," he directed to the paramedic, "could you please hurry?"

Randall finished placing the last of the tape needed for securing the knife. "Keep your shirt on, 5-0." While he did a fast survey of the gasping-but-recovering reporter, two of the uniforms joined them to inform the detectives that the five people able to speak had unequivocally implicated the dead man and the man with the knife as assassins and that they owed their lives to Hutchinson.

Bennett directed the officers to take four of them to Metro Division for official statements but to leave the fifth -- "that rather bear-like specimen" -- for the paramedics to examine.

"Okay, 5-0," said Randall as Theresa, Johnny, Robin, and Sammy were being escorted out, "and this 'specimen' has a wounded left wing -- or did you even notice?"

"No, how silly of me to have left my x-ray vision spectacles at home today. Can you treat him here? All of him, that is?"

Randall sighed. "I can bandage his arm, but I don't think we can take care of the glass. And I don't need my x-ray goggles to see that bull's got a broken snout. Both of 'em need to go to the hospital. But this piece of work" -- he jerked his head toward the lethargic Lockly -- "has to get transported A-SAP. Losing a lot of blood. Bullet clipped an artery, I think."

Parson beat his partner to the punch. "Then what're you doin' standin' around here jawin' with us? Wrap something 'round my boy's arm right now, then me and that bull will ride along with you and the bad guy -"

"Alleged bad guy," interrupted Bennett.

"Yeah," the younger detective continued without missing a beat, "and you can call for another ambulance."

"No," interjected Bennett, "that will take too long. He can lie on his abdomen in the back of my station wagon. That is, unless you believe he is critical?"

"Okay by me. But it's your ass in the sling, 5-0."

Hutchinson, mostly recovered from his bout of dry vomiting, listened in growing anger, not believing their first priority wasn't his only priority. "What about my partner? What about Starsky?" he demanded.

As if on cue, one of the paramedics administering to the photographer said, "Hey, Blondie, this guy a veteran?"

Hutchinson turned to the voice to see Starsky, his face ghostly above a dark brown blanket, on a stretcher with a 'medic at either end. He could hear beeping that sounded more rabbit than human. Hang in there, buddy. I need you, and I'm thinking you need me, too. Don't make my murdering someone a meaningless gesture. "Yeah, but don't take him to the VA."

"No way this guy can afford to go anywhere else."

Hutchinson twisted and turned, breaking free from Bennett's hold. The detective promptly regained control of the agitated man. "I don't fucking care!" Hutch yelled as he fought to free himself again. "Take him to that new trauma center! Now GO, dammit!"

"Kenneth, calm down. Gentlemen, take Mr. Starsky to County General."

"Okay. We're outta here."

Hutchinson, rapidly quieting down, watched Starsky leave, followed by Lockly and his attendants. "Thanks, Clive," he said with apology in his tone.

"What is it you Americans say -- 'you owe me one'?" Bennett asked smugly as he wrapped Hutch's arm wound with gauze. With a napkin, he wiped Hutch's left hand clean of wet blood. "Come along, Mr. Hutchinson, time to get you to hospital."

Hutch planted his feet wider apart and tensed practically every muscle in order to resist Bennett until one last piece of business was dealt with. "What about Starsky's cameras in that bag? I'm not leaving without them. Something like that could easily wind up 'lost.'"

Bennett, to his dismay, had to agree with the reporter. He ordered the lone crime scene team member on site to inventory the bag and its contents immediately. Moments after that task was completed and the camera, lenses, and other equipment were loaded back in the bag, Bennett took possession. He smiled reassuringly at Hutchinson, who nodded his thanks. "Senior officer is in charge," he said over his shoulder as he escorted his suspect out of the hell that was Giovanni's and into the storm's madness.

Monday a.m.

Hell followed Hutchinson into the back of Bennett's wood-paneled wagon. But it wasn't the mounting pain from the bullet and glass injuries that weighed him down, or the thought of being in prison until he was an old man. It was broken promises, broken lives, broken honor.

The only thing that kept hell from enveloping Hutchinson completely was his newfound friendship with a cocky, irritating photographer with a smart mouth and a healthy appetite. Someone who wanted nothing from him but friendship -- certainly not his money; he couldn't be more unimpressed. Someone who had taken a bullet meant for him but expected nothing in return. Someone he was willing to take a bullet for as well, and someone for whom he was willing to break a promise. Hutch doubted there was another person -- perhaps not even his parents or his sister -- for whom he would be willing to compromise his internal integrity. For whom he would be willing to die so readily. Time for a new beginning and new promises.

Now that I've got the Hutch part of me back, Jack, I promise I'll do better watching over Starsky than I did you. This is a promise I will not break, if I haven't blown it already.

Hutchinson, under constant guard by Detective Bennett, was treated at County General Hospital as well. His arm wound got the needed three stitches, his eyes flushed of any possible residual gunpowder, his face smeared with soothing burn cream, and his lower body plucked of fifteen pieces of glass of varying sizes, after which he got more stitches. He refused a sling but took the thick foam square. The physician told him the powder tattoos -- hairy-edged dark spots scattered over the left side of his face -- would likely disappear with time.

"Will my memories?" the reporter murmured quietly.

The doctor sighed and patted his patient's knee. "I'll have one of the orderlies bring you a set of scrubs to wear home." He left without answering the question that depressed the room's atmosphere.

Bennett was helping Hutchinson into the borrowed clothing when Parson joined them. Hutch held his breath and searched the detective's face for some sign of good news.

"Sorry -- would've been here sooner, but I just got through questioning that bull. Your fellow fourth-estater is in the operating room, dude. Docs won't commit -- you know how they are -- but one of 'em told me on the sly he's got a pretty good chance."

Hutch exhaled slowly through pursed lips. "Thanks, Lance. Did he, uh, did he ever wake up?"

"Yeah, he did. For a little while in the med-wagon. He asked for you -- called you 'Hutch' -- then said you saved a bunch of innocent lives." Parson scratched his head. "Damn shame we have to jail a hero."

"My good Lancelot, one must not jump to conclusions before all the facts are in. However, he is correct about one thing, Hutchinson. We must put you in the, um, hoosegow." Bennett pulled a small, laminated card from the inside pocket of his jacket. "Now then, Hutchinson, let's make this official, shall we?" Reading from the card, he began, "You are under arrest. You have the right to remain silent . . ."

Hutch no longer heard the words. All he could hear were his thoughts of self-chastisement. How in trying to protect Starsky to begin with, he almost got him killed. How Starsky had given him the courage to do what had to be done. How he couldn't be there for Starsky when -- not if -- he woke up to explain why he was not a hero or a friend.

Harold Dobey, the editor of Plainclothes California and a formidable man in both size and personality, glared at his reporter through the bars that separated them, dripping water from his raincoat forming a small pond around him. His massive arms crossed over his immense torso and his tapping toe left no doubt in Hutch's mind that he was in huge trouble.

Dobey waited a few more moments to speak. "Now, Hutchinson, you want to explain to me what this is all about? And why you look like hell? And this better be good. You better not have gotten me out of bed, woke up my wife and my kids, at four in the morning, for no asinine parking ticket! Damn! I don't get up this early on Deadline Day!"

By now, everyone in the holding cells was awake and drawn to the drama unfolding before them. The detainees charged the bars for a better view.

Hutchinson hesitated, ashamed of what he had to tell his boss and intimidated by the impromptu audience.

"Cat got your tongue again? Hutchinson, your life is words. Now spit it out, son."

Hutchinson looked at his boss right in the eyes. "Starsky's been shot. And I killed a man, Captain."

"Dammit, boy, I am not a captain! I don't even own a toy boat! So quit -" He paused, the words before his ludicrous title just sinking in past his aggravation. "What?" he asked in a stunned whisper.

"Starsky took two rounds protecting me, and I'm under arrest for killing the man who shot him."

Dobey returned his reporter's unwavering stare for a few moments. He snatched out his trademark white handkerchief to wipe his face and hands and think of some sort of response to the bomb Hutchinson had just dropped. "All right, son, tell me about it," he said, his tone calm, warm, paternal.

Hutch hugged the bars and motioned Dobey closer. Dobey soon stood just a few inches from him. The eavesdroppers followed suit as best they could, pressing themselves even harder against their own bars. Hutch took a deep breath and told Dobey the short version of what he had told Bennett, Parson, Captain Mike Ferguson, and Gilbert Frost, an assistant district attorney, upstairs in Interview #3. "And here I am," he finished, "waiting for arraignment and, hopefully, bail."

Dobey arched his eyebrows and ran the handkerchief over his face once more. "How's the Starsky boy?"

"Last I heard, hours ago, he was going to make it." Hutch cleared his parched throat. "Find out how he is now for me, okay?"

"Sure. One more thing. You talked to the authorities without an attorney present, even though they informed you of your rights?"

"Of course. I did it, no way around that, and there were four witnesses."

"When I come to visit you in prison, remind me to tell you again how stupid that was." He paused to think. "Okay, here's how this is going to play out. Don't say anything else to anybody. I'll get PC's lawyer to recommend a criminal defense attorney from his firm. We'll be back here before you go to court. I'll stop by your place for some clothes. Where's the key?"

"On the ledge above the door. But find out about Starsky first."

