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.
This story is a Shootout missing scene, beginning just after the last scene in the restaurant's back room.
A listing of Italian words with their English translations is at the bottom of the page.

As he stood at the counter next to the old-fashioned cash register, Ken Hutchinson allowed himself a chuckle tempered by a sniffle of relief. In your own inimitable way, partner, thought the tall, blond police detective, you just let me know you're going to be okay. He shook his head and surveyed the room before him.

Tom Lockly, the older of the two assassins, sagged in a chair and held his wounded right arm tightly to his side. Under the mussed comb-over, his complexion was pale green. His expression revealed nothing, not even pain. Consummate hit man. Never reveal what you're thinking or feeling. Unlike Joey there. Hutchinson reconfirmed that Joey, the thug who had shot his partner twice, was dead. He now had time to acknowledge the frigid hand of regret that always seized his soul after he killed someone. Quickly, he tucked it away to deal with later.

Hutchinson watched the older couple hold each other closely. They still sat at their table, but had moved their chairs together until they touched. The handsome woman wept quietly into her husband's shoulder while he caressed her back lovingly. Hutchinson wasn't sure, but the old man's eyes appeared to glisten with moisture.

He turned his attention to the couple seated nearest the door to the Italian restaurant. The ferrety-looking man kept swallowing and looked gray. The striking redheaded woman with him stared at the unlit candle in the center of the table. His hands covered hers, palms to palms.

There was a clap of thunder to accompany a flash of lightning. Everyone in the dining room - except the dead man - jumped to some degree. Hutchinson took a deep breath to calm himself further. "Okay, hit man, up. Or do you want to join your partner here?" he asked with frosty scorn. The irony of his choice of words escaped neither one of them.

The wounded man kept a straight face, managing to suppress any indication of the pain he felt with movement, and stood. Once upright, he made no other move. As his last act of freedom, he had decided the cop would have to do the rest of the work.

And the cop did, with a coarse vengeance. He had no qualms with spinning the criminal around 180 degrees, or grabbing and twisting the wounded arm behind his back, or snapping the stainless steel cuffs on to the tightest setting. He spun the would-be executioner again. They stood face to face. This time, the bland expression was replaced with grimaces.

Hutchinson pushed Lockly hard. The older man stumbled but soon steadied himself on the seat. Hutchinson, sky-blue eyes wide open, glared at him and said, "You better be glad I was the one cuffing you, hit man, and not my partner. He wouldn't have been so. . .gentle." Quickly, he pulled out his badge case and fingered out a business-size card tucked behind the shield. I've got to make sure this is perfect. "You are under arrest," he read from the card. "You have the right to remain. . ."

Without realizing it, the failed assassin shrank away from Hutchinson. I believe you, his aging but observant eyes said as he listened to the cop drone on.

Just as he finished informing the suspect of his rights, Hutchinson canted his head to better hear something that barely registered in his awareness. After another second or two, he identified sirens over the hammering rain. You'll be out of here soon, Starsk, he thought in cold comfort. He made his way to the bar.

The attractive waitress who had assisted in the plot to kill Vic Monte stood behind the dark wood with her muscle-bound beau -- When the hell did he get out of the basement? Hutch wondered. She latched onto the blond cop's angry and concerned azure eyes. "Is your partner okay?"

Hutchinson closed his eyes for several beats and nodded his head slowly. "Yeah, I think so." He opened his eyes to see the adrenalin begin its disappearance from her muscles. "He's still breathing." The trembling that had started in her thin shoulders quickly progressed down the rest of her body. Her boyfriend slipped a massive arm around her waist and half-carried her from behind the bar to sit her on the nearest stool.

Hutchinson gave her a shy, reassuring smile. "You did the right thing tonight, Theresa. You saved our lives." Now your life and your mother's are changed forever. And maybe my partner's as well. He cradled the right side of her face in his left hand. Her large brown eyes glistened, and he knew it would only be moments before the tears rolled down her cheeks.

The detective withdrew his hand when he heard tires screech to a sliding halt on the wet pavement. A moment later, the sirens stopped. He had to wait only a few more seconds for the uniformed cops to enter.

With guns drawn and ready, Frazier and Fischbach burst into the restaurant, eliciting a sharp, collective gasp from the two couples sitting at the tables. The cops grinned when they saw Hutchinson, smiling, with his hands up and the barrel of his Colt pointed to the ceiling. Both immediately evaluated the situation as under control. Frazier, the senior partner, instructed Fischbach to get the paramedics, before he spoke to the detective. "Ambulance for that guy, huh?" he asked, pointing his balding head at the wounded hit man.

"No, he can get treatment here and get to the hospital by squad car. Paramedics are for" - he paused to control the cracking he could feel taking over his vocal cords - "Starsky."

Frazier paled. He rushed back to the entrance and opened the door. "Fisch!" he yelled. "Officer down! Tell those medics to move their butts! Now hurry the hell up!" He looked back into the restaurant to see Hutchinson striding away from him to an open door beyond the bar.

"Help's here now, buddy," Hutchinson said, voice full of hope, as he crossed the threshold into the back room. But what he saw turned his knees to stinging mush.

David Starsky, still sitting on the floor, had slumped forward and to the left. There were no white checks on the tablecloth over the bullet wound in his back. Hutchinson watched in horror as more and more white checks turned pink, then red. The bullet must've moved! I should never have let you throw that stupid pitcher! "GET IN HERE, NOW, DAMMIT!" he bellowed as he thrust his gun into his belt at the small of his back. He ignored the sharp pain in his throat that resulted from the earsplitting scream. His heart sank to his slushy knees when he realized there was absolutely no response from his friend. One long stride later, he was pressing the wound with the heels of both hands. "I'm here, Starsk, it's gonna be okay, I'm sorry, stay with me, you hear?" he said in one frazzled breath.

The next hour would eventually become a series of snapshots and sounds for Hutchinson. The rip of his sweater as someone pulled him away from Starsky. . .the head of curly brown hair that rolled listlessly. . .scissors snicking through several layers of fabric. . . ."90 over 60, 120 and thready". . .a needle that seemed as large as a garden hose being shoved into the hollow of his partner's elbow. . ."Hey, you, Blondie, hold his legs up". . .red, sticky hands. . .the metallic clatter of the gurney. . .double doors closing on the now-occupied stretcher. . .the siren slicing through his heart. . .the whiteness of his palms exposed by the rain. . .a red and white car. . .a firm but comforting large black hand on his soaked shoulder. . ."Come on, Officer, we gotta get going now". . .the blackness brought on by closing his eyes and his lapse in judgment. . ."OR, stat, people, 'less you wanna lose 'im". . .bleached-out face with a strong nose and a heavy five-o'clock shadow and long eyelashes and the little bump on his cheek near the right eye and the deafeningly silent, pale lips. . ."I'm so sorry, buddy."

He had no clue how he got to the OR waiting room, and didn't care. Only when his captain brought him a cup of hot, dark liquid that posed as coffee did he stop his pacing at the OR department's entrance.

*****

Pulling hen's teeth with one hand tied behind my back would've been easier, thought Captain Harold Dobey as he finally relaxed on the two-seater sofa in the surgery waiting room. He was exhausted from not only the late hour but also from working so hard to get Hutchinson to tell him what had happened at Giovanni's. Well, no matter what I say, he's going to blame himself. But he couldn't--he wouldn't--hold his tongue. He sighed, uncrossed his arms, and leaned forward. "Hutch, son, you did -"

Hutchinson, temporarily at a standstill at the door to the OR suite, whirled to face his superior officer. "I DID NOTHING, Captain," he shouted. He sneered at the censure and warning on Dobey's face, though his next words were not as loud but just as forceful. "I did nothing to stop Starsky from helping, and I knew better." His hands went to his hips. "I should have made him just lie there and I" - he jabbed his chest once with his right index finger - "should have figured out some other way" - the finger now pointed toward the floor and moved up and down for emphasis as he continued - "to get us out of that, that mess that wouldn't have him bleeding to death!"

Dobey stood at near-perfect military attention, which gave him an air of authority. "From what you've told me and what I know of Starsky, you had no choice. You couldn't have left him out, anymore than he would have let you." He waited for Hutch's expression to soften. When it didn't, he pressed on. "Both of you knew you had to protect the civilians as best you could, and involving any of them at that point in a plan to disarm the hitters was not an option."

Hutchinson glared at Dobey. He knew his boss was right about that. They had had to play it that way, had to take the chance because time had been close to running out. But there was something else he had failed to do that tarnished him. He dropped his head and placed a hand on the back of his taut, clammy neck. "When Starsky came out of the bathroom, I didn't shout a warning," he whispered. "I didn't say a damn thing. That could've bought him enough time to clear his gun and fire. If I'd -"

"If you'd done that," Dobey interrupted quietly, "you'd both be dead, along with a whole lot of other people."

In a very small voice that reminded Dobey of his kids when they asked for forgiveness after doing something wrong or unacceptable, Hutch said, "I wish it'd been me instead."

For an instant, Dobey thought he had been kicked in the chest. He saw in his mind's eye his old partner Elmo Jackson hanging from a meat hook and heard himself telling Hattie, Elmo's fiancée, at the funeral those exact words. "I know, Hutch, I know."

Dobey took Hutch by the shoulders and steered him to a chair. There was no resistance from him as Dobey gently pushed him down. For the first time since arriving at the hospital hours ago, Hutchinson finally sat. And waited.

*****

The news from the surgeon was generally favorable. The bullet in Starsky's back had moved from where it had been lodged against a nerve and in a blood vessel. Though the movement had dislodged the bullet from its unintended duty as the proverbial finger in the dike, causing significant blood loss, it was fortuitous that it relieved pressure on the nerve before there could be permanent damage. Transfusions and surgical repair had quickly corrected the traumatic anemia. The head wound had been a light graze that hadn't required sutures, but still would hurt for several days. "He'll be fine," the surgeon concluded.

"When can I see him?" implored Hutchinson.

The surgeon, a grizzled man in his fifties who had served in a MASH unit in Korea, smiled his understanding at the anxiety exuding from the intense white man. "He's in recovery. A nurse will get you once he's settled in his room. Now, if that's all, I have another patient waiting. Same shooting incident, I understand. Officers." He nodded and re-entered the OR.

Hutchinson wobbled back to his chair, Dobey at his side ready to catch him. He sat down hard on the thinly cushioned metal. He rubbed his crimson-veined eyes several times before saying, "He's gonna be okay, Cap." Almost immediately, the blond head fell forward, then rolled to one side. His eyes were closed and his mouth was open slightly, giving sound to his sudden sleep.

Dobey, cheered by the good news and appreciative of the exhaustion Hutchinson must be feeling, pulled a cushion from a nearby seat and placed it between Hutch's head and shoulder. He left him to check on the wounded suspect, the arrangements for guarding him, and the investigating detectives. Another task had fallen to him by default, but now he didn't mind that it had, since he had some good news to go along with the bad when he called Starsky's mother.

*****

It was almost 6 a.m. before a nurse woke Hutchinson and escorted him to his partner's room. "He's still very groggy and probably won't say much. You can visit with him for a few minutes," she said in a hospital whisper.

Hutchinson stared at her defiantly and purposely hovered over her head, forcing her to bend it back to see him. "I'm staying." Challenge and promise.

Slowly, she stepped out of his shadow. Though she was young and had less than a year's experience, she refused to be intimidated. "That's our policy, sir. Besides, he needs his rest. Staying with him will tire him out unnecessarily."

"Fu--uh, screw your policy. He's my partner, and I'm staying."

The blue eyes blazed at her. They were filled with so much -- so much anger, pain, worry, guilt, love -- that she decided, To hell with policy. "Okay, you can stay, as long as you don't tire him. The minute you do, you're out of here," she said, using the appropriate baseball hand signal. "Got it?"

Suddenly, Hutchinson relaxed and gave the nurse his best charming smile. He took her hand and brushed it lightly with his lips. "Got it. And thanks." He backed into the room to enjoy watching the stunned and speechless woman staring at her hand. The door closed between them, and he was alone with his partner.

Hutch took one deep inhalation and held it. He turned to face the man, his friend, whom he could have prevented from getting shot.

The night light in the room afforded Hutch enough illumination to see a pasty complexion, a headband of white gauze, one arm with two IV bottles emptying into it and the other arm nowhere to be found, a bag with urine hanging from the bed frame. Damn -- I'm seeing him in pieces. He exhaled and shook his head as if that would help him see his partner as a whole. What he saw was cobalt blue eyes and a euphoric, affectionate expression.

"Hey-ya, Hup. Where ya been?" Starsky's voice was drunk from fatigue and narcotics and anesthetic gases.

Hutch ambled to the bedside, though he wanted to run. "Oh, here and there, scouting out the nurses."

Starsky smacked his lips a couple of times. "You okay?" He tried to reach for his partner, but his right hand did little more than flap.

Hutchinson caught the puny movement, which caused him to inhale sharply. To mask his reaction, he said quickly, "Easy, Starsk, easy, save it for the nurses, okay?" while covering Starsky's hand with his. It took a few moments before Starsky quit trying. "I'm fine. You?"

Starsky found Hutch's hand to be surprisingly cool, like a spring evening. "Been better. Not hungry no more." He paused to marvel how much better he felt already. "You stayin'?" Hope, doubt, need.

The blond man shuddered -- hoping Starsky hadn't noticed it -- at the lack of blame in those two words, and the lack of forgiveness, which was Starsky's way of "telling" him there was no forgiving needed. That only he was needed. For as long as you need me, partner, and as long as you want me. He squeezed the hand beneath his. "Absolutely, partner. Ain't goin' nowhere."

"Tha's nice." His mouth curled up at the corners. He squirmed under the sheet in a mostly futile effort to get more comfortable. Moments later, he was snoring softly.

Hutch chuckled silently. He straightened the sheet, folding the top edge down in a precise cuff under Starsky's neck. His hand attempted to smooth the curls that wildly poked out above the bandage. He quickly gave up and bestowed victory on the hair. He picked up the closer of the two chairs and set it next to the bed, arranging it so he could rest his head against the mattress near Starsky's head. He could smell his partner's drug-perfumed breath and feel its oddly reassuring humid warmth. He forced himself to stay awake to make sure Starsky was asleep. Finally satisfied, he sank into a deep slumber.

*****

The roll call room at Bay City Police Department Metropolitan Division hummed with hushed discussions of what had happened at Giovanni's restaurant during the night. The mood was decidedly gloomy and anxiety-ridden. The fact that the day shift detectives had joined the uniformed cops this morning simply added to the fear that their brother's wounds were more than serious.

Avery Perkins, a born leader and unarguably the best desk sergeant on the force, had no trouble picking up on this. He knew they needed to know about Starsky. He made the decision to start early. "All right, people, settle down. I got some news."

In seconds, an uneasy, anticipatory silence filled the room. Perkins, not surprised at the speed of their reaction, licked his lips before continuing.

"I'm sure all of you know something about the officer-involved shooting around midnight at an Italian restaurant near the docks. Captain Dobey will be here shortly to give you all the details, but I -" He stopped at the creak of the opening door. Every head turned to see the captain of detectives standing in the threshold. "I can tell you about the officer," Perkins said with his eyes on Dobey. He waited until he got the go-ahead. "Detective Starsky was shot twice, once in the head and once in the back in the left shoulder area. The head wound is minor, I'm happy to say. But the other one proved to be, well, much worse. He lost a lot of blood, but the doc says he should be fine. Detective Hutchinson was not harmed during the incident." Perkins scanned the room during the sighs and murmurs and whistles of relief. He was always amazed at how the wounding or death of a fellow cop touched them all deeply, even those who might not like the officer. Such a sobering and frightening event -- all too common on the streets of one of the most violent cities in the world -- abruptly brought all internal conflict to a halt for a time.

"Seems Starsky's stint as a vampire has lightened the inventory of County General's blood bank." That brought a few chuckles and a general elevation in mood. Dobey smiled his approval at Perkins's levity. "And since there's always a shortage of blood at Christmas time, any donations would be greatly appreciated. Morty Koch from Dispatch is staying late to sign you up for appointments." He watched with satisfaction as about a third of the heads nodded. "Before we get down to regular business, Captain Dobey has a few words."

Dobey, uncomfortable at work in a tan sport coat, polo shirt, and jeans, nevertheless maintained a professional attitude and briskly walked to the front of the room. "The lead detectives on this case are Caldwell and Monroe. They have determined that Starsky and Hutchinson, who were off duty at the time, walked into the middle of a contract hit on Victor Alonso Monte." More like purgatory, he thought as he watched nearly every face cloud with new concern. "Hutchinson killed one hitter and wounded the other. Caldwell and Monroe have been questioning the witnesses and will be questioning the suspect later this morning or this afternoon. There are two things we need from all of you." He paused for effect.

"First. We need every bit of information you can get on this. Keep your ears and eyes open. Work every snitch you have and get 'em workin' for you if they don't have anything." He paused again, this time while he considered the unthinkable. "Second. We need to be on high alert. You know who most of the players are in Monte's and rival organizations. Anything suspicious in the least, check it out. We are this close" -- a few millimeters separated the thumb and forefinger he held up -- "to a major war in the streets, because if Monte doesn't know about this already, you can bet he will soon, and he won't take it lying down." The grim expressions told him they understood. "One last thing. Detectives -- check the roster. I've had to make adjustments for the next few weeks." He left them in a tense quiet.

At the end of an unusually sedate roll call, Perkins was careful to put extra emphasis on his usual send-off: "Keep your cool, and see you back here later."

*****

Hutchinson had slept through a busy morning for Starsky: doctors' rounds, several sets of vital signs and other assessments, one pain shot, and a bout of malicious nausea. Now, he was roused by the day nurse, who wanted him to leave so she could assist his partner with, as she put it, "his personal hygiene needs." He chuckled because he knew Starsky would be disappointed that the woman was plain at best, except for intriguing light brown eyes. He rethought his opinion, however, when she smiled, brightening up the already sunny room. "Looks like I'm leaving you in good hands, buddy."

Starsky, who had already formed the same opinion earlier, smiled. "Take your time, pal. Me 'n' Nurse Connie here are in no rush, right?"

Connie arched an eyebrow. "Remember, Dave, you're not my only patient."

Hutch was delighted to see the little pout on Starsky's not-as-pale face. What a hopeless flirt. He'll be out of here in no time. "Hi, Connie. I'm Ken Hutchinson, his long-suffering partner. Watch him--he's quick and dangerous." He winked at her while he gave Starsky a parting shoulder squeeze.

She laughed. "I don't think I have to worry about that right now. He's about as quick as a drugged turtle and as dangerous as a Nerf ball."

"Aw, Connie, you hurt my feelin's!" Hutch heard Starsky whine as he left the room. "And you do mean a big Nerf buh -" The closing door shut off the rest of the conversation.

Hutchinson stood in front of the door for a few moments, relishing Starsky's rapid improvement. He knew very few people who hungered for life, who lived it to its fullest, as much as his partner. And Starsky had infected him with that same lust years ago in the police academy. But a different hunger dictated where and how he would spend the next ten minutes. He took one step toward the elevator before he stopped. He noticed a dark blue presence several doors down in the opposite direction. Turning his head, he recognized Officer Bernie Glassman.

"Dammit!" Hutch muttered angrily. He jogged the yards that separated him and his fellow cop.

"Hi, Hutchinson," said the veteran officer amiably. "How's. . ." He didn't finish once he read the fury coexisting with weariness on the detective's reddening face.

Hutch was a few inches from Glassman before he spoke. "What the hell is going on here, Bernie? Why is that. . .that assassin so close to Starsky? Whose bright idea was this?"

"How the hell should I know, Hutch? I'm not real happy either with this mook being anywhere near Starsky, but I didn't put him here. I'm just guarding the damn man."

The detective took a step back and rubbed his forehead a few times with a couple of fingers. "Sorry, Bernie. It's been a long, miserable night." Hutchinson looked squarely at the older man.

Glassman's defensiveness evaporated. "Yeah, I know. Starsky still doing okay? At roll call this morning, Perk and Dobey filled us in. Man, this could be the start of something ugly."

Without skipping a beat and without judgment, Hutch said softly, "Looks pretty damn ugly to me already."

Glassman adjusted his gunbelt. "Hutch, I didn't mean -"

"Forget it, Bernie," he interrupted. "I'm just a little. . .tired. And hungry. And I don't give a rat's ass about what's happening on the streets right now, or what could happen. Not exactly the correct attitude for a cop, is it?" He snorted. "Who caught the case?"

"Caldwell and Monroe. Scuttlebutt says you'll be cleared fast."

"You know who in IA drew me?"

Glassman smiled with glee. "Fargo."

At least something is going my way. I certainly won't get suspended, so I can continue to cover Starsky's back--as if I'm actually doing a good job on that one. "The news just keeps getting better."

"Thought you'd like that. So Starsky really is okay?" Glassman sighed with relief at the blond nod and thank-you smile. He took a deep breath before broaching a delicate subject. "How are you doin', Hutch? It's been awhile since, well, you know."

Hutchinson knew. As if it were yesterday instead of two months ago, he could see Bernie's face staring at him in disgusted astonishment and calling him a junkie as he floundered and grabbed and quaked in a filthy alley. I was there last night for Starsky in part because of you, Bernie, and I never thanked you for what you did. I let shame get in the way. "Fine, Bernie, and thanks -- for everything."

Glassman winced awkwardly. "Starsky really left me no choice."

It was two beats later before both men laughed at that. "Speaking of partners, where's 54?" Hutchinson asked.

Glassman's partner, a very tall, husky man in his late twenties, had a "problem": Francis Patrick Muldoon had chosen to be a cop. Before his first day in the police academy had ended, he had the moniker "54." He had chosen to accept it, since it had become readily apparent there would be no use of Frank or Muldoon in casual conversation. "He got the short straw," intoned Glassman.