Dobey rolled his eyes. "Son, do you wake up on the stupid side of the bed every morning?"

The exaggerated throat clearing by the jailer informed them that Dobey's time was up.

"Hang in there, Hutchinson. You'll be out before lunch."

"That's fine, Cap, um, Mr. Dobey. But all I want right now is to know how Starsky's doing."

Dobey nodded and splashed out of his pond to leave. Guess I better put that defense attorney on retainer. I got a feeling this team is gonna eat, sleep, drink, piss, and crap trouble.

Hutchinson watched his boss's back until it was gone. He remained at the bars, gripping them until his hands turned white and forehead partially wedged between two of them, not hearing the jailer say, "Heard all about you and your partner's gutsy moves. Way to go, man."

Just when he thought he was rid of all the nausea, another wave would explode in him. This time, it came right after the move from the stretcher to his bed in a four-bed ward. After vomiting bile, Starsky let the nurse clean him up and tuck him in. The clean, cool sheets felt like heaven. At least I'm not in the VA. But how the hell am I gonna pay for this? That worry faded with the rest of him until the nurse said, "There's someone here to see you."

Instantly shedding the soporific effects of the narcotics and anesthetics, he tried to sit up but fell back when his head and back objected strongly. "Hutch?" At her quizzical expression, he continued, "Tall, blond guy, late twenties?"

"Actually, I misspoke. There are two men to see you, and neither one of them come close to fitting that description. You feel up to it?"

Cops. "Sure," he said, doing a poor job of hiding his disappointment. He had to wait less than a minute for Bennett and Parson to stand on either side of his bed. "At least it's you two. Where's Hutch?"

"Coolin' his heels in the pokey," Parson blurted out without thinking.

"What?! That ain't right!" Again Starsky tried to sit up but Bennett's hand easily pushed him back. He continued to fidget.

"Now, now, Mr. Starsky, you mustn't do things like this," the Brit said. "You've been through quite an ordeal."

"No shit, Sherlock. Now, why is he locked up? He saved us. It was justifiable homicide, for chrissakes!"

"That is neither up to you nor us to make that determination, Mr. Starsky. This matter is still under investigation. Now, would you care to have an attorney present?"

"Why? Am I under arrest, too? Assault and battery? Burnt appetizers? Too bad I got a license for my gun, or you'd put the screws to me for that."

"We don't want to arrest you, man," said Parson amiably. "We just wanna talk. As for any charges, don't think that dude you stuck is gonna press any, and don't think the state is, either."

Starsky settled down to a mild wiggle. "Fine," he said tersely. "And Bennett, drop the 'Mister,' okay? I'm younger than you." He proceeded to tell his version of the incident, emphasizing his friend's extreme reluctance to using a gun. Both detectives took notes and rarely interrupted his narrative to ask questions.

Bennett flipped his notebook closed. "Very good, Starsky. If we have any further questions, we will surely be in touch. A speedy recovery, my good man."

"Ditto, dude."

"Hey, do me a favor, wouldja?"

"Sure -- if we can."

"Next time you see Hutch, uh, Hutchinson, tell him I said . . . hey."

Both detectives smiled their agreement and left Starsky, already yielding to sleep, alone with his roommates. They didn't speak on their stroll to the cafeteria to grab some coffee to go or the rest of the way to Bennett's car. It wasn't until they were comfortably lodged in their seats that Bennett finally spoke. "Everyone's testimony appears to be truthful. I do not detect any hint of collusion. Do you?"

"Nope. The expected inconsistencies were there. If they put their heads together before we got there, they are real good."

"Quite. The 'medics' estimations of times of injury and blood loss fit the timelines of their stories." Bennett looked out into the brightening sky. The day promised to be a stupendous one of scrubbed-clean air, brilliant blue skies, and invigorating breezes. "I believe our scrappy young photographer is correct."

Parson's grin creased his reddish-brown face. "Wondered when you were gonna come 'round to seein' it my way. Pay up, dude."

Bennett happily handed his partner a five.

Dobey was as good as his word -- Hutchinson was out before lunch, but under much different circumstances than anticipated.

Detectives Bennett and Parson had taken everything they had gleaned from the interviews, the paramedics, Joey Martin's rap sheet, and their examination of the crime scene to Captain Ferguson. After a number of pointed questions, which made the detectives feel like suspects, Ferguson had arrived at the conclusion that the shootings were justifiable. After presenting the case to date to Frost, the ADA had decided to hold an inquest. That decision really was to nip in the bud any claims of cover-up or favoritism towards one of the men who had given the police the necessary information to arrest a ring of illegal alien smugglers. He had asked the court to release Kenneth Hutchinson on his own recognizance. The judge in arraignment court had concurred and made it official.

Theresa DiFusto's interview had proven to be instrumental in convincing the state to seek an inquest before levying charges against Hutchinson. Once she finessed a deal for witness protection for herself and her mother, she owned up to her part in the hit and insisted that the hitmen would have executed everyone, except perhaps for her. She, too, was gone by lunch, to parts known by only a select few.

Hutchinson, dressed in his own clothes, left Metro Division with Dobey via the back door on the recommendation of the desk sergeant. Out front, the press was rabid to get the story on one of their own. The thought of being "a story" and praised for what he'd done turned his stomach. He hoped his boss could help him lay low until his colleagues went on to the next big story.

As the two men climbed into Dobey's Lincoln, the editor said, "They know who you are, Hutchinson, but so far, Starsky's name hasn't leaked. If he's got family or friends, they should be notified right away."

"I'll take care of that. But not before I go check on him." Hutch closed his eyes as the pain in his wounds flared.

Dobey started the engine. "Not before you get something to eat. When was the last time you ate?"

"I don't remember."

"Well, first things first. Duck." A minute later, Dobey said, "Okay, you can sit up. We'll have lunch at that pancake house that serves breakfast all day long."

Hutch smirked. "But breakfast can only be the first meal of the day."

"What the . . . Hutchinson, you need food and sleep, in that order."

"Captain, could we go to Pancho's over on Almeida instead? I want to pick up something for Starsky." He shifted his buttocks around on the foam cushion until he finally found a position that was almost tolerable.

Finally surrendering to the fact that the nickname had stuck and it was a burden he'd have to live with, Dobey let the absurd, inappropriate title go by. "Pancho's, huh? Since when does Jack LaLane's most ardent disciple even know about that greasy spoon?"

"Since Friday when Starsky and I grabbed lunch there."

"So that's where you were instead of coming into the office so he could sign all his papers."

"We only had a little break in the action. We barely had time to get anything to eat." Well, it was enough time for Starsky to eat enough to feed a platoon.

"How did he take the news of your story making it into PI and the job?"

Hutch smiled fondly on recalling Starsky's initial reaction. But the reaction hadn't stopped there . . .

the previous Friday…

They piled into the LTD but Starsky remained in motion. "This is so . . . I can't think of anything to compare it to."

"Placing third in the international edition is really a coup, Starsky. Most people will only scan the first three or four stories in the table of contents when deciding to buy a magazine. So, the big bosses put the biggest and most important stories at the top as a way to sell an issue. And ours beat out, oh, I don't know, probably close to fifty or sixty other stories from all the regional and foreign editions."

Starsky threw up his hands. "I can't wait to call my mom tonight. She's gonna be so excited. I'll have to send her a copy of that one, too."

Hutch smiled indulgently at his unknowledgeable partner. "It's an international edition, Starsk. They have 'em in New York. She can just buy one there."

"Oh, yeah. That's right. She can. And it'll have my name on it and everything." He paused and gave Hutch a sidelong glance. "'Cept one thing. It won't have your autograph, and neither will my copy." He looked straight at his partner and grinned.

Hutch passed a larger grin back to him. Unconsciously he rubbed at the sudden warmth that bloomed in his chest. "I'll sign 'em under one condition."

"Yeah, what?" he asked warily.

"You sign my copy."

Starsky blushed and looked away. After a deep breath, he looked back. "Deal." He chortled. "You hungry? I'm starvin'."

Hutch, eyes widening in surprise, said, "It's 8:30 in the morning. Didn't you have breakfast?"

"Course I did. Three-egg omelet with prosciutto, mushrooms, and onions, four slices of toast with butter and strawberry jam, two glasses of milk, and a salmon filet that had to be eaten today."

Hutch thought his eyes would pop out of his head. "How can you possibly be hungry if you had all that for breakfast?"

"I'm happy. Happy makes me hungry," he said as if it were the most obvious point in the world. "So, can we at least stop for a candy bar or somethin'?"

Later, at Pancho's, Starsky performed a celebratory yet cautious mambo with several female patrons, but Hutch had declined graciously and with humor when the photographer gestured for him to be his next partner on the floor.

"Well, Captain, I'd have to say he jumped for joy, fell down, kissed me, asked for my autograph, and danced."

Dobey sniffed and smiled. "Reminds me of my daughter."

Hutch's eyebrows met in confusion. "Cap'n, your daughter's six."

"Yeah."

Hutch chuckled and shook his head. "Yeah."

Monday afternoon

Dobey found a parking slot not too far from the main entrance to County General Hospital. He cut the engine and immediately put a hand on his subdued passenger's forearm. "You have any idea if Starsky can pay for this hospital?"