Hutchinson nodded. Then without warning, and to his own surprise, he swept by Glassman and entered the hit man's room. He halted abruptly and raised his hands to shoulder height when he saw Muldoon go for his weapon.

Bernie issued a warning in the way he said, "Hutch. . ."

"Just give me a minute, okay?"

"Hutchinson" -- the warning stiffer now that Glassman used his full name -- "you know the rules."

Hutch slowly moved his head so he could look directly at the man in bed. His left hand was holding a magazine, his right arm in a sling, his face a painting of immobile placidity. Keeping his eyes on the hit man, Hutch repeated his request, adding evenly, "Please, Bernie."

A few long breaths of hesitation. Glassman's eyes darting from Hutch to the prisoner to his partner. A curt nod to Muldoon and a hand gesture to follow him out. The door swooshing shut. Hutchinson alone with one of the men responsible for a night in hell and days of pain to come. Hutchinson feeling alone, missing-wanting-needing Starsky to work with him, to play the suspect.

Hutchinson paced along one side of the bed, a tiger evaluating his prey, gauging its strengths and weaknesses, deciding how to take it down. He sought the rhythm he had with his partner when they questioned a suspect. He stopped near the head. Do it, he told himself. Putting his hands on the mattress, he leaned in until he was sure the prisoner could taste his disdain and animus. With tight enunciation, he asked, "Who put out the contract?"

Not a twitch.

"Gambini?" A pause.

Nothing.

"Scalia?" Another pause, more impatient.

Blankness.

"Coyle?" An insistent, demanding pause.

A response -- one torpid blink only from Hutch's breath buzzing across the soulless eyes.

Every ear tuned to the muffled ticking of Hutch's pocketwatch. Twenty or so ticks later: "If there's a war, if my partner dies, Joey was only the first to die. You'll be the next."

The door opened, and Glassman and Muldoon entered together. "Hutch, your time is up."

Just in time, Bernie. This lone bad cop persona is getting pretty uncomfortable. Hutchinson wet his lips. "No. His time is up." With intentional sluggishness, he stood up straight, eyes still nailed to the suspect. I don't even know this dirt bag's name. He counted to ten silently before he turned and sauntered out. Though he knew Bernie had followed him, he continued on to the elevator, slowing briefly to touch the closed door to his partner's room.

*****

Hutchinson, appetite almost nonexistent after his visit with Lockly, was trying to choke down runny scrambled eggs and dry white toast when he saw Caldwell and Monroe enter the hospital cafeteria and head straight for the coffee urn. He waved to catch the attention of Monroe, who was scanning the room while he waited his turn.

Adam Monroe, a former hockey player with the facial scars and partial dental plates to prove it, tapped his partner's arm twice and flicked his head toward their blond colleague. Two minutes later, after paying for the coffee, both men seated themselves across the booth from Hutchinson.

"Little late for breakfast, ain't it, Hutchinson?" asked Stuart Caldwell. His graying, shaggy presence was in sharp contrast to Monroe's crisp, rigid one. But they worked well together. Monroe was taciturn to a fault, yet combined with his scars, it spooked the bad guys into talking just to break the tension. Caldwell was talkative, approachable, almost paternal, and the suspects would seek his approval and protection. Their arrest and conviction record was second only to Starsky and Hutchinson's.

"Just hungry for eggs, I guess, Caldwell." Hutch suddenly realized the significance of the meal before him. He pushed the half-emptied plate away and crossed his arms on the opened table. "What do you have so far?"

Caldwell took a sip of the black coffee. "The odd couple, you know, the comedian and that tall-drink-a-water redhead? Them and the older couple didn't have anything to say about the hit or Starsky. Well, you know that already. But they sure cleared you in a hurry." He snickered. "Looks like you're a hero. Again."

Why don't I feel like one? "Get anything useful from Theresa?"

"She's singing, but she don't know all the verses. She gave us pretty good descriptions, but ain't picked out anybody from the books yet. We got APBs out what we got so far. The scumbags were sympathetic, knew she was still hurting about baby brother, got her a job in one of Monte's favorite eateries. Don't think it was hard convincing her Monte was responsible."

"Is she willing to testify against them?"

"That's a big maybe. She's really scared. Last we heard, DA's talkin' attempted murder or conspiracy, though if she testifies, the DA'll probably deal it down. We got her in protective custody, and her mother'll be joining her soon." Caldwell cleared his throat. "Okay, Hutch, your turn."

Hutchinson sighed with dread. He knew this was necessary, but he wasn't exactly thrilled about reliving it. He sat back. The last thing he saw before he closed his eyes was both detectives' hands poised with pens and pads. Visual distractions gone, he ran the memory, still crystal clear but more painful, out loud. He didn't feel the sweat gather in his armpits then fall in clammy trickles, or his racing pulse, or his twisting gut. All he felt was fear that Starsky -- not he, or anyone else -- would not survive.

*****

Starsky, worn out from the shave, bath, and linen change Connie had done for him, from the simple task of brushing his own teeth, and from renewed pain with all that activity, had received another narcotic injection. He had slept through separate visits from Huggy Bear and Dobey. By the time his partner returned, he was idly la-la-ing an almost recognizable melody. Smiling, he said in a morphine mumble, "Hey, Hutch, I'm in-na mood to sing some Christmas songs. Join me?" He began to perk up now that Hutchinson was back.

"I don't exactly have the holiday spirit, partner."

"Never do." Starsky gave an exaggerated sigh. Then his face lit up with a new idea. "What if we make up our own? Uhhhh, okay, here's somethin' for that turkey Stryker." As loud as he could, he belted out, "Dashing through the blowwwww -"

Hutchinson cringed outwardly but laughed to himself. "Painkillers make you nuttier than a Payday, Starsk, you know that?" he said before his friend could continue with the next line.

"You been grinchy all your life, or is this somethin' new?"

Starsk, if you only knew how much I hate holidays -- the only days of the year Dad would get plastered and abusive. . ."I'm pretty sure I was born this way."

"Maybe I better have a long talk with your folks."

Hutch panicked at the possibility Starsky would find out about this shameful family secret, about a generous and loving man who turned into a monster for a few days every year. He swallowed hard to get the rock in his throat back into his stomach. "Where do you think I got it from, birdbrain?" he said lightly.

Starsky wrinkled his brow. "Oh, yeah." For the first time, he noticed two new items on his bedside table. "Hey, wha's that stuff?" he asked as he pointed.

Hutchinson, thankful that Starsky's attention span wasn't at its best when he was narcotized, examined the gifts. He read a note attached to a huge basket of fruit and Christmas cookies. "This one's from Huggy. Says he hopes this'll hold you until he brings you dinner tonight."

"I can eat now?" Starsky asked eagerly. "All I've had is water and juice." He screwed up his face.

"I'll check with Connie, okay?"

"Tell her I just want some food, and this thing outta my di- Uh-oh, shouldn't say crap like that so close to Christmas." He giggled when he realized he had still said an off-color four-letter word. "Is time for me ta stand up, and pee like a man, ya know, Hutch? And I wanna go home. Santa might not find me here."

"Starsky, you're a grown man. You can't really believe in Santa Claus," Hutch half-declared, half-questioned.

Starsky rolled his eyes dramatically. "Aw, Hutch, ya gotta believe in sump'in. I believe in you, and Cap'n Dobey, and elves, and Mickey Mouse, and -" He had started to metronome his head but stopped almost immediately, grimacing at the throb the motion created.

Hutch grimaced along with his partner. "Easy there, buddy. Take it slow, lay back, find a good position," he coached. Once Starsky had gently burrowed his head in the pillow and his facial muscles relaxed, Hutch returned his attention to the second gift. He pulled out a note stuck between leaves of the scarlet-red poinsettia in a pot wrapped with green foil. "From the Dobeys. Get well, that sort of thing, and still expecting you -- us -- for Christmas Eve." The Dobeys held a marathon open house for all those under the captain's command and many others in the department. Those on duty came before or after their shifts.

Starsky was able to perceive the faint sadness in Hutch's "us." "So, you comin', too?" he said gently.

Hutchinson turned his head to hide the pain he knew was on his face. He hadn't heard from his "little brother" Kiko Ramos regarding their plans for Christmas. In fact, he hadn't heard from Kiko for several weeks. "Yeah," he replied softly, eyes still averted.

That little creep! Don't he know how much he's hurtin' Hutch? "Can I hitch a ride with you? Don't think I'll be drivin' by then. Hey, where's my car?" He wriggled with worry.

Hutchinson laughed and smiled wickedly. You did it again -- thanks, buddy. "It probably got towed. No parking zone from 6 to 9, remember?"

The throb in Starsky's head rebounded as he lifted his head off the pillow. "Hutch, you gotta go find her for me, make sure she's okay, huh?" he said through clenched teeth.

"Take it easy, mushbrain. I'll find that honey wagon reject and see it gets home." He studied the man in bed carefully to reassure himself that Starsky would be fine and was safe. "I, uh, have to do a few things, so I'll be gone for a couple of hours. I've got to water my plants, and. . ." He shrugged and let the sentence fall away.

"Yeah, well, don't forget to water yourself. My poindexter plant is already witherin' from your B.O."

"My B.O.? I don't think so. It's your breath. It could sink the Queen Mary." Hutch picked up the plastic bag of Starsky's bloody clothes.

"It's because-uv that damn Japanese seaweed you made me eat yesterday!"

Hutch smirked playfully at his partner. "It takes a big man to admit his breath can kill a poinsettia. See you later." He saluted with two fingers and headed for the door.

"But…but…"

Hutchinson opened the door and was halfway through before he turned to face Starsky. "Oh, and don't forget to gargle -- a lot." He held the bag as far away as he could and chuckled as the door closed on Starsky's payback-is-gonna-hurt look.

*****

Vic Monte slammed the receiver onto its cradle. "Dammit!" he screamed to no one. He ran a hand through his thick, meticulously styled salt-and-pepper hair. "Somebody's got to know somethin'!" By 10 a.m., every gangland boss had called to deny any part in the contract on him or knowing anything about it. None of his own sources had anything for him. He breathed in heavy, forceful pants through his aquiline nose while he considered a course of action.

He punched the intercom button hard with his third finger and shouted into it, "Bruno! Get your butt in here!" He reared back into the highback Italian leather chair. "Even my cop at Metro can't give me anything. Merda!" He swiveled the chair so he could survey Bay City from his vantage point on the 36th floor.

In seconds, the view worked its magic on him, and he regained his calculating calm. My cop actually did give me something. This is going to be. . .interesting. Wonder what -

His thought didn't finish because Bruno, one of his bodyguard/chauffeurs, entered. "Yeah, Mr. M?" Bruno was a five-foot-nine wall of muscle covered by dark olive skin, which in turn was covered with a dark blue serge suit.

Monte turned back into the office. "Bring the car around. I'm going to pay a visit to -"

"But, Boss," interrupted Bruno, "somebody just tried to ice you. You got everybody but me and Paulie and Carmine on the streets. Are you sure you wanna do this?"

How sweet -- Bruno wants to protect his paycheck. "Yeah, I'm sure. And don't you cut me off again, you hear, idiota porco?"

Bruno reddened, but controlled his temper. "Yes, sir. So where you wanna go?"

"First, I'm going to a nice restaurant to have a decent lunch. I can't let people think I'm chicken. Then I'm going to County General Hospital. It's long past time to. . .make a new friend."

Bruno shrugged his broad shoulders and left. Monte dialed an oft-used phone number.

"Sid? Vic. I want you to make sure a Thomas Lockly gets one of your best shysters and makes bail." Unconsciously, he slipped into his Brooklyn accent and speech patterns with his longtime friend. "Be there when the bastard's released, then bring 'im to me. Him and me got a lot to talk about."

*****

"You can have a cookie after you eat this." Hutchinson held up the orange he was peeling for Starsky.

"Huggy 'n' me are gonna have a talk about him leaving his present out of my reach." Starsky fidgeted, unable to find the right position to ease the mounting pain in his shoulder. "Time for another shot yet?"

"No. Now it's only 25 rather than 30 minutes. And I think you've been switched to pills."

"Well, at least let me have one cookie while you peel that thing. It's taking you forever. I'm starvin' to death here!"

"Just pay attention to the TV show, will you? It'll take your mind off your pain and hunger."

Eyeing the decorated cookies shaped like Christmas trees, stars, and bells, Starsky muttered, "Who made you my ma?"

"I heard that. Here." Hutchinson handed him the first section of orange. The second piece landed in his own mouth.

"Hey, this ain't peeled. It's still got that white stuff and string things on it."

"Just eat it, ya big baby," Hutch said testily. As he watched a sullen Starsky shove the wedge in his mouth and chew, he marveled at the man's recuperative powers. "That's more like it, Gordo. Here's another."

Starsky snatched the fruit from Hutch's fingers. "I want the biggest cookie in that basket, okay?" He ate the slice and savored its juicy sweetness, though he dared not let Hutch know of his enjoyment. "What time is it?"

"Almost three." Hutch gave him a third wedge.

"Hey, almost time for Hollywood Squares! Turn it, quick, Hutch!"

"You've got the remote, dummy."

"Oh, yeah." Starsky worked the device until the proper channel showed. "Hope my favorite square is on today."

"And who would that be?"

"Karen Valentine. She's got a great smile."

And that's not all, thought Hutchinson, agreeing with Starsky's taste. "Hmmm. Thought Charo was more your type."

"I can't even understand what's she's sayin' half the time."

"That's what makes you two perfect for each other." Hutch tossed the next orange wedge to him.

"Like you'd have any hope of hittin' it off with Kar-" Starsky frowned at the abrupt, hard knock on the door. "Come on in," he said loudly. He paused in mid-bite when he saw his new visitor. He didn't notice that Hutch had dropped what was left but caught it before it hit the floor.

Several seconds dragged by before Vic Monte broke the hostile, stunned silence. "You disappoint me. I thought you'd welcome me with open arms."

Starsky found his tongue first. Removing the fruit just enough to speak clearly, he said flatly, "Get the fuck out of my room."

Hutchinson, not fooled by the lack of expression in Starsky's words, could feel the tension from his partner spill out into the room. He stood slowly and stiffly, then came to rest with shoulders squared, left hand squeezing the orange, right hand on his upper abdomen, feet apart with weight on the balls -- a formidable barrier ready to act. "You heard my partner, Monte. You're not welcome here. Get out. Now."

The door swung open to reveal Glassman with one hand on his revolver and the other on Bruno's chest, keeping him in the hallway. "Everything okay in here?"

Hutchinson nodded several times. "Thanks, Officer Glassman. Everything's just fine -- or will be in a few seconds."

"Please, please, officers, I come in peace," said Monte with a sweeping gesture of his free arm. "I bring a small token of my appreciation -"

Hutch's glare cut him off. "We don't want anything from you, Monte, unless it's your written confession to all the misery you've caused over the years."

"You must be Detective Sergeant Kenneth O. Hutchinson, the man directly responsible for saving my life."

"That was an unfortunate consequence of saving my partner and some innocent people."

"Unfortunate or not, I do thank you. And of course, Detective Sergeant David Michael Starsky, wounded public servant. Even if you two won't take this box of the finest ladyfingers and cannoli Bay City has to offer, will you at least accept my thanks?"

"GET OUT!" screamed Starsky. "You sick sonuvabitch, how -"

"Davey! Is that any way to talk to Uncle Vic?"

Hutchinson somehow managed to contain his utter surprise and cover his stagger. He waved Glassman out of the room with one hand, dropping the orange in the process, and instinctively put his other hand back towards Starsky.

Starsky shrieked, "AAAUUUURRRR!" as he attempted to climb over the side rail to go after Monte. However, exploding pain in his shoulder and head, along with Hutch's fingertips, prevented success. He fell back to the mattress, clutched at his left shoulder, and gasped erratically.

Hutch's hand quickly found Starsky's leg; the muscle was rock-hard, knotty, and hot. Inwardly, he screamed his own agony and disbelief and betrayal, but maintained the act of a cop watching his partner's back. "Do I have to physically remove you, Monte?"

Ignoring the blond detective, the mob boss continued. "Davey, I wanna talk. About your father. There are some things you should know." He waited for an answer, unaffected by Starsky's writhing and choking pants.

Starsky, when he thought he couldn't possibly hurt more, did. His heart was being crushed by a boa constrictor, his soul on fire. What was worse, however, was the pain he felt in Hutch's hand and saw in his confused eyes. Why the hell didn't I tell him all this shit years ago.

"Circle takes the square," the host announced.

Starsky made a decision despite suspecting it would likely destroy his partnership, if not his friendship, with Hutch. In a few seconds, he gained control of all his pain at the same time he lost control of his life. His face pleading for understanding and patience, he placed his hand over Hutch's that now had a solid grip on his quadriceps muscle and asked, "Get me some strawberry ice cream, wouldja, Hutch?"

His body slumped, and his shoulders rounded. His left hand became a tight ball. The crease between his eyes -- eyes that begged for answers and trust -- deepened so much his forehead ached. "Are you sure that's what you want?" he asked with a calm that belied his turmoil. Do you really believe in me? Really have faith in me?

The unspoken and barbed questions drilled into the center of his being. A half-blink had to suffice for a nod. "Yeah, it is. Thanks, buddy." Just gimme a few more minutes, and you'll know the whole, dirty story. Then me and thee can decide where we stand--or fall.

Ambivalent about breaking contact with Starsky, fearful that doing so would sever their bond forever but equally fearful that not doing so would say he didn't have faith in him, Hutch finally slid his hand out from under Starsky's. "I'll be back soon." He looked at Monte, who was focused on Starsky. He tilted his head to one side and leaned a few millimeters toward the gangster. It was enough to grab his attention. Hutch flashed the man a stern warning, then stood straight and tall and marched at an easy pace from the room.

Once out, he was tempted to find a wall that would hold him up for a few moments. But with Monte's muscle standing just to the left of the door and Glassman about halfway between him and his assigned post, Hutch decided it was better to maintain a show of strength, a show that nothing was wrong. He barely had time for a full breath before Glassman gestured for him to come over. Hutch complied. "Yeah, Bernie?"

"Thought you'd want to know -- Caldwell and Monroe are questioning Lockly again since some lawyer showed up out of nowhere. They know about Monte."

"What?!" Hutch asked in a fierce whisper. Dammit! IA's gonna love this. Should've stayed with him.

"Sorry, Hutch, but I couldn't stop 'em from seeing that goombah guard. Caldwell knows he's Monte's man."

"That's okay, Bernie, nothing you could do. Just bad timing." Hutchinson strained to keep his anger under control. "There's nothing you can do, either, so don't sweat it. Hell, you've put your career on the line for us already today." He sighed. "But there's something I can do."

"There is?" Glassman asked.

"Yeah. Get my partner some strawberry ice cream." Hutch gave Bernie several friendly pats on the shoulder before he headed once again for the cafeteria.

*****

For an epoch-long minute, the only sounds in Starsky's hospital room were his coarse breaths and the impossibly upbeat Peter Marshall asking the contestants personal questions to which no one really wanted to know the answers. Starsky jumped slightly when Monte cleared his throat.

"It's amazing," the mobster began. "You're the spittin' image of him, Davey. You look just like him, except for a little around the mouth. That's Miriam's."

"I know what and who I look like," Starsky said, unconsciously adopting formal diction and dropping his accent, "so just say what you came to say so you can get the fuck out of here."

"Mike Starsky was my friend, Davey, and so was your mother. Them and you and Nicky were family. Still are, as far as I'm concerned." He booted the partially eaten orange to the nearest wall and started for the chair next to the bed.

"No. You're not staying long enough to sit."

Monte rolled his head to one side and blinked slowly. "Okay, okay."

"And we're not family. You got that?"

"Anything you say, Davey."

"It's Detective Starsky to you."

"Fine, if that's what you want. Look, I know nothin' was ever proved about Mike, but before I moved out here, he came to me askin' to be let in. Said he needed the money for you and Nicky, so you could go to college. Said he had a lot to offer, bein' a cop. He'd just been promoted to sergeant, too."

Starsky wrestled with the active volcano in his gut and with his relentless urge to hyperventilate. He remained poker-faced despite the drain on his energy. I don't believe you, I don't believe you. . .

Monte continued. "I remember thinking, 'Michael Marvin Starsky wants to be on the take? Good, honest cop like him?' Well, I was honored he'd come to me, but I was headed for California. You must remember the goin'-away party at your grandfather's restaurant? You were. . .let's see. . .you were about 10 years old. Anyway, I referred him to another uncle of yours."

I don't believe you. . .

"Mike loved you boys a lot. You and Miriam were everything to him. I could tell it really bothered him to come to me, to, you know, compromise his integrity. But wanting to take care of his family. . .well, that's the highest kind of integrity. And you'd do well to understand that, Detective."

I don't believe you. . .

"I heard he was taken out 'cause he was getting greedy, pushy. Wanted to get in deeper, where even a cop on the payroll shouldn't go. Guess never making detective really bothered him."

I don't believe you. . .

"What he did, son, was outta love for you and Nicky and Miriam. He was a good man. Don't let nobody tell you diff'rent."

I don't. . . Monte became a wet splotch. I don't believe you. . .I don't I don't I don't! "I'm not your goddamned son. I'm Mike Starsky's son. You didn't know him, not like I did. Yeah, he loved us, and he was a man of integrity, but you're wrong about everything else. I don't care what you say, or what you pretend to know, but you are wrong. Nobody knew him like me."

"I know what I know, Detective. I know he'd do anything for you. He became part of my family because he loved his and wanted only the best."

"Then why'd you never come to me before this, huh? Like father, like son, isn't how that goes? If pop was dirty, then why not sonny, right?"

"I don't recruit cops, David. They come to me in their own time. I figure your time just hasn't come yet."

"Don't hold your breath, Monte. You're wrong about him, and you're wrong about me." He took a deep breath to calm the wrath that welled up in him. "Then why the hell are you here?"

"Because you almost died on my account. Because I respected your father. Because I wanted to see the little boy, now a fine young man, I loved so much years ago."