"I was hoping you could help out with that."

"Contrary to popular belief, I am not Daddy Warbucks."

"Can't you just post-date the start of his health insurance?"

"Hutchinson, he hasn't filled out one of his employment papers. Headquarters has him down as starting this past Friday. And I don't want to lose my job and go to prison for insurance fraud!"

The reporter frankly didn't care what could or would happen to Dobey. He was going to push the issue. "But -"

"There is nothing I can do, Hutchinson. And I regret that, I really do."

Hutch knew Dobey was right on both counts. He worked his forehead with his fingers while he thought. "Can you at least pay him?"

"He has no sick time. I'll pay him for half a week. He earned that. But that's the best I can do."

"No, it's not! You're the boss at PC, and payroll wouldn't know the difference if you put Starsky in for full pay."

Dobey frowned. He wondered how this straight-arrow reporter, so eager that the truth be printed, so eager to see that justice was done, so eager to deceive despite how uncomfortable it made him when it was necessary to get the truth and serve justice, could be so willing to deceive in this way. Until he read the pleas and desperation on the burnt face. Oh, hell! I created this two-headed monster called 'Starsky and Hutch.' Guess it's my responsibility to feed it. "Hutchinson, I -"

Hutch, utterly sure that Dobey was about to sink that suggestion, cut him off with a wave of his hand. "Okay, how about this. You pay him out of my salary, but he can never find out about it."

Dobey stared at him, dumbfounded at Hutchinson's uncharacteristic generosity toward a colleague -- and a brand new one at that. He recalled specific pieces of what the detectives had told him about the events at the restaurant after his visit with Hutchinson earlier. Suddenly it dawned on him what Starsky had become for this young man -- one of the best reporters but one of the most difficult people he had ever known. Millie was right -- things are mighty interesting now. "I believe I can swing that. If that's what you really want."

"Absolutely," he said, trampling over Dobey's last word. I'll be Starsky's insurance, too.

Dobey gave Hutchinson several fatherly pats on his shoulder. "Let's go see Starsky," he said, then adding "son" and meaning it in a deeper way than he ever had before.

Hutchinson and Dobey eased themselves into Starsky's room. As soon as it registered that the man who had saved his life was sharing it with three others, Hutch's ire flared. "How dare they -"

A harsh "Shhh!" from Dobey cut him off. "We'll make other arrangements later. Right now, give him that smelly sack of burritos before they get anymore unappetizing."

Hutch nodded and approached Starsky's bed. He came to a halt a few inches from the bed at Starsky's right shoulder. Only his friend's bluish stubble on his face and chin told him where Starsky ended and the bed linen started. He wanted to hear that Brooklyn accent tell him in no uncertain terms that he was alive. But Starsky appeared to be asleep, so Hutch settled for the steady rise and fall of his chest. He put the bag of food at the foot of the bed.

In the meantime, Dobey had picked up a chair and placed it behind Hutchinson. He chose to remain standing, ready to catch Hutchinson should the single, frayed thread holding him up finally break.

Moments later they were startled by a nurse wearing mute shoes who declared that the patient was resting comfortably after a shot for pain and nausea and was doing well. That information scissored the thread, and Hutchinson felt himself falling, only to be caught by two sets of hands that maneuvered him into the chair.

"I'm fine, I'm fine," he said, coloring from embarrassment. His wounded arm was a sick throb and his butt a constant ache. "Captain, would you mind . . . ?" He indicated the foam pillow, which had been tucked under his arm but now was on the floor.

Dobey quickly obliged, and Hutch sat a little less uncomfortably. Finally convinced that Starsky was okay, the last molecules of adrenalin cleared his system. He had no energy left to move voluntarily. His head lolled back to rest on the chair. He was asleep before his eyes completely closed.

"He can stay past afternoon visiting hours," the nurse whispered to Dobey. "I'm not sure we could wake him anyway. It's all over the news about what happened."

"Thank you, Nurse. Now, how do I go about getting Starsky moved to a private room?"

"I'll take care of that. You look like you could use a little rest yourself."

Dobey chuckled. "Yes, ma'am, you got that right. Thanks again for taking care of my boys."

She smiled at the back of the retreating editor and at the incongruity of a man with both an imposing presence and a gentle nature.

An effort to turn too quickly in bed sent searing pain from Starsky's shoulder down his arm and across his back. Each joint and muscle seemed stiffer than the next. Okay, make like a turtle. Long moments later, he leaned more to his right. Groggy, he opened his eyes to find his call bell, but stopped when he saw Hutchinson stretched out and snoring in a chair facing him. He grinned in delighted surprise, his pain temporarily forgotten, his mind alert. "Hey, Hutch," he said, the words soft and scratchy from dryness. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Hey, Hutch."

The reporter was instantly awake. He sat forward so rapidly that he nearly launched himself from the chair. His head wound up a few inches from the side rail. Peering through the slats, he said, "Starsk? How are you, buddy?"

"M'day started out a little rough, but things are lookin' up. How are you? Your arm?"

"Well, it's a little more than my arm. I sat in some glass and had to have some stitches in my, uh, you know." Hutch massaged the back of his neck.

Starsky snickered. "What's the problem, buddy? Can't think of what that piece of your anatomy is called?"

"It's not funny, Starsky. Who knows how long I'll have to sit on this stupid cushion."

"I think it's hilarious." Starsky's snicker progressed to a full laugh.

Hutchinson couldn't resist and joined in. "If you ever tell anybody . . ."

"Yeah, what're you gonna do? Kick my ass?" He thought that was especially funny, so his laugh turned boisterous. He watched Hutch laugh as well, his crow's feet crinkling, his teeth showing, his shoulders shaking. But Starsky saw eyes didn't match the rest of him. He started to slow his laughing, but brought it to an abrupt stop when one of his roommates piped up, "Quit your yappin', boys. This is a hospital, or are you too ignorant?"

Hutch threw a quick "Sorry, sir" over his shoulder. "Now, where were we?" His smile was gone when he saw the serious expression on Starsky's face. "Hey, you okay? Should I get the nurse?"

"Naw, I'm okay. How 'bout my camera?"

This is a first -- a professional photographer putting a reporter's well being ahead of his equipment. "Your baby and its, uh, accessories are fine. Bennett took custody of 'em."

"Terrific." He paused and gazed unflinchingly into Hutch's eyes. "How're you doing with what you had to do?"

Hutch looked down, unable to take Starsky's probing look. "Okay, I guess."

"Bullshit. You did the right thing, Hutch. The only thing you coulda done to get us all out alive." It was my plan, dammit. I knew something wasn't kosher with Hutch. I should've been the shooter.

"Well, I know that in my head, but everything else is a bit slower to come around."

Starsky could sense that whatever was there with Hutch in the restaurant's office was peeking out again and on the verge of imploding. Coming to terms with taking someone's life was tough enough, but whatever else that lurked within could worsen the guilt and extinguish his soul. Following his plan had cost Hutch much, the least of which being a few wounds. He owed him the chance to talk. "It's not just killin' that creep, is it?" Talk to me, buddy.

Hutch jerked his head up to look at Starsky again. How the hell can he know? Was I that transparent back there?

"If you can't tell your friend, then who can you tell, huh?" Trust me, Hutch.

The shame he had kept bottled up rather successfully until a few hours ago began to show itself more. You trusted him earlier. Now it's time to see if it's real and not only part of a desperate situation. He moved in closer until the top of his head rested on the side rail so Starsky could no longer look into that maw of disgrace.

Starsky waited, not moving. Don't fight me, Hutch.

Hutch closed his eyes, his eyelids acting as dams for the tears that had already begun gathering. "Ricky Silkstad, Oscar Jenson, and I did everything together from the time we were in third grade until . . ." He hesitated and rubbed his nose. "One day, when we were twelve, we went hunting. We were tracking a deer in the woods, and I was pretending to be the famous wild-game hunter Kenny Hutchinson. I didn't want to risk losing the shot so I broke one of the fundamental rules of hunting." He paused, his breaths agonal.

Starsky closed his eyes as well. He could feel what was coming next. Oh, shit. He waited patiently, knowing it was imperative that Hutch tell his story at his own pace -- or completely stop if he so chose. When Hutch started speaking again, Starsky had to strain to hear the anguished whisper.

"I took the sssafety off. Ricky, the best tracker of the three of us, was ahead. Oscar was just behind me. I tripped on a tree root, the gun went off . . ." Hutch's body trembled, then gave one hard shake. "Oscar and I ran to where Ricky had fallen like a stone. As soon as Oscar saw blood coming from Ricky's head, he ran away. Crying, I think. I stayed with Ricky. I performed first aid, just like I luh-learned in Sea Scouts. I didn't know if Oscar would be able to tell anybody anything, so I mmmade a litter and dragged him out." He swallowed his heartache. "Since his parents died in a car crash a few years ago, Ricky's lived in a nursing home. He's paralyzed on one side and can barely talk. By mid-morning he can't even remember what he had for breakfast." He sniffed back hard. "All because I was playing 'safari hunter.'" And that night I promised I'd never handle a gun again.

Everything Starsky thought of to say seemed trite, and he was sure Hutch had heard every applicable cliché a hundred times over. He worked his right hand free of the linen covering it. "Hey, Hutch?"