I DON'T BELIEVE YOU! He shouted the mantra internally, to force himself to believe it. "Next time I see you, Monte, it'll be with a warrant for your arrest. Now, for the last time, get the hell out of here." The fingers of his left hand dug into his side, fingers of his right twisted the sheet into a tight wad.

Monte arched an eyebrow and nodded once. "We all gotta do what we all gotta do. Good seein' you, nipote." He tucked the bakery box under one arm. As he walked away, he thought, Well, hopefully, that apple is ripening. He shouldn't fall far from the tree. Just needs a little time before he drops right into my lap.

Starsky waited until the door sissed shut before he caved into the stabbing knots that had been growing since he saw and felt the massive hurt in the most important man in his life. "It's not true, it's not," he insisted between gulps of air. Then, in a quavering whisper into his left shoulder: "Oh, God, Pop, why'd you do it? Tell me you didn't. . ."

"X takes the square and Mike Wolski wins today's first game!" exclaimed the game show host.

*****

The man resting against the black Lincoln Continental stood up straight as soon as he saw another man walking rapidly toward him. "Well? She gonna do it?" he asked as soon as the second man joined him. Both were well dressed in Armani suits cut perfectly to hide their shoulder-holstered handguns.

"Of course. Two grand is a lot to a stupid wetback. I gave her the poison. After she delivers his supper tray, she's gonna head right for the loading dock. Sammy'll be there, she thinks to take her home to pack, pick up her kids, then to Mexico." He sniggered.

"Well, that takes care of one problem. But Monte's still walkin' around. You come up with somethin' to solve that one, Einstein?"

The second man smiled widely. "Workin' on that. If it happens like I think it will, you're gonna be real pleased with the new hit man. And it won't cost us a dime."

The first man returned the closed-lip smile. "I should never doubt your abilities, complice. You always come through." He clapped his companion on the shoulder before they turned to girl-watching in the cool, sunny Bay City afternoon.

*****

Starsky regained exterior control in short order, though the storm within continued to rage. He searched for the call bell by feel only. When he couldn't find it, he wiped his eyes, clearing his vision of the salty water that pooled there. He still couldn't find it, and as his awareness of shoulder and head pain increased, so did his frustration. In seconds, he was close to breaking the side rail.

Hutchinson entered unannounced. Instantly sizing up the situation, he trotted to the bed. He dropped the ice cream on the chair so he could use both hands on Starsky. One went to his wrist, the other to his right leg just above the knee. "What is it, Starsk?" he demanded.

"I can't" -- unsuccessful kick -- "find the goddamned" -- a kick with his left, also unsuccessful in hitting the rail -- "nurse button!" Sheet still scrunched in his fist, he was able to raise his arm several inches off the mattress despite Hutch's best efforts. "It HURTS!"

Whose blood did you get, anyway -- King Kong? "Dammit, Starsk, cool it!"

As if he'd been shot again, Starsky went slack. "It hurts, Hutch." Softly, without inflection. His head flopped to the left.

Slowly, cautiously, Hutchinson released his hold. His breath caught high in his throat. He knew there did not exist enough painkillers in the world to soften the spirit-crushing agony his friend was in. I'm gonna kill that bastard Monte next time I see him.

With one eye on his partner, Hutch searched for the lost call bell. He found it on the side rail, near the top of the bed. "Got it, buddy. It slipped back, that's all, Starsk." He pressed the button, informing the female voice that answered that the patient needed something for pain as soon as possible. "On its way, okay?"

Starsky didn't move or speak.

Hutch sighed, and decided to remove the head bandage, which sat at a skewed angle on the curly hair. As he did, he heard a stuttering breath from Starsky. "What?" he asked gently, fearing his action had just caused more physical pain.

"Whenever I got hurt playin' ball or somethin' when I was a kid, Pop used to smooth my hair. Or try to, anyway."

"Starsk, I didn't mean to bring back -"

"Oh, no, Hutch, I need a memory like that right now." He rolled his head to the right to look at his best friend. He met those sky blue eyes that held no rancor, no judgment, no scorn. He still trusts me -- maybe still even loves me.

"Glad to do it." Hutch was thrilled to see something other than hate and anguish on Starsky's face. Again taking it slow and cautious, he touched Starsky's forehead with his own. "It's gonna be fine. I promise." He felt Starsky's head move in a faint, uncertain nod.

They remained in that position until Connie came with water and two pain pills and reassurance that the evening shift nurse, Noreen, was topnotch. She left Starsky with one of her brilliant smiles and a reminder that he had to urinate by 8 p.m. or the catheter would have to be reinserted and his IV restarted. A look to Hutch asked him to help her patient with whatever pain the pills wouldn't help.

Hutch pulled the top off the ice cream container and stirred the soupy mess with the plastic spoon he had in his shirt pocket. "Connie sure is nice. And she really cares about you."

"Yeah, I guess," he said without enthusiasm, face still twisted with pain.

Hutch lifted a spoonful to Starsky's mouth. The latter clamped his lips shut and threw a nasty glare at his friend. He took the container from Hutch. He began slurping from it, and didn't stop until the ice cream was consumed. "Thanks."

Hutch snorted a laugh. He toasted Starsky with the spoon and fed himself the meager amount of cream on it. After disposing of the carton and spoon, he settled into the chair. He stretched out his corduroy-clad legs and laced his fingers over his abdomen. "Kinda blindsided me there, Starsk." He looked at Starsky, who met his gaze unflinchingly.

"I had my reasons."

"Don't you think it's about time you shared them with me?" Hutch asked calmly.

Starsky closed his eyes for the duration of two deep breaths. "At first, at the academy, when you asked about my family, I couldn't tell you everything. I thought. . .hell, I thought you wouldn't want to have anything to do with me. Then later, when we first became partners, I didn't tell you to protect you. What you didn't know couldn't hurt you, right? And I didn't want you to doubt me, or not trust me. Can't have that when you're just breakin' in to a new partnership. Especially as a zebra unit. But later, I guess it was to protect me. If I didn't tell you the rumors about Pop, and who my family associated with, I didn't have to believe it."

"So, tell me what I don't know, what I need to know, about your family."

Starsky sighed. "Our neighborhood in Brooklyn was Jews, mostly from Poland, but some from Russia and a couple other countries, Italians, and the mixed group--Jews and Italians married to each other. My bobe, uh, grandma, married Tony Corelli when I was five."

"But when I met her a few years ago, her last name was King."

"Third husband. Outlived him, too."

"So Corelli owned and operated a restaurant."

"You could be a detective some day, you know?" he said, a smirk in his tone. "Anyways, I'm pretty sure he wasn't mobbed up. He just fed 'em. Don't even know which of the five families had its hold on my neighborhood. Once Bobe married Papa Tony, she moved into his apartment over the restaurant -- Antonio's -- and me and eventually Nicky became fixtures. Without knowing it, I met a lot of capos and wiseguys. They were like uncles. Nicky and me became part of a mob family, sort of."

Hutch's lips curled into a joyless smile. "And one of those capo-uncles was Victor Monte."

"Yeah, and can you believe he was my favorite? I remember bein' all upset that he was moving to California." First person I loved to leave me -- and a freakin' gangster at that. "I was ten, Nicky was six. Of course, I got over it. Uncle Joey filled the gap. Before and after Pop was murdered."

"Uncle Joey?"

"You ain't gonna believe this one." Starsky paused. "Uncle Joey is Joseph Durniak."

Hutch said nothing for a few moments while he shifted uncomfortably in the chair. "This is the same Joseph Durniak that rumor has it is negotiating. . ." His words trailed off at the slow, rueful nod Starsky gave him. "Damn, Starsk, is there a New York mobster you don't know?"

Starsky's laugh rang hollow and sardonic. "A few. Joey was there for us after Pop's death, when nobody else seemed to be. He even paid for the funeral."

"But your dad was a cop. Died on duty in uniform, didn't he? Why wouldn't the department take care of all that?"

Starsky shrugged and immediately regretted it. "Uhhhhhh," he uttered while the pain settled back to tolerable limits. Taking a deep breath, he continued. "I told you he was gunned down in the street. But I never told you exactly how. He and his partner Silvio LaRusso were walking their beat about twenty blocks from home." He turned his head to midline and fixed his gaze on the ceiling. "According to Silvie, a Cadillac stops real near them, some guy jumps out and rushes up to Pop. The guy kisses Pop right on the mouth, pulls a .22, and fires first in his chest then his head. When Silvie tries to apprehend, he gets shot in the leg. I'm just one block over, playing stickball with kids from my street against those kids. Gunshots aren't unusual in Brooklyn then. But we run over anyway, out of curiosity. And I see Pop." A long pause, inhabited with ghosts and anger and regret and heart-shattering despondency. The eerie mildness of Starsky's tone and his use of present tense sent shivers down Hutch's spine.

"It was that fucking kiss that convinced the department he was tied to the mob. They weren't about to give a dirty cop a hero's funeral. So, in stepped Uncle Joey. Said Pop deserved more than what the department had planned." Starsky rolled his head so he could look at Hutch again, in hopes of finding acceptance, understanding, faith.

Hutch's soul, unable to take the tremendously tragic grief on his best friend's face, had sought refuge in staring at the ceiling tiles as well. "Then he becomes your surrogate father." Suddenly, the sins of his own father, the misery he had heaped on them on virtually every holiday, seemed trivial. He sat forward and rubbed his face with his hands several times. "I'm so sorry, Starsk. I can't imagine. . ." He contemplated the floor.

Dammit, Hutch, look at me! "I haven't told anybody this except for John Blaine. Not Dobey, not Huggy. While I was in 'Nam, I'd decided not to make the army a career, but be a cop like I had wanted all along. I wrote him, told him everything. Said he'd see what he could do to get me through the background checks. John put his reputation, probably his career, too, on the line for me. Did you know that, Hutch?" At the shake of the blond head, Starsky laughed at himself. "Of course not. Got back to the world in July, and was in the fall class at the academy." He stared past Hutch at nothing and everything. "He was a good cop, Hutch, I just know it. There's gotta be some explanation for all this crap."

Observations he had made over the years acquired explanations or took on new ones. The instructors' suspicious, critical attitude toward Starsky, their constant riding of him, his drive to excel, even his celebration of Christmas and other Christian holidays. And why Internal Affairs and the chief watch him like a hawk, especially when we work organized crime cases. "Starsky, you knew me pretty well by graduation, wouldn't you say?"

Hell, Blondie, sometimes I think I've known you since you were born. But do you understand? Can you trust me, knowing all this? "Yeah, sure."

"You should've known by then that I judge people by their own words and actions." Inhaling deeply, he found the strength to finally look at his partner.

Starsky saw what he needed to see in the brightness of Hutch's eyes. All words became superfluous.

"I can't say whether he was good or bad," Hutch continued. "But I do know he was an excellent father, because I know his son." He offered Starsky his left hand.

Speechless with relief, overjoyed with his partner's enduring love and loyalty, Starsky readily took it. His entire being felt lighter than it had in years. They allowed themselves to bask in that lightness for a short stretch of time.