"What?" He didn't move.

"Hutch." The syllable took on a commanding firmness.

Hutch looked up, eyes a glistening red. "What?" he said with some irritation.

Without thinking, he blurted, "You ever talk to him?"

"Sure. Couple of times a month, more when I can manage it."

Okay, smart guy, what do you say next? What if it was me and not Ricky in that home? "Bet he's happy to hear from you."

Hutch's brows knitted in thought. "Yuh . . . Yeah. He is." Starsky had reminded him that Ricky had forgiven him long ago, and that sometimes promises had to be broken. In his peripheral vision, he saw his friend's fingers wiggling in a kind of come-here gesture. He slowly and uncertainly put his arm through the side rail's bars. His moist palm brushed Starsky's dry one. Before he knew it, their hands were curled around each other's thumb in a soul-handshake grip. Hutch expressed a shy laugh.

"Hey, what time is it, anyway? It still Monday?" asked Starsky, feeling the pain that no longer would be ignored.

Hutch's left hand went for his pocketwatch but stopped short of digging into its usual home. "It's still Monday. But you have my watch, Starsk."

"Aw, hell. No, I don't. Put it under the sofa for safekeeping." He's gonna blow a gasket. And between him and that garbage-can-on-wheels he tries to pass off as a car, it's the last one they got. "I hope it's okay."

"I'm sure it is." Hutch knew it would be, because he knew Starsky would've made sure of it. He knew that Starsky had somehow sensed the non-monetary value of the watch, and had put it out of harm's way, just as he had pushed Hutch out of harm's way -- again. Just as he had bought time for him by wounding the older hitman -- saving his life -- until he had the inner strength to pull the trigger for the second time.

Starsky hoped his face didn't betray his surprise. He really does trust me. "Need you to do a few things for me, okay?" He shifted his position slightly.

"Sure."

"I got a bunch of packages that have to be in today's mail. Photos bought by other magazines and newspapers." Starsky moved around again. "Can you take care of that?"

"Yep."

"And call my ma? I don't want her to hear about this from the news." Or from anybody else.

He wants me to call her? "Consider it done."

"And Huggy, too?" Starsky wriggled yet again.

Hutch knew contacting Huggy Bear was inevitable. Of course Starsky would want his good friend to know and to visit him. But he wasn't really thrilled at having to talk with the "colorful" man -- as Starsky described the bar owner -- on his own. Hope Mr. Bear's not the jealous type, he chuckled inwardly. "Uhh, sure. No problem." He winced mildly. "Can you do something for me?"

"Sure, Hutch, anything. I mean, as much as I can."

"Let go of my hand."

Starsky's eyes widened, questioning him.

"You're squeezing the blood out of it."

Swiftly the photographer disengaged his hand. "Sorry, buddy."

Hutch, shaking his hand to restore the circulation, noted that Starsky's expression was more guilt-laden than it should have been. "I think you could use something for pain."

"Yeah, I could," he admitted quickly.

"Anything else?"

The way Hutchinson said those simple words told Starsky that Hutch already knew there was more. "I . . . Well, I should've been the one to do the shootin'. If I could crawl out there and throw a knife, I coulda -- should've -- been the shooter."

I can see I'm not the only one needing a big dose of reality. "To quote you exactly, 'Bullshit.' The recoil from one shot would've knocked you on your ass. Then we'd all be dead. It was a good plan. The only plan."

Starsky grinned with a sparkle that reflected his soul. "You sayin' I was right?"

"Yeah." Hutch pointed his index finger at Starsky's nose. "But don't get used to it."

Without blinking a bleary eye, Starsky grabbed that finger and pulled as he simultaneously assaulted the atmosphere with a rumbling belch.

The patient in the next bed cursed at Starsky and Hutch. Too mad to use the call bell, too determined to shout them down, he yelled over their cackles, "Nurse! Do somethin' about these damn hyenas!!!"

The "hyenas" simply laughed harder and louder.

When Hutchinson tried to pay the cabbie, the middle-aged man with flabby jowls and wispy brick-red hair refused to take his money. "I seen your picture on the TV. You done good, young man. Good that the bad guys lost for a change."

Hutch wanted to shout that he hadn't done it alone, that he had killed a man not out of heroics, but out of selfishness. He had done it only to keep Starsky alive and in his life. Frustrated, he threw a five-dollar bill into the front seat. "You will take a tip," he ordered before ungracefully exiting the taxi.

Yellow "Police Caution" tape roped off the entrance to Giovanni's. Guess it's not enough that the criminal is returning to the scene of the crime. Now I have to commit another one. A quick glance around revealed no press members or cops in the vicinity, only gawkers who rubbernecked from their passing cars. He assumed that there had to be another entrance to Starsky's apartment, which was most likely in the alley.

Walking into the alley, he noted Starsky's Jeep, its body a bright red and its topper a stark white with red trim. Next to it was a 1959 Cadillac Coupe De Ville sporting a custom gold paint job. This has to belong - He stopped to answer the irresistible urge to look up. Looking down at him from the top of the wooden stairs to the outside door of Starsky's flat was Huggy Bear. Oh, shit. Sometimes I hate it when I'm right.

"Well, well, well, if it ain't Blondie, coming back to the scene of the -."

Hutchinson's angry glare cut him off. Almost immediately, he regretted it. "Sorry. Long night."

"No doubt. Why you here?"

"I, uh, I came to get a few things that need to be mailed." At Huggy's suspicious expression, Hutch swiftly added, "Starsky asked me. As a favor."

"From what I know about what went down, you best not be doin' him any more favors." He paused, feeling an unexpected pang of jealousy and the silence turned more awkward. "Well, come on up, Blondie. If Starsky asked you, I guess it's okay to let you take care of business."

Hutchinson took the stairs one at a time. Soon he stood face to face with Huggy Bear, who towered over him on his platform shoes. "I hope you have a key. Starsky didn't have his and I'd prefer not to break in."

Huggy grinned wickedly. "Of course I have a key to my man's pad." He reached into a back pocket and pulled out a credit card. Enjoying the look of astonishment and accusation on the white man's face, he commenced working the lock open with the plastic. "It's my master key, you dig?" He swung the door open and said, "Entrez-vous, Blanc-ie," smirking at his cleverness.

"Thanks." Hutch winced at the raw pull in his back as he edged past Huggy Bear and into the apartment on stiff, heavy legs. Damn. Ten whole days before I can soak in a tub.

Though Theresa hadn't been specific about what had happened when she and Joey were here, Hutch was prepared for anything. He methodically took in the disarray. Well, it could've been worse, I suppose. Faced with picking up the manila mailers scattered about the floor, he groaned in anticipation of what this would do to his back and stitches. He debated the pros and cons of bending versus squatting.

Huggy brushed by him, mindless of the groans but careful not to step on anything. "Damn. Somebody did a pretty good job tossin' this crib."

"Just another one of that goon's gifts to Starsky." With his foot, Hutch began pushing the large envelopes into one pile.

The black man extracted a small duffel bag from the floor of a small open closet. "I'm gonna round up a few things for Starsky. This'll only take a few, Blondie, so be ready to exit stage right."

Hutch nodded, then slowly crouched. He picked up the closest two envelopes and unearthed an issue of Car Universe. The magazine was folded open to an article and photographs of the tackiest vehicle on any number of wheels he had ever seen. He gathered up the remaining mailers and stood, anxious in some sort of self-hating way to take a closer look at the car.

It was Ford's limited edition of the new 1974 Gran Torino. Thank God it's limited, he thought as his eyes squinted in aversion to the candy-apple-red car with an improbably wide white stripe on the roof that widened further as it extended down both sides, then tapered somewhat and pointed forward. Shouldn't the stripe be going the other way? Unless, of course, it's not meant to symbolize speed. Heaven forbid on a car with that airplane engine. Suddenly it struck him: He can't possibly like this car. His skin crawled at the notion.

Shaking the image out of his brain, Hutch turned his attention to Huggy Bear; the bar owner was taking his time rummaging through the apartment. He decided to take a closer look at some of the items Joey had exposed during his pillage.

A small photo album. A lime green transistor radio, its earpiece wrapped around it and missing its battery cover. Worn paperback copies of A Tree Grows in Brooklyn and Riders of the Purple Sage. An olive green fatigue jacket with three chevrons on the only visible sleeve. Three rectangular, almost flat leather boxes that reminded him of jewelry boxes for necklaces, and at least two more in the footlocker. A short row of 45 rpm records neatly lining one short end of the locker. Playboy and Mad magazines intermingling beneath the overturned milk-crate nightstand. The cased Hasselblad camera, untouched and safe in an open dresser drawer, where Starsky had told him it would be before the analgesic pushed him into sleep.

Hutch, feeling himself a thief, intruder, and spy, halted his survey of Starsky's belongings to direct his attention back to Huggy Bear. "Uh, Mr. Bear?"

Huggy frowned while he zipped the duffel closed. "Shit," he said, making the word two syllables, "you gotta be one of the most tight-assed white boys I ever met. It's Huggy Bear, not 'Mister.'" He rolled his dark eyes and shook his head.