Hutchinson cleared his throat and broke contact to bring them back to business. "Got some bad news, buddy. Stu Caldwell and Adam Monroe know Monte came to see you. We both know they'll report this, if they haven't already, to IA. This is just what IA loves -- hitting the daily double, which is your badge and your head. We need to be ready."

Man, did I screw up. "Shoulda had you stay, Hutch. At least I'd've had a witness."

"It would not have mattered. Do you honestly think they'd believe anything I had to say about this?"

"Shit! I'm sorry for dragging you into all this. I never wanted that. You gotta know that, Hutch."

"Starsk, no matter when you told me all this, I still would've partnered with you. So I'd still be up to my neck with you in this." Trust me, partner.

The dark-haired man smiled happily at the vote of confidence, of friendship, of loyalty. "Yeah, but will you be sayin' that after your third straight hour of me trying to get you to learn the Hustle?"

"No way would it take me that long to learn that stupid dance."

"Hutch, I got one left hand, but you got two left feet."

Unsure what Starsky meant, but sure Starsky did, Hutch said, "I'll bet you burgers and beer at Huggy's that I can learn it in five minutes."

"You're on, Sasquatch."

*****

There was a steady procession of uniformed and plainclothes officers in and out of Starsky's hospital room that afternoon, most of them dropping by before or after their appointments for blood donation. Starsky finally urinated, standing up and in the bathroom, though he was a little unsteady at first. Time passed quickly, for which he was thankful--he had little chance to think about his predicament.

By the time his supper tray arrived during a lull in visitors, Starsky was ravenous. He winked at and thanked the short, plump Mexican woman who delivered his meal. Shyly, she smiled and said, "Enjoy, señor." He devoured the meatloaf, watery mashed potatoes, mushy peas, applesauce, and a ginger ale in record time, pleased that the only thing Hutch had to do was pop the top off the soda can.

"Okay, appetizer's done," Starsky said as he napkined his mouth. "Did Huggy's note say what time he'd be here with dinner?"

"Starsk, did you even taste any of that?"

"Why would I wanna taste hospital food? They don't give ya that much anyway."

Hutch looked away to hide his amusement. "I would imagine he'll be here with your main course before visiting hours are over." Looking at Starsky again, he became alarmed at the pale distress he saw on his friend's face. "What is it? Hurting bad?"

Starsky swallowed hesitantly. "Naw, not too bad. But I feel. . .don't feel so good." Sweat broke out on his forehead.

Hutchinson immediately went for the call bell. He pushed it, angry and worried about Starsky's increasing perspiration and color loss.

"Oh, Hutch," Starsky whispered.

"What can we do for you, Mr. Starsky?" asked the bland female voice.

"Somebody get in here NOW," barked Hutchinson. "Something's wrong with my partner."

"Someone will be there right away," the voice said.

"Oh, Hutch," Starsky repeated, though this time his fear came through. With his free hand, he gripped Hutch's wrist.

"Help's on the way, Starsk, just take it easy."

Noreen pushed the door open just as her patient let loose with an ear-splitting, multi-toned, prolonged belch. She chuckled at the speed with which Hutchinson backed away. "I'm guessing you feel better now?"

Starsky's color was already returning. Ignoring the stinging look from his partner, he replied, "Yeah, I do, I really -"

The announcement over the hospital's intercom system cut him off. "Code Blue, room 435. Code Blue, room 435."

"Gotta run. Call if you need anything," Noreen said rapidly as she released her hold on the door.

Hutchinson, head cocked to one side, looked at the closed door. Lockly.

"'Code Blue' means somebody's dying, right?"

"Yeah," Hutch said quietly after a few moments.

"What's my room number?"

"Four. . ." Hutch said, half-turning his head back to Starsky briefly. Several seconds ticked by. "Uh, it's 429. Be right back."

"Hey, you know -" Starsky stopped, because he was speaking to an empty room.

*****

Officer Allan Medaris, in a cold sweat, was in the middle of explaining to his partner what had occurred in Tom Lockly's room when Hutchinson approached them in the corridor outside the controlled chaos in and immediately outside room 435. Medaris, a recent transfer into Metro, fell into a distrustful silence.

"It's okay, Al, this is Detective Sergeant Hutchinson," said Officer Henry Fields. "Start over at the beginning."

"Well, everything was fine until he finished dinner. He hadn't said a word to me until then -- he's been watching TV or reading magazines -- when he said he had a funny taste in his mouth. Next thing I knew, he started drooling and then had a fit."

"You mean a seizure?" asked Hutchinson.

"Yeah, I guess so. That's when I called out for you to get a nurse, Hank. Then he started vomiting -- a lot. I tried to get him on his side, like we were taught in first aid, but I couldn't. The nurse got there, and took over."

"Before dinner, he gave you no indication he was sick, or not feeling well?"

"No, Sergeant. He looked and acted fine. In fact, after his doc got through in the operating room, he was going to discharge him. We figured we'd have him back at Division for booking before 8, at the latest."

"Who has gone into that room?"

"Nobody who wasn't supposed to be there," said Fields with certainty. "Just his nurse since we've been here."

"Don't forget that little Mexican lady who brought him his dinner, Hank."

Two suspects already, and that's not counting the kitchen workers. Hutchinson decided it was reasonable to rule out the nurse for the time being -- besides, she wasn't going anywhere for a while. "Al, I want you to find this lady, now. First, call security and have at least two of them keep anybody who's still in the kitchen from leaving. Then call the kitchen to find out if all the meals have been delivered and where, uh" -- he squeezed his eyes tightly in an effort to visualize the nametag the woman wore -- "uh, Carmelita with the last initial N is supposed to be at this moment. Then start looking. Go!" He watched the young officer run to the nurses' station before turning to the older cop. "Hank, call Dispatch -- we need some help looking for her. Tell 'em to notify Caldwell, Monroe, and Dobey, too. And ask the secretary or somebody at the nurses' station to call in the administrator and the head of personnel. I'll stay here to coordinate the search and guard the prisoner."

"You got a gun, Hutch?"

"Yeah, Hank. Never go anywhere without it." In the next moment, Hutchinson began wondering if the war had already started.

*****

"I'm tellin' ya, Caldwell, we didn't have nothin' to do with the contract on Monte. Honest." Mike Mancini wiped his nose on his shirtsleeve and hopped nervously from one foot to the other. "Ol' Vic gettin' whacked wouldn't be good for nobody. Now, if that's all, I wanna go back inside. The little lady gets real upset if she's gotta hold dinner, you hear what I'm sayin'?"

The foot of the driveway where Caldwell and Monroe were questioning Mancini, a lieutenant in Alfred Tulliano's "family," led up to Mancini's home in an upper middle class section of Bay City. Every few minutes, another set of Christmas lights would wink on in the immediate area. It was still warm enough that many houses had open windows, and tantalizing odors from evening meals being prepared or eaten floated to the nostrils of the three men.

They had been talking with Mancini for nearly ten minutes, and had gotten nothing but hungry. Caldwell looked at Monroe and shrugged. "Okay, Manny, you go eat your dinner. You hear anything, you let me or Detective Monroe know right away. Got that?"

While his partner was speaking, Monroe noticed a white Cadillac moving slowly up the street toward them. He paid full attention to it, not hearing what Mancini said next. The squeal of the tires when the car was yards away drowned out Caldwell's words for all three men. Monroe recited the license plate number out loud as he moved between his partner and Mancini and pushed them to the ground. He couldn't hear himself over the twin roars of the engine and the gun. He did know his words turned to grunting.

"Manny! You okay?" shouted Caldwell.

"Yeah, yeah," the gangster replied with tremulous doubt.

"Adam! Get up. We're fine!"

Monroe held his breath as he tried to roll off the others. "Can't," he said without affect.

"Whaddya mean, you can't?"

Monroe grunted once more before saying, "Can't move my legs."

*****

The call from dispatch about the Lockly situation came through as Dobey was pulling into a parking space at the hospital. He acknowledged the call, and hurried to the fourth floor. He strode briskly toward Hutchinson, who looked at him with surprise. "Didn't know I was Superman, huh? Run it down."

Hutchinson told his superior officer everything he knew, his plan for searching the hospital, and his very recent issuance of an APB for Carmelita Nunoz. For some time, they watched the resuscitation team work on Lockly. Eventually, Dobey asked, "How's Starsky?" without his eyes leaving the medical action.

"Good. May go home tomorrow. His doc's supposed to make the decision tonight."

At least something's going right today. "IA knows about Monte's visit."

Hutch slammed his hand on the wall. "Dammit!" He whirled to face Dobey. "Why couldn't Caldwell and Monroe check things out with Starsky first before running to IA?"

"You know they couldn't, Hutchinson. By the book."

"Well, screw the book, Captain. You know Starsky isn't in bed with Monte or anybody else."

"Of course I know that. What do you take me for? I don't know specifics about his or his father's alleged relationship with Monte, Joe Durniak, or any other gangland figure, but rumors and doubts about Starsky have been following him since he got accepted into the academy. Blaine's word is good enough for me. And I was Starsky's detective training officer before I was his boss, remember?"

"Excuse me, but are you Captain Doobie?" asked a thin, sallow woman.

Hutchinson stifled a laugh at the mispronunciation of Dobey's name as a slang word for a joint. Dobey shot him a withering glance. "If you mean Captain Dobey, then yes, I am."

"Oh, sorry about that," she said without sincerity. "Urgent phone call for you at the nurses' station." She minced away.

While Dobey took his call, several pairs of uniformed officers arrived. Hutchinson directed them to their search areas after giving them a detailed description of the suspect. He returned to observing the resuscitation; he could tell by their expressions that things were not going well at all for Lockly.

Dobey, wearing a somber face, rejoined Hutchinson after a few minutes. "Caldwell just called in an officer down. They were questioning one of Tulliano's boys at the time. I'm short on detectives right now, so you and me are going to work this one together. Take your car because I'll need to go to whatever hospital Monroe ends up. And I don't think we have to worry about Lockly making a break for it."

"Who do you want to coordinate the search for our Chicana suspect and question Lockly's nurse?"

Dobey pulled out his white handkerchief and wiped his face. "You say Starsky's doing good?"

"Wait a minute now, Captain," Hutchinson said as he inched closer to Dobey's personal space.

"I don't have a choice right at this moment, Hutchinson. I'll check with him first to see if he's up to it. If not, then I guess the senior uniform will have to do."

Hutchinson was about to say that was the only real option anyway when the doctor in charge of the code team joined them. Over the physician's shoulder, Hutchinson could see nurses and orderlies throwing away empty boxes of medication, flat yellow disks, and other materials used in their fruitless efforts -- and the hit man's lifeless body.

"The patient's nurse tells me he was a prisoner, a suspect in a shooting," the doctor addressed them. "I need to see some ID." Quickly satisfied that the two men were police, he continued. "I'm Doctor Wellstone. We did everything we could, but he basically drowned in his own vomit. Even if we could've resuscitated him, I don't think he would have lived more than, oh, twenty or thirty minutes. He was poisoned."