The reporter blushed despite a strong desire not to do so. He deposited the envelopes and magazine on top of the dresser, then lifted the Hasselblad out. "Okay, 'Huggy' Bear. Think you could take this for safekeeping?"

Huggy inserted his arm through the duffel's strap and positioned it comfortably at his shoulder. "Ain't nothing like that safe in my neighborhood. You better hang on to it, Whitey."

"It's 'Blondie,'" Hutch fired back. He added the expensive camera to the other things on the dresser.

The black man sniffed his appreciation of the rejoinder. "Touché, 'Blondie.' Now it's time to get your punk ass and my princely one out of here."

"Wait a minute. I need to go downstairs and get my watch."

"Say what?"

"It's a family heirloom. I want it back. I'm afraid it'll disappear. Is that too difficult for you to comprehend?" he asked with more than a trace of peeved haughtiness.

And Starsky's gotta work with this guy? "Absolutely not, your majesty. You go on down there -- and risk gettin' caught violating a crime scene. Hell, what am I thinking? Of course you don't mind risking your derriere on a watch. That's small change compared to you risking Starsky's life." He shifted the duffel bag further toward the middle of his back and marched up to Hutchinson until their bodies almost touched.

Hutch stood his ground, keeping his face as frozen and neutral as possible, pocketwatch forgotten.

Huggy Bear snorted deep in his throat. "You knew about the hit. So why didn't you tip off the fuzz as soon as you found out? Or does Starsky's life mean that little to you? He's just a tool to get you front-page stories, isn't he?"

The reporter, thrown slightly off-kilter by Huggy's jive-free speech, chewed on his lower lip. Unpleasant seconds crept by while he grappled with Huggy's knowledge of both the hit and his own awareness of it and his allegation that Starsky was simply a means to an end. He couldn't decide what to deal with first. His forming right fist told him the immediate priority was not to punch Huggy's lights out. Taking a deep breath, he relaxed his hand. Harry, your mouth is too damned big. But he quickly set aside that conclusion, his reporter's nature of getting the whole story winning out. "How the hell did you find out?" he asked through fractionally clenched teeth.

"I know things. People tell me stuff. That's one of my businesses, dig? Besides, I don't reveal my sources, or they wind up maimed or dead, and I get cut off and there goes that business. I'm not exactly partial to failure."

Hutch nodded his grudging understanding. His and this "businessman's" ways of making a living were not that different. Wonder what other 'enterprises' he's got going? Nope -- don't want to know. "All right, fine. But where the fuck do you get off telling me what Starsky means -"

"Get off your high horse, Blondie," he interrupted. "You don't know anything about being a friend. And if Starsky considers you one of his, then God help him, because you got a crappy way of showing it."

"You're full of shit, Huggy Bear. I came here first to get Starsky out. I knew he'd be the cops' prime suspect."

Huggy's eyebrows knitted tightly. "Not following you, Blondie. How about enlightening this here moron spearchucker?"

Hutch was tiring of Huggy's adversarial attitude. You are many things, but stupid is definitely not one of them. He let his temper darken his next words. "Look at him in these circumstances. Army veteran, undoubtedly well-versed in more than a few ways to kill, drifting around the country for years since his discharge, doing who knows what, just happens to land a job and housing at a restaurant known in some circles to be a favorite of a mob boss. He's here for what -- three or four weeks? Long enough to get accepted and set up as the inside man."

The black man gave a cynical laugh and took a step back. "Give me a fucking break. Starsky would've been cleared in a few hours."

"I didn't want to take that chance. Don't you see? I didn't even want him taken into custody. I didn't want to risk los-, uh, risk him getting caught in the middle of a gun battle."

Huggy Bear heard the syllable that tripped the white man up for a split second. Lose him, huh? Maybe I'm wrong about you, and Starsky's right. "No, don't you see? If you had gotten him out of there before this shit went down, he'd probably be a stronger suspect."

Now Hutch took a step back as he realized Huggy was right. "I, uh, I-I guess I wasn't thinking things all the way through," he confessed.

"You can say that again." Suddenly Huggy found himself forgiving the guy, if for no other reason than he was Starsky's partner. Starsky obviously counted him as a friend as well. His underlying animosity toward Hutch softened. "At least you had the right intentions."

Hutchinson, surprised at Huggy's newly amicable tone, said, "A lot of good that did. He still wound up in the crosshairs."

"Yeah, yeah, so he did. That's a way of life with that boy. Him and me go back a ways." Huggy laughed quietly at memories he chose to keep private for the time being. "Starsky's a good man. One of the few whiteys I have any respect for. He's my bro, ya dig?"

Hutch smiled at both the sentiment and Huggy's return to his less formal patois. "I dig."

"My sources inform me you're the one got him sent to County, to that new trauma center."

"Yeah. So what?" Hutch asked warily.

"Not necessarily a bad thing. But not necessarily a good one, either. My man hates the VA. Not sure you did him any favors, though, gettin' him into County."

"What do you mean?"

"Starsky barely has two nickels to rub together. Who knows how long it'll take him to pay off the bill?"

"That's taken care of." All of a sudden, Hutchinson staggered, his legs turning to mush from a sneak attack of fatigue. He clutched Huggy Bear's arm with a sweaty palm and began looking for a place to sit.

Huggy's face showed concern and controlled panic. "Easy there, Blondie. Take a seat." He assisted the reporter into the wicker chair.

The wounds on his backside complained ferociously. This is just great. I left my damn cushion in the cab. He shifted around until he sat on one hip. Small price to pay compared to what Starsky's going through. I kill a man and get off with a light penance. He looked up to see the shit-eating grin all over Huggy Bear's face. So this is what I have to look forward to. He gave Huggy a ha-ha-and-up-yours look. "Thanks." He cleared the shakiness from his throat. "Why does Starsky hate the VA?"

The pointed question took Huggy by surprise for several seconds. "Something his mama told me on the phone once. She said they wanted to amputate his leg, his knee was so messed up. Gonna end up a crip anyway, lots of pain if you don't . . . you know, that kinda bullshit. He was at one of the Bronx VAs, where he had to share his filthy bed and crappy food with rats as big as your leg, for starters. Knowing our boy" -- Hutch noted the use of a plural possessive -- "that just made him work harder. Found hisself a Navy doc in another VA who specialized in knees and got transferred there."

Hutchinson thought he was going to be sick, but a deep breath soothed that feeling. "But not all VAs are like that. The ones here in Bay City -"

"I don't think that means anything to Starsky," Huggy cut in. "They could be the Taj Mahal, but he'd never go back. I think it's because he don't want to take nothin' away from the boys still getting fucked up over there."

Each man fell into a reflective silence, each looking anywhere but at the other. Eventually, Huggy was the first to speak. "I'll get your watch, Hutchinson, then we vacate. Where is it?"

Hutch, disturbed by the images Huggy's story evoked, mumbled its location. As the black man strode away, Hutch painstakingly rose from the chair, zombie-walked to the dresser, collected the envelopes and camera case, then zombie-walked to wait by the door. So lost in his thoughts about what Starsky and too many others must have gone through that he didn't sense Huggy's return.

"You okay?" Huggy asked as he took Hutch's right hand and pressed the treasured timepiece into it.

Reflexively, the reporter's fingers curled around it, and his brow creased deeply. "What? Oh, yeah, I'm fine. Uh, let's get the hell out of here." Then it occurred to him that someone he barely knew and certainly didn't trust had handled his dearest possession -- the second break in his vow in less than twenty-four hours. Family by extension? God help me. He placed the watch in its usual pocket.

"Got everything?"

"Yeah." He showed Huggy the stack of envelopes topped with the car magazine and nodded at the camera case under his arm, as if he were a schoolboy proving to his teacher that everything he had were things he rightfully should have.

The black man laughed quietly. "Now you know why Starsky's ride looks the way it does."

"You mean . . . ?" Hutch's features scrunched in disbelief as a finger pointed to one of the photos of the car.

"Tha's right. That buggy is our boy's dream machine. Love at first sight. Especially when he read about that engine that would rival a jet's. Sometimes I think it's his wet dream, you know what I'm sayin'? Only thing he loves more'n than fast women be fast cars."

Hutch nodded slowly and found himself wishing for Starsky's dream not to come true.

"Worked for a brotha name of Merle the Customizing Pearl for a couple days in exchange for the paint job. Said that'd hold him until he could afford the real McCoy."

"I have to stop him, talk some sense into him." Hutch was earnest in his dead seriousness.

This time Huggy laughed raucously. "That I gotta see." He opened the door and gestured for Hutch to leave ahead of him.

Hutchinson was nearing his LTD where he had parked it the night before when a limousine pulled up across the street. He stopped to watch the back door open and discharge a tall, well-built white man with slicked-back wavy hair and an expensive gray three-piece suit. Unthinking, he moved to keep the car between him and the approaching stranger.

"Mr. Hutchinson?" Without a pause for confirmation, the stranger continued. "You're a hard man to track down. Please, permit me to introduce myself." The man withdrew a business card from a vest pocket and extended it to Hutch over the LTD's roof. "Stanley Davis, Esquire, attorney and counsel for Mr. Victor Monte." He flashed a set of yellowish-white, irregular teeth.

Every muscle in Hutchinson's body contracted. That, combined with the perspiration that spread over him, made his injuries sting and smart and his mistrust surface. "Keep your card. We have nothing to discuss."

"On the contrary, Mr. Hutchinson. My client is anxious, even adamant, to show his gratitude to you and your associate. Mr. Monte has authorized me to seek your input on what sort of favor he might do for you for saving his life." He smiled again, turning up the snaky charm.

Goose bumps rose on the back of his neck. "My partner and I want nothing and will not accept anything from Mr. Monte." He opened the back door of the LTD and set his load on the seat. "Hold on. Maybe there is something." He slammed the door shut.

Davis looked at him, expectant, even eager.

Hutch chuckled to himself. "Tell Monte if he really wants to pay us back, he should go legit. Decrease the number of senseless killings in this city. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to be somewhere else." Though tempted to get in on the passenger side and slide over to the driver's seat, he nixed that idea knowing it would inflame his pain. He strode around the front of the car.

As Hutchinson did so, Davis stole a quick glance at the materials on the back seat. He backed away, perceiving that the young man wanted to keep a certain distance between them. Once Hutchinson was settled in behind the wheel, Davis, standing in the middle of the road, said loudly over the rumble of a slowly passing car, "Interesting automobile, that Gran Torino. Looking to get one for yourself?"

Hutch shuddered at the idea. "No," he said emphatically after he had rolled the window down halfway.

Davis raised a critical eyebrow and his eyes swept the car from one end to the other. "Perhaps you should."

Arching an eyebrow of his own, the reporter sucked in his lips and shot the attorney a withering look. He cranked the engine, put the car in gear, checked traffic, and pealed away from the curb.

Davis strolled back to the limo. Once inside, he jotted a few more notes on two pages in his legal pad. "All right, Alfred, to Mr. Monte's office. I'll save the visit with Mr. Starsky for another day."

Huggy Bear stretched out his long, twiggy legs until he was almost as straight as an ironing board in the institutional chair near Starsky's bed. "Methinks you been holdin' out on the Bear, Starsky. A private room?"

Starsky didn't answer immediately; he was busy watching the comely brunette nurse take down the empty bottle of blood and disconnect its tubing from his main IV line. He returned the broad smile she gave him as she completed her task.

She turned, took one last, long, appraising look at the visitor dressed in a ruffled white shirt open to mid-chest, a knee-length burgundy vest polka-dotted with circles of hunter green and burgundy bellbottoms. Both the vest and the pants' fly were studded with large rhinestones for buttons. "Gentlemen," she purred and left the room.

Starsky and Huggy Bear enjoyed the show of her subtly swaying bottom and shapely legs. The sound of her nylons swishing filled the room. It seemed to linger even after she'd left. They sat in venerating silence for a few moments.

"I need to get me a girlfriend," Starsky whispered longingly.

"You need to get laid is what you need."

"Unlike you, Hug, I want the ladies I bed to be able to spell their names correctly."

"Are you castin' aspersions on my latest conquest, the simple but sexy Electra?"

Starsky rolled his eyes. "No, I'm casting on you." He sighed. "What did you ask me before?"

"You're holdin' out on me, my man. Thought you and the church mouse were roomies."

"We still are. I was in another room with three other guys until after lunch when some orderly comes in and tells me he's takin' me to my new room. And here I am." What's another few grand when I owe twenty-five already? Self-pity started to cloud his mood.

"Well, I wouldn't worry about it if I was you. That reporter-partner of yours told me it was all taken care of."

That perked him up enough that his head blasted off the pillow. Instantly regretting it, the head went back down. He closed his eyes to the spinning room. "What are you talkin' about, Huggy?"

"Ran into him at your pad." Huggy gave his friend a skimpy outline of their interaction. "So, what are you keepin' from your soul bro?"

No way has my insurance started. What's goin' on? "Nothing, okay? You prob'ly just misunderstood him."

"Don't think so, m'man. Miscommunication ain't in my vocabulary -- which you know is quite extensive."

Starsky knew Huggy was right about that. Because of that and his ability to talk with anyone in terms he or she would understand, he was not only a successful bar owner but an "arbitrator" for disputes on the streets as well -- for which he got paid handsomely. "I musta got tagged as indigent and the city'll pay for it, and he found out." But I won't take charity. No way, no how.

"Doubtful. You think po' folks would get a private room?"

Starsky opened his eyes to see the knowing smirk on Huggy's face. "Course not."

"Well, somethin's up. I'll ask around, Starsky. And if it's not 'all taken care of,' you can always come to me. Lowest rates in town." He gave his pal a sly wink.

Starsky laughed despite himself. Somehow he knew Huggy Bear would be a multimillionaire by his thirty-fifth birthday. "Sure, Hug. Always glad to do a little business with a loan guppy." Not like that shark back home.

"Listen to you -- indigent, guppy. When you start usin' three-dollar words, huh? You been hangin' around with that rich, honky college boy for only a week, and -"

"Aw, c'mon, Hug," he interrupted. "He's okay. He actually came to get me out of the restaurant before the hit was to go down. Cut him -"

"I know, I know! But taking you out woulda made you a primo suspect in the fuzzy eyes of el policia."

"Maybe, maybe not. We both know I'd've been cleared. He tried to keep me out of it -- at least physically."

"Yeah, and look what it got you." Huggy moved his head in small nods as he came to the realization that for Starsky, Hutchinson had gone beyond work partner for him. "Okay, Starsky, I'll give 'im that. Maybe I'm wrong and you're right. Maybe he is a righteous dude."

The photographer grinned. "I knew you'd see it my way. Now, I gotta favor to ask." He colored in anticipation of his request. "I hafta take a leak. Help me to the bathroom?"

"Do I hafta stay in there wit'cha?"

Starsky reddened even more. "Hell, no."

"Solid," Huggy said as he stood. "Step on it, Starsky. I gotta be back for the dinner rush. How do you get out of this cradle, anyway? Climb over the side or scoot out the bottom?"

Monday evening

Hutchinson had no memory of his drive home. He did remember making it to the post office just before it closed and paying the extra money for special delivery. He did remember driving to Nancy and Maureen Blake's home to reassure his longtime school chum and her mother that he was all right. He did remember getting Chinese to go at Charlie Chan's. But from there home, he had blanked out. He chalked it up to exhaustion of mind, body, and spirit beyond comprehension and description -- and to throbbing pain in wounds that he never thought he'd acquire.

He cursed and scowled in disgust at the small army of reporters and photographers and cameramen that had bivouacked near his cottage on one of the man-made canals of the Bay City section known as "Little Venice." They swarmed his car like lions to a dead antelope as he pulled in, shouting his name, asking him questions that were undecipherable in the clamor. He had to push the door open, changing the throb in his arm to a fiery stab.

"NO COMMENT!" he screamed over the cacophony. He pushed through the throng of zealous faces, arms, microphones, tape recorders, and bright lights, protecting the Hasselblad and his dinner the best he could. Finally at the door, he thrust the food into the free hand of one of the television reporters. She stared at the container, then back at him. At least you've shut up, he thought.

Swiftly, he plunged his key into the lock, opened the door, snatched back his food, and was inside before her voice rejoined the others. He yelled through the door for everyone to go home.

His keys, the camera case, and the food wound up on an occasional table near the door. Immediately, he drew out the slip of paper in his wallet on which he had written Starsky's mother's phone number and dialed it.

"Hello?" came a groggy voice from the other side of country.

Dammit! Woke her up. "Mrs. Starsky?"

"Who is this?" Her question was seasoned with suspicious vigilance.

"Uh, I-I'm a friend of your son David. I'm his partner, Ken Hutchinson."

"Oh, yes, he told me about you last time we talked." On a dime, her softer accent -- Long Island with a Brooklyn influence -- changed from gracious to worried. "What's the matter? My son, he's okay, isn't he?"

"Yes, yes, ma'am, he's okay." He paused, dreading the next words he would have to speak. "But he has been hurt. Shot, as a matter of fact. But he's okay now," he added hurriedly. The ensuing silence boomed through the phone lines. He waited, not knowing how to break the tension.

"What happened? Tell me everything."

Hutch, astonished at the strength in the quiet voice, relayed the entire story, from when he found out about the hit, to how Starsky pushed him to do what had to be done, to mailing the photos. He ended with, "He saved my life and everyone else's. Without his plan, a lot more people would've died. Your son's a hero, Mrs. Starsky." He wasn't sure, but he thought he could hear her heartbeat. Then he heard a soft rustling of cloth. She had the phone on her chest . . . "Are you all right, ma'am?"

"Yes, Mr. Hutchinson, I'm as fine as I can be under these circumstances. He's always jumping into the thick of things. You'd think he'd have learned his lesson by now, and all those medals he got in the army to remind him . . . Oh, I'm just rambling on and this must be costing you a fortune. I'm afraid I can't take time off from work to be there with him. Will you do me a favor?"

"Anything, ma'am."

"Take care of him for me? Since I can't be there myself? And tell him I love him very much?"

She's trusting me with her son? Didn't she hear what I just told her I did?

"Mr. Hutchinson? Are you still there?"

"Yuh-yes, ma'am. Sorry. Of course I'll take care of him. He's my partner."