Hutchinson and Dobey traded worried looks. "Can you tell us with what and how?" asked Dobey.

"I'm guessing arsenic, and a lot of it. Whatever it was, it was ingested. Of course, the autopsy will show exactly what."

Hutchinson rubbed his forehead with a couple of fingers. No doubt about it -- the war has begun. "Captain?" He flicked his head toward the room.

"It's yours," Dobey sighed. "I'll make the calls." He turned to Wellstone after he watched Hutchinson take control of the room. "Doctor, this is now a crime scene."

"Understood. I've already instructed the staff to clean up only our mess and leave everything else alone. Well, I have some paperwork to do. Good luck." Wellstone made for the nurses' station.

After several seconds, Dobey harrumphed. "Today just officially went to hell in a hand basket."

*****

Left to his own devices, Starsky flipped through TV channels using the remote control while he sang Christmas carols, stopping that temporarily so he could sing along with whatever jingle happened to be playing. Eventually, he grew restless and wondered what was keeping Hutchinson. Instead of bothering anyone, he decided to get himself out of bed. He didn't have the patience or desire to figure out how to lower the side rail, so he inched slowly to the foot of the bed, slid carefully over the footboard, and stood. The activity seemed to eat up the last vestiges of painkiller circulating in his bloodstream. He closed his eyes to stop his head from belly dancing and leaned against the bed. More quickly than he thought it would, his head settled down to a relatively sedate waltz. He made it to the bathroom with only one chancy moment.

When he was through there, he made another decision to fulfill two more needs right away. He strolled confidently out into the corridor, intent on finding Hutch and Noreen, despite the fact he was wearing nothing but a thin hospital gown and orange-and-pink-striped boxer shorts.

He looked to the right, automatically drawn to the hustle and bustle. He wanted to investigate, to indulge his elemental curiosity, but his respect for the dead or dying person and his current position as patient kept him away.

Until he heard his partner's voice coming from the room. Noreen and the pain pills are just gonna have to wait, he thought as curiosity claimed victory. He was over halfway there when Hutch strode out of the room.

Hutchinson spotted Starsky immediately. "What the hell are you doing out of bed? Better yet, what the hell are you doing here?" His pinched features and the fact that he supported his immobilized arm with his free one told him Starsky was in a fair amount of pain.

"What -- this hospital not a free country? Besides, seems like a good idea for me to walk around some if I'm bustin' outta here tomorrow. And what are you doin' here?"

"This, uh, patient died. We're pretty sure he was poisoned."

The pieces of the puzzle that had been jangling around inside Starsky's brain tumbled quickly into place. "It's the old guy, the other hitter," he stated with certainty.

Don't quit your day job, Starsk. You're too good at it. "His name is, was, Thomas Lockly. We've got a search going for the woman who served him dinner."

Starsky gulped and said a quick prayer of thanks that the dinner trays hadn't gotten mixed up. "Who you like for this?"

Hutchinson heard the peculiar glint of hope behind Starsky's question. "Monte was my first guess, but I don't think he'd be that stupid." He didn't miss the subtle sag in his partner's body.

"Yeah, you're right," he said, disappointment barely perceptible in his voice. "Next best is whoever hired him. Now just to find that first link."

"I've got lots of help for that, Starsk. You should ask for your pain pills, and get back to your only job right now." At Starsky's questioning look, Hutch added, "Getting better?"

"But I'm fine, Hutch. I wanna be in on this one."

"Starsky, it hasn't even been 24 hours since you were shot. Besides, it's regs. The only reason I'm on this is because Division's short on detectives." As he spoke, Hutch's attention diverted to the tall, lanky figure decked out in a white top hat, a white shirt with cascades of ruffles that gave the appearance of a beard, and a knee-length red suede leather blazer trimmed in white with matching bellbottom pants jive-walking toward them behind Starsky. "Huggy, help me out here, will ya?"

The dark-haired detective turned to greet their friend. "Hiya, Hug."

"Well, if it ain't Beauty and the Beast. I'll leave it to you two to figure out who's who. And what kind of help might you be needing, my blond brotha?"

"Getting the Beast out of my hair. He should be back in his room to wait for some pain pills."

"I can dig it -- he's being the pill. I have just the thing to lure him back to his room." He held up the large brown paper bag he was carrying. "I know I'm almost a week early, but this delivery couldn't wait. Two Pits specials, one with pickles, one with onions."

At the same time, Starsky protested, "Hey, don't talk about me like I ain't here. Don't I have a say in where I wanna be?"

"No," said Hutch and Huggy together, finally including him in their conversation. "Especially when you're wearing threads like that," Huggy added. "You are long overdue for a visit to my apparel advisor, the esteemed Mr. Maurice."

Hutch chuckled. "So, I see you've, um, had him update your Black Santa look."

"Damn straight. Thought it was about time my little black brothers and sisters saw that their Saint Nick doesn't dress like that tired, ol' whitey Santa." Huggy Bear adopted a male model attitude and treated everyone in the corridor to a full 360-degree view of his costume. "Now, these delectable eats are moving past their prime. Come on, you two."

Smelling the food reminded Hutch that he hadn't eaten anything for dinner and was famished. "Hug, just leave mine in Starsky's room, would you?" he asked regretfully. "I'm working a crime scene right now."

"I know the way your best bud here is dressed is a crime, but that's not nice to say so close to Christmas."

"Huggy, I'm a patient. I gotta wear this thing. And I'm hungry," said Starsky as he started back toward his room.

"But your unmentionables? Ain't nobody got to wear those. I'd say they'd be in felony bad taste."

Starsky blushed. "A gift from a lady. Her favorite colors. And of all the clean underwear I had" - he glowered over his shoulder at his innocent-looking partner - "my pal had to pick this pair."

"I sure hope you got some. And a lot of it. And a lot more comin' -- uh, no double entendre intended, my man. That's the least she could do -- you know what I'm sayin'?" Huggy grinned at his friend's secretive smile. "Not to change the subject, but I gotta know how a two-armed bobby became a one-armed bandit."

*****

Before leaving County General, Dobey had decided to check with one of the uniformed officers at Mancini's house. He found out that Monroe was already en route to Memorial, which he had to pass to get to the scene. He told the officer to keep things under control and he'd be there as soon as he could.

As luck would have it, he made it to Memorial just as Monroe's ambulance was backing into one of the ER receiving bays. A couple of quick questions posed to the paramedics revealed that Monroe was conscious but had no sensation or movement from mid-chest down, and that he had been mumbling something the entire time. He fought to control his sudden taste for revenge.

The paramedics pulled the gurney out of the ambulance very gently. While they raised its legs, Dobey seized the opportunity to pat his detective's shoulder and offer words of encouragement and reassurance.

Monroe would have none of it. "Cap!" he shouted to silence his boss. Dobey shut up. "Caddy, California, niner-six-niner Romeo Papa Oscar." He paused to dry-tongue drier lips. "Get those muthers."

Before Monroe and the paramedics had cleared the ER door, Dobey was on the radio issuing an APB for the vehicle with that plate and ordering an immediate check on the number. He had just received an answer when Caldwell pulled up. After a quick rundown of what happened in front of Mancini's house, Dobey told the somewhat distracted detective to go see about his partner.

Less than a minute later, Dobey was back on the street, speeding for the last known address of the owner of the white Cadillac.

*****

Hutchinson had questioned the kitchen personnel detained by hospital security, and had found no likely suspects; it would have been very difficult to plant poison in Lockly's food by any of them, given the assembly line procedure they followed. Now that he had interviewed Ellen Pickett, Lockly's evening shift nurse, he felt it reasonable to exclude her as a primary suspect.

That leaves our little Carmelita, he thought through increasing lightheadedness. I need something to eat, he slowly realized. He headed for Starsky's room, in hopes that there were a few bites left of whatever Huggy Bear had brought.

He knocked and entered without waiting for verbal approval to find a darkened room and someone in a short, white lab coat shining a bright light in his partner's eyes. Instantly setting aside his floating brain, he reached for his weapon. The barrel had almost cleared the holster when the lab coat person said, "Just as expected, Dave. You're good to go."

Starsky grinned, his teeth gleaming in the focused light. "Terrific, Baby Doc. Hey, Hutch, put your gun back and turn on the light, wouldja?" He laughed silently at the doctor's backward stumble at the word "gun."

Hutch flushed quickly, thankful for the dark. "Sure," he said, re-sheathing the Python promptly. He flipped the light switch on to see the physician, as white as his jacket, clutching the side rail. "Uh, sorry, Doctor. As you might know, there was a probable homicide a few rooms away, and my partner here. . ." He hunched his shoulders and smiled a shamefaced apology.

"Yeah, I know." The doctor cleared the crackle in his throat, then smiled with self-deprecation. "Guess I'm going to have to get used to this kind of stuff if I'm going to be a trauma surgeon." His color and composure returned to normal. "I'm Tim Gossett, the surgical intern working with Doctor Mooney," he directed at Hutchinson. Looking back at Starsky, he said, "Good news. You're ready for discharge in the morning if you don't develop a fever during the night. I'll write prescriptions for the same pain pills and antibiotic you're taking now. Don't get the dressing wet, and be back in the surgery clinic on the first floor first thing day after tomorrow. We'll change the dressing then and put another, less bulky one on in its place."

"Good. I'm tired of lookin' like Quasimojo. When does my arm get unstrapped?"

"Five more days, at the outside." At his patient's frown, Gossett added, "We just want to make sure the damaged blood vessel and muscles aren't stressed at all yet. Then you go to a sling for a while. In the morning, your nurse will go over everything with you. Later, flatfoot." He waved on his way out.

"Later, Baby Doc." Alone with Hutchinson, Starsky centered on him. "You look beat. Hungry, too, I bet."

"Quasimojo just won one for the Bipper." He went to the sink to wash his hands.

Starsky chuckled at Hutch's rare, though intentional, mispronunciation. "It's by the phone. Pretty cold by now. Why don't you ask somebody to heat it up, huh?"

"My stomach says it'll take too long," Hutch said as he grabbed the bag. He ripped it open and touched the fat burger. Cold. And the fries are probably colder. Oh, well. He plunged in. While he tore into his food and guzzled water straight from Starsky's pitcher, Starsky told him about an unexpected visit from Sammy Grovner and Robin Morton. Though they had never met Starsky, they didn't come empty-handed; Grovner had presented him with a small book entitled Sammy Says You Can Be a Comic, Too and some personal pointers, while Robin had given him a box of chocolates.

"They said they couldn't thank you enough for saving their lives, and asked me what you'd like. I told 'em you couldn't accept anything. Last thing either one of us needs is one more reason for IA to hang us." He paused, then continued thoughtfully. "You think it was okay for me to accept the book and the candy?"

Hutch swallowed most of what he had in his mouth. "Did Sammy sign the book?"

"Yeah, but just with his name."

"Okay, then that shouldn't be a problem. And the chocolates -" He stopped to take a long drink of water. "Well, just eat those."

Starsky pulled his sheet back to reveal a white and red box and grinned widely. "I've already been tampering wit' the evidence."