"Thank you. He said you seemed to be nice -- though he didn't actually use that word." She laughed, a sunny, warm sound. Hutch felt drawn to her. "And please tell him not to worry about the money for me."

"Uh, what money?" He heard a little but sharp intake of air.

"He knows what I'm talking about, Mr. Hutchinson. Just relay the message, would you?"

Probably sends whatever he can spare home. "Sure. And please call me Ken. Stars -- uh, David said to tell you that he'll call as soon as he's out of the hospital. Should be discharged in a few days at most."

"Thank you so much, Ken, for saving David and all those other people. I can just imagine how difficult it was for you. I think Davey is fortunate that he's found a friend like you."

I'm not so sure about that. "Thanks, Mrs. Starsky."

"Good night, Ken. We'll talk again soon, I hope."

"G'night." He stood immobile, his hand on the receiver, listening to the last of the television vans leave. On impulse, he picked up the phone again and dialed a number he knew by heart.

After several rings, a woman answered, "Iron Range Convalescent Home."

"Gretchen? It's Ken Hutchinson. Can he come to the phone?"

"Ken! It was all over the news just a few minutes ago. About you killing that man and saving all those people! That must've been -"

"Gretchen, please," he interrupted. Shit. Didn't take the reporters here long to find out about me and for the local station to pick up the story. Hometown boy makes good . . . yeah, right. "I just want to talk with him, okay?"

"Sure, Ken. It won't take long. He's still in his chair."

He closed his eyes while he waited, trying to comprehend the disappointment in the operator's voice.

"Kenny!"

There was no questioning the excitement and jubilation in Ricky's voice. His breath caught in his throat for a brief moment. "Hi, Ricky," he said evenly.

Though his friend's speech impediment was worse than usual, Hutch had little trouble deciphering it: "You did good, Kenny. I'm proud of you."

Hutch's eyes misted at the absolution. One down, two to go. He scrubbed his nose on his sleeve. "Thanks, pal. Now you know how I feel about you all the time."

"Oh, Kenny." Hutch could see the blush in his mind's eye. "You're talkin' like a girl."

Hutchinson laughed heartily at the tease. The boyhood friends spoke for a few more minutes, with Hutch promising to call with the results of the inquest as soon as he could.

He took his now-lukewarm food to the kitchen table, along with a legal pad and a fountain pen. He dumped the moo shu chicken onto a large plate and tore the pancakes into pieces. Trudging over to his bed, he grabbed both pillows and placed them on the chair. He sat on them and situated the food to his left and the tablet in front. He uncapped the pen and began writing, occasionally pinching up a mouthful of the fowl and vegetables with a pancake piece.

He wrote for three hours straight. Once finished, he sat staring at the last page, waiting for the catharsis he had hoped writing the story would bring. He pushed the pad away, folded his arms across the table, ignoring the thumping pain in his left arm, laid his head down, and fell fast asleep.

Tuesday afternoon

Breaking his usual custom, a still-weary Hutchinson took the elevator from the garage in the Bradford Building directly to the floor where Plainclothes California had its offices, bypassing Papa Teddy's restaurant. He didn't have the energy to face Lavelle or any of the magazine's other employees who might be taking a break, or even get his much needed and obligatory cup of coffee. In fact, the only positive thing to happen since he woke up was a late-morning phone call to Starsky to relay the messages from his mother.

He stepped off the elevator to hear phones ringing. Actually, it was one phone with multiple lines and all of them seemed to be ringing at once. He knew Millie Carter, Dobey's girl Friday and the clock that made the entire magazine tick, was sure to be irritable from all the calls. He was tempted to leave, but he had a story to turn in.

Cautiously, he opened the door to Millie's office. It startled him to see Minnie Kaplan there instead. Minnie was a copy editor and researcher, but was known to fill in at times for Millie.

"No, honey," the New Jersey native said into the phone, "you heard me right the first time. Ken Hutchinson's not givin' any press conferences or interviews until at least after the inquest." A pause while she listened. "Hey, didja used to be a used car salesman in a previous life? Need me to read you the definition of 'after' outta the dictionary, or can you find it yourself? That is, assumin' you can spell it." She pressed another blinking button, effectively hanging up on that ill-fated person. "PC, can you hold?" She kept pressing buttons and asking each caller to hold until all four lights were blinking and the office was eerily quiet. With her third finger, she pushed her horn-rimmed glasses back up to their proper place on her nose and scrunched up one side of her mouth. She gave Hutch a once-over with her dark eyes. "Millie's on her sixth break of the day. About time you got here. Will you talk to the president when he calls?" Her tone was a strange mix of sarcasm and pride.

Hutch smiled gently and said, "Of course not. Against my lawyer's advice."

"I wouldn't talk to the bastard myself. Not that he would want to talk to me. I gotta be on his 'list.'" Minnie had been following the Watergate scandal more closely than anyone else in the office. She flicked her head of soft, black curls at Dobey's door. "Go on in. The cap'n is waiting. Want some cotton for your ears?"

Dobey's new title is catching on fast, he thought with a hidden smirk. "Nope. I'll be fine." As Minnie returned to the phone, Hutch shambled to the door of Dobey's office and knocked once. He let himself in without waiting for an answer.

The editor was at his desk, busily writing something. He didn't look up until Hutch dropped the legal pad containing his story over his work. Hutch was falling into one of the wing chairs. He grimaced along with the reporter when his bottom hit the cushion.

"I gotta stop doing that," Hutch mumbled.

"Come in, sit down," Dobey said sardonically. He peered at Hutchinson over his reading glasses. "What the hell is this?" A thick finger tapped out an impatient rhythm on the pad.

Hutch, slumped in the chair, said in a slightly louder mumble, "PC's exclusive of what happened at Giovanni's Sunday night. Think of it as an investigation into the mind of an unwilling, conscience-stricken killer, or 'hero'" -- the word vibrated with condemnation -- "if 'killer' is too real." His head rolled to the right, his fingers spread out across his brow to support it. He continued, still quiet and flat but with precise enunciation. "It will have an acknowledgement of Starsky's contribution. If you change any fucking thing, or delete or add any damn thing, I will pull it."

Dobey took in a huge breath to ready himself for the tongue lashing his problematic reporter deserved. He held it for a moment while he cooled down. The pause enabled him to discern a fresh nuance to Hutchinson's imperious behavior. It had a self-deprecating nature now, the self-importance having fallen by the wayside. He bent his head and began reading.

Several minutes later, when he had finished, he was speechless because of the knot in his throat and ache in his heart. Absolutely freaking brilliant. Quickly, he made a decision. "PC is not publishing this." He held up a hand to halt the inevitable objection from Hutchinson when he saw his face screaming furious protest. "This does not belong in our magazine. Period. End of discussion." He cleared his throat and paused to give the reporter a chance to assimilate the decision. He removed his glasses and with a temple stem, he tapped the pad once more. "This piece belongs in American Pacific or some other literary nonfiction rag. Submit it to one of those. But be unconditionally certain you want this tale to be public." He sighed. "And if they try to edit one word, I'd pull it, too."

Hutchinson sighed with resignation. "But what about -?"

Dobey cut in with, "Simmons is here. The story's his."

"NO!"

"YES!" Dobey countered just as emphatically as Hutchinson's dissent. "You two work it out. I don't care if the byline's his or yours or both. I expect the story on my desk by deadline. Now get the hell out of my office and back to work. We've got a magazine to publish." He held the legal pad out.

Hutchinson snatched it back and glowered at his boss, who glared back. As best as his aching legs would allow, he stalked out of the office. He closed the door just shy of a slam.

Dobey rested his face in his hands. Knowing this about Hutchinson put a different spin on his understanding and opinion of the young man. He sighed again and went back to work.

During a morning visit from Johnny Giannini, Starsky had learned that the restaurant would stay closed until after the inquest, which wouldn't happen until he was out of the hospital and able to testify. This, coupled with his worry about the bill, got Starsky sweet-talking his way to an afternoon discharge.

As soon as it was official, Starsky called Hutchinson's home phone number, but there was no answer. He found himself disappointed about that and the fact that Hutch hadn't come back for a visit since yesterday afternoon. He called his black friend instead. One of the nurses notified Captain Ferguson of Starsky's imminent discharge.

Huggy Bear pranced in with a cute, young candy striper on his arm. He grinned at seeing his friend dressed in real clothes and left arm in a sling. "Starsky, my man," he said cockily. "I see you are ready to depart this jive joint. Meet Ginevra. She wants to be a physical therapist." He put the slightest of emphasis on "physical." "Ginny, meet my amigo, David M. Starsky. The M stands for mensch."

Starsky couldn't prevent a chuckle. "Huggy, you're a schmuck."

Ginny, who Starsky decided was jailbait, giggled timidly. "What's that? And the other thing?"

"I'll tell you all about it at lunch tomorrow. Right now, let's get this boy to my domicile. My lady Ginevra, would you be so kind as to get a chariot for this injured warrior?" He gave the girl a gentle pat on her rump as she left. She giggled again.

"Huggy, I wanna go back to my place!"

"No way, no how, m'man. Anita and Diane will have my head if I don't bring you back. And you know how they can be when I don't kowtow to their demands. As we speak, they're fightin' over who gets to help you undress and bathe."

Starsky groaned, perturbed at the thought of needing assistance and of two well-intentioned, attractive ladies doing the helping. Not exactly the people I want to see me almost naked, then see me nearly every day after that.

Before long, Huggy had Starsky comfortably situated in the passenger seat of his Caddy. "Now to your home for the next few days." He turned the key and the engine popped to life.

"Before we do, can you take me to Hutch's place? I wanna leave him a note, tell him where I am."

Huggy hesitated for the briefest moment. Blondie's important to him, so . . . "Your wish is my command, Starsky. Point the way."

Wednesday morning, the judge and ADA Frost, not wanting to prolong the cut-and-dry case, had set 3:00 p.m. for the inquest. By mid-morning, everyone who needed to be at the inquest, including the press, had been notified.

Wednesday afternoon

Starsky, right shoulder bracing him against the building that housed The Pits, Huggy's flat, and a number of other apartments, heard Hutchinson's beater before he saw it. Must've lost his cherry in that car. Only good reason I can think of that he still has that piece of garbage. Would it hurt him to get a new muffler?

Hutchinson spied Starsky as he moved from a leaning to standing position. His partner was dressed in an old brown herringbone jacket with patches sewn on the elbows, a black tie, a white shirt, and a faded pair of jeans. The left coat sleeve hung empty at his side. The car rattled to a stop directly in front of the waiting man. He opened the passenger door from the inside. "I thought I told you last night and this morning to wait inside for me." Hutch, after his interview with Simmons and discovering that Starsky had been discharged, had quickly tracked him down. They had visited briefly at Huggy's before Starsky sent the fatigued man packing, but not before Huggy sent along with him a meal he had personally prepared and packed.

Starsky sat on the lumpy seat before he swung his legs inside the car. He chafed at Hutch's solicitous admonishment. "Did Dobey quit and make you chief screamer?" he asked. "And by the way, I got a mama."

Let it go. He probably didn't sleep for shit last night. "I know. Lovely woman. And a lovely afternoon, Starsky," he said brightly.

His left shoulder throbbed. He wished he had gotten the codeine prescription filled. For a heartbeat, he felt embarrassed dressed the way he was next to Hutch's gray blazer, navy slacks, red tie, and white shirt. Poor rich guy -- he never seems to wear anything he's comfortable in. Bet he's petrified of getting his clothes dirty. He adjusted the cloth band, an addition to his sling intended to keep him from moving his arm too far away from his body, tied loosely around his midsection. Next, he heaved the door closed. "I think it's shut. To court, James, and don't spare the squirrels."

The partners fell into a moody silence, each pondering all the possible outcomes of the inquest, each dreading the worst that would break up a budding relationship beneficial to and desired by both -- though neither would admit it publicly or privately.

Starsky was the first to breach the tense atmosphere. "Thanks for picking me up."

"No problem. When did the doc say you could drive again?"

"I could drive now if the jeep was an automatic. Sometimes, my grip is fine, and then other times, I'm all fumble-fingers again." He flexed his fingers, trying to prove their mobility to himself as well as to Hutch.

"And then there's the sling . . ." He didn't die. You didn't stand by and let that happen. You acted this time.

"An automatic, it wouldn't matter. Shift into drive right-handed and then wouldn't have to worry about it again 'til I parked. Could even drive this thing -- not that I would ever be caught dead doing that."

Keeping a straight, sincere face, Hutch stated, "It's a nice day for a walk. Wouldn't you agree?"

Starsky cleared his throat, somehow making it sound innocent and breezy. "Nah. Perfect day for a ride in the country."

Hutch smiled at that response until he remembered where they were headed. He drew in a deep breath and turned all of his concentration on the road. The car interior was relatively quiet once again.

"Nervous?"

Hutch started at the unanticipated, direct question. "No."

Starsky just stared at him. Big, fat liar.

The reporter squirmed in his seat. Ouch! Shouldn't do that. "Lawyer says I got nothing to be nervous about." He shrugged self-consciously.

Starsky continued his penetrating, blue stare.

Finally Hutch relented. "What if they decide it wasn't justified?"

"They will." His confidence made the words sing.

"What if they don't?"

Starsky rolled his eyes. Je-sus! Does this guy have any optimism? "Hutch, nobody wants to put you in jail. And if they put you there, they'd hafta do the same with me. I did attempt to kill somebody. You go, I go. We're in this together, Blondie. Besides, you're a hero."

"I'm no hero," he declared with stern sullenness.

"Yeah, you are. I saw it on TV last night. Read it in the paper this morning. You're a hero." Plain as the nose on your face and simple as Huggy's ladies.

Hutch pfft'd through his teeth. "You've not been in the business long, Starsk, but let me tell you something. We're not supposed to be 'the story.' We find the news and report it. We are not supposed to be found and reported on."

Starsky huffed. "I know that. Hutch, from the minute you got that tip from the Mayascreechie guy, there wasn't any other way for this to play out. One or the other of us would have been in the eye of that crossfire hurricane. Or what if you had gone to the cops first, huh? What if they hadn't believed just your word but insisted on asking the Mata-Harry guy himself? I might have been dead and not here to complain about riding in your heap. Any way I look at this picture, pal, the photograph is still ugly. You did what you thought was right, and nobody but the bad guys came out of this wrong. It was a good shoot, Hutch. No one wants to arrest you, pal, much less lock you up. Not the cops, not the DA."

"But that guy's still dead, and I'm responsible." He stopped the car at a red light.

I know this is real tough, but hear what I'm saying. "No, he's responsible. He's the one who came into the place with a gun, ready to kill. Besides, if it hadn't been you taking him out then, it would have been someone else, some other time. Twitchy-guy was bound to have a bad ending." Starsky saw no change in the anguish and remorse on Hutch's face. "And just think of how many people he would have hurt or murdered between now and then. You did the world a favor, buddy. Not yourself, maybe, but the rest of us appreciate it."

Hutch sat, staring at nothing and everything, absorbing what Starsky had said. An impatient honk from the motorist behind them jerked him back to the road. The light had turned green. He accelerated rapidly, shy of squealing the tires.

In a voice that exposed his own experience and empathy, Starsky said, "And it won't always be the last thing you think of at night or the first thing you remember in the morning. It'll fade a little as time goes on, and you'll come to really see you had to do it. And it won't ever be okay exactly, but you'll come to an understanding with yourself."

Hutch pulled to a stop in a parking slot on one side of the courthouse. Turning to look his partner in the eye to ascertain his sincerity, he saw only earnest belief and support. Two down, one to go. After a bit, he nodded in agreement.

"We're here," he said, stating the obvious to cover his mounting dread. He turned off the engine, but it continued to run, accompanied by various knocks, pings, and shimmies. His sigh of frustration turned to one of embarrassment when the car finally stopped with a noise resembling a bad case of flatulence.

Starsky, attempting to smother a roar of laughter, looked studiously out his window. The reporters, who had spotted them from their perches on the steps of the courthouse when the car did its nightclub act, were racing toward them. Starsky figured they only had a few more seconds of privacy. "Indians."

Hutch looked around, seeing the horde instantly. "Shit. And I didn't even see the arrows."

"Can you see Batman driving around in an Edsel?"

Hutch, thrown by the sudden change in direction of their conversation, half-snarled, "What?"

"Just making the observation that celebrities and heroes don't go around in cars held together by thumb tacks and used Band-Aids."

The reporters were knocking at their fortress. Hutch threw a mocking smile and a middle finger at the face just outside his window. "I know where they can stuff their cult of the manufactured celebrity. And I know where you can stick your thumb tacks and wrap your Band-Aids."

Starsky grinned, victory his. "See this sling? I'm jury-rigged enough already."

"Maybe, but I think you've got a screw loose somewhere up top."

"Probably got shook out by this rattletrap."

Hutch fought his grin as Starsky tapped his head with the heel of his hand and crossed his eyes. But then he glanced around at the throng outside the LTD and had to take a deep, steadying breath to restrain his peaking nervousness.

Starsky saw the change sweep over his features. "Relax, pal. You covered me in the restaurant; I've got your back on this one. Everything's going to be fine."

Hutch shooed the reporters away and shouted, "Back off already!" To his surprise, they obeyed. He looked back at Starsky and observed the reassurance and confidence he needed. Believing him, trusting him, he nodded. "Okay, ready to run the gauntlet?"

"Last one through pays for dinner. I'll have the linguine with clams. And a shrimp cocktail." Starsky shot Hutch a lopsided, devilish grin, waggled his eyebrows, and was out of the car in the next second.

"Why, you son of a -" Hutchinson lumbered out and waded through the chattering bodies, catching up quickly with his mildly limping partner. Got my back, huh?

Now that they were out of the car, the crush of journalists threatened to devour them. Unconsciously, almost instinctively, Hutchinson fell in a half step behind Starsky's left, as if extra padding for the wounded shoulder.

Long yards and seconds later, Starsky's right hand grasped the courthouse door's handle. "So, how does it feel to be a celebrity?" he asked playfully, loud enough only for Hutch to hear.

"Stuff it, Gordo." His quiet retort was tinted with affection. "Hope you brought enough cash to handle some caviar and champagne."

They jockeyed for first-in position, but ended up squeezing through the threshold together.

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