Hutch quickly brushed the crumbs off his hands and opened the box. "Starsk, this was, what, two pounds of candy? At least half of 'em are gone!"

"'Cuz the other half's yours." Starsky gazed longingly into the box. "You gonna want all of these?"

Hutch selected four pieces and popped one in his mouth. "This'll do," he sighed. "The rest are yours."

"Really?" Starsky asked with delighted surprise.

He swallowed. This is some high-class chocolate. Maybe I was too quick. . .Nah. "Sure. You enjoy. But don't come crying to me when you can't button your britches."

"That'll be the day. Oh, before I forget, they said to tell ya they're on their way to Vegas. Robin proposed to Sammy this morning, and they're gettin' married at the Little White Chapel. Wonder what she sees in him," he said, mystified.

Hutch was only slightly surprised at that turn of events. "Just goes to show, Starsk. There's someone for everyone. Robin is lucky to have such a fine man."

Starsky snorted. "I guess you'd know. I was too busy in the back perfecting my Gene Autry routine."

"Got a ways to go, buddy. Had a hard time staying in the saddle last night."

"Never met a horse I couldn't ride. Hell, never met a horse. 'I been to the desert on a horse with no name, it felt good to be out of the rain.'" He saw flip remarks and choice of song draw a gray shadow over Hutch's features. Damn -- still bleeding from that wound, he thought as millisecond-long flashbacks of Hutch withdrawing cold turkey from the heroin forced on him. "Bet there's not a horse on earth you couldn't tame," he said softly.

Hutch's face brightened. With your help, I'm sure there isn't. "Oh, I don't know, Starsk. Even Buttermilk looks like hell on hooves."

"She wouldn't be if you wore a skirt with fringe on it."

"Nah. Don't have the legs for it."

Very seriously, Starsky said out of the side of his mouth, "Cowgirl boots can hide a multitude of shins."

Hutchinson laughed. His wound of shame, his constant fear of relapse into heroin use, was a little less raw, a little less real. "I gotta get back to work. I'll be back in the morning to get you. Think you'll be okay at home alone?"

"Yeah, sure. 'I'm back in the saddle again,'" warbled Starsky. "Just bring me something to wear, okay? Like a set of sweats? And an old pair of sneaks."

"You got it. 'Night, partner."

"'Happy trails to you,'" he crooned around a coconut-filled chocolate, "'until we meet again. . .'"

*****

Dobey had arrived at the Cadillac owner's house, only to have the babysitter tell him that Sol Polanski and his wife were at a Christmas party on the other side of town and weren't due back for several more hours. He thanked the teenager, and cursed quietly all the way back to his car. As he flopped his bulk behind the wheel, he snarled out loud, "Why does it have to be him?"

Despite running with his mars light flashing, it took almost an hour to reach his destination -- Matteo Scalia's mansion. In a mood that had gone from bad to thoroughly disgusted, Dobey ordered the valet to get away from his car. He had his badge out before the doorman could open his mouth or the heavy oak door. "I'm here to speak with Solomon R. Polanski on urgent police business. Get him for me." Opening the door himself, he entered the grandiose foyer and stopped there. He rapidly tapped one foot on the floor, out of rhythm with the instrumental holiday music coming from some unidentified area of the house.

After four long minutes, Dobey was on the verge of searching for Polanski when the swarthy, tuxedoed man strolled into the foyer. "What took you so long to get here, Lieutenant? The babysitter called an hour ago." As he drew closer, Polanski held out his hand.

Dobey didn't even look at the hand, much less extend his. His stomach gyrated and his neck hairs prickled this close to the brutal mobster. "It's Captain now. Okay, Polanski, you are listed as the registered owner of a white Cadillac Coup de Ville, license plate 9-6-9-R-P-O. Is that correct?"

"What, no 'How ya been, Sol? Sorry I haven't come to visit since you made parole'? Just straight to business. Well, Captain, at least that hasn't changed about you. Hey, wasn't it my very last parole hearing when I saw you last?" He smirked and crossed his arms.

"Your mistress that you'd beaten and sodomized was still in a coma. I was happy to speak for her. Now, is that car registered to you?"

"Yeah. So what? Somebody steal it out of Babe's Garage and wreck it in some joyride?" he asked flippantly.

Though Dobey knew Polanski was an excellent actor--that was one reason he made parole after six years on a twenty-year sentence--the ex-con showed absolutely no hint of guilt or fear of being found out. "It was at Babe's? Since when?"

"Since this morning. Maintenance work, front-end alignment, a couple other things. Roscoe said he'd have it ready for me by tomorrow noon." Polanski didn't care for the increasingly stern look on the cop's face. Now concerned, he asked, "What happened?"

Dobey told him, and enjoyed watching the meatball blanch. "I'm assuming Babe or Roscoe can confirm that?"

"Yeah, sure they can. Hey, you figure this has something to do with that contract on Monte, don'tcha? That it's payback. Well, nobody I associate with had anything to do with that, you hear?" He reddened when he realized his voice had gotten louder and higher in pitch. "Only a fool would try to take out Monte," he said in a near-whisper. He was about to say more about Monte's strong ties with someone very powerful outside the mob, but swallowed instead when he recalled Dobey's uncanny ability to loosen even the tightest lips without saying a word. "So, just fahget about us, okay? And find who stole my car."

Dobey's gut told him Polanski and the rest of the Scalia organization were not involved in either the Monte contract or the shooting at Mancini's. But his brain insisted they remain suspects. "I have every intention of finding out who had your car tonight." And who ordered them to fire on two cops, you asshole. After one abbreviated nod, he turned sharply on his heel. He was within arm's reach of the door when it swung open hard, sending him staggering back. He kept his footing only out of luck.

The door swung back and would have closed, had it not been for the barrel of a silenced pistol. Muffled, angry curses came from outside. Dobey cursed as well, drew his weapon as he adopted shooting stance, and shouted from his abruptly salivaless mouth, "Police! Put your weapon down, NOW!" Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Polanski take off for someplace deeper in the house.

More profanity filled the air. The door yawned wider, and Dobey found himself looking down that barrel. Without a thought, he ducked and moved to his left just as the first shot was fired. He wasn't fast enough, however; he felt the bullet's sting along his upper right arm. The disembodied gun continued to fire in a sweep. Knowing he had no time and no hope that any of his bullets could penetrate the thick wood, he charged the door like a wounded, enraged bull determined to obliterate the matador's cape.

The shooter cried out in pain as his wrist was crushed between the door and the jamb. His gun toppled to the marble floor, miraculously not firing another shot. He threw his weight into the door. Though it barely moved, it was enough for him to free himself before Dobey could shift his weapon to his left hand to make a grab for the injured hand.

The door snapped shut. Swearing under his breath because of the loss of precious seconds, he wrenched it open and quickly sneaked a cautious peak around it.

Two men were jumping into a waiting Oldsmobile with its engine running. It screeched away as Dobey cleared the threshold. Though the dark car's lights were off, there was enough illumination from the house for the captain to make out some of the plate.

A gurgling sound to his back and right drew his attention back to the mansion. Propped up against a wall, almost hidden by the bushes, was the doorman. On his white shirt was a growing crimson bloom.

Dobey ran the few steps to him, then knelt on one knee by the younger white man. "I'll call an ambulance," he said.

The sad, resigned brown eyes begged Dobey not to leave. The doorman moved his lips, but nothing came. Dobey leaned in until his ear was a few millimeters away.

"Tommy Doyle," the doorman wheezed.

The name sounded familiar, but Dobey couldn't place it. "That your name, son?" A half-shake of his head told him no. "That who shot you?" A half-nod, followed by a raspy "Don' leave."

Sirens growing louder told Dobey he could stay. Before the first patrol car pulled up, he had closed the man's eyes, said a quick prayer, and remembered who Tommy Doyle was--one of Tulliano's wiseguys.

The war was escalating, and they were still no closer to finding out who had fired the first shot. And they, the cops, were losing.

*****

News of the assault on Scalia's residence spread through the criminal community like a California wildfire. Instead of inciting more violence, though, it led to a general withdrawal from the streets.

However, there was no lull for the police. Dobey's wound had proven to be superficial and was treated at the scene. He stayed to complete the initial investigation after putting out on APB on the Olds. From there, he went to Mancini's place to question him and study that crime site.

Dispatch had directed Hutchinson to two other sites. The first was to a movie theatre parking lot in which there was an abandoned white Cadillac without license plates. The faint but pungent smell of gunpowder hanging in the air around and in it told him they had found the right vehicle. He ordered it towed to the police garage for the discovery of any evidence.

The second scene he had been summoned to was a dark alley off a secondary street near the barrio. Frazier and Fischbach had found the body during their patrol. Though the woman had no identification on her, she had fit the description of Carmelita Nunoz.

Hutchinson reluctantly removed the thin blanket covering her. It took him several moments to recognize the bloated, blue face of Carmelita. He tasted acid when he spied the piano wire still around her neck. Her uniform skirt was hiked up, revealing her nakedness from the waist down. Even in the dim light provided by his flashlight, it was apparent that she had been viciously beaten and raped; some of the wounds indicated that part of the assault had likely occurred post-mortem. He closed his eyes and conjured up the feel of Starsky's hand squeezing his shoulder and briefly patting or rubbing his back to comfort him, to settle him down, to remind him their job was to visit justice on the victimizers, to ease the sensation of victim he experienced every time he came upon one. Seconds later, he was centered. On catching a glimpse of a peculiar bruise on her right cheek, he crouched to inspect it more closely. It had a pattern, an emblem of some sort, probably from a ring. He instructed the crime scene team leader to make sure they got plenty of photographs of that area. He sat in his car, hands gripping the steering wheel at the top, head on hands, for several moments. When he finally raised his head and cranked the engine, he hoped no one could see his moist, inflamed eyes.

Hutchinson and Dobey finally hooked up at Metro around 3 a.m. They sat in his office, Dobey behind his desk, Hutch half-reclining in a chair opposite him, both chugging sludgy coffee. For nearly forty-five minutes, they discussed the case, trying to come up with motives, suspects, anything. But as in so many cases involving La Cosa Nostra, motives and suspects were never wanting.

The phone rang, with Dobey finally answering it after six or seven rings. Meanwhile, Hutch, though he thought highly of his superior officer and considered him a role model, acknowledged privately that he couldn't quite get into a groove with Dobey. They were just out of sync, a half step off. He found himself considering bringing Starsky in on all of this, despite knowing that he shouldn't have anything at all to do with the situation for several very good reasons. Hutch decided his first duty was to watch his partner's back, and right now, that meant keeping him away from all things Monte. He jumped and sat upright at the sound of Dobey slamming the receiver onto the cradle.

"That was Caldwell," he said, defeat and exhaustion coloring his tone. "Monroe's out of surgery and awake." He paused to rub his face with both hands, wincing slightly at the burning pain in his right arm. "The docs say he's most likely paralyzed permanently from the waist down, but they won't say anything for sure for a couple of days."

"Damn," Hutchinson said with bitter softness. "That could've been you, too, Captain. You shouldn't have gone to Scalia's without me or backup."

"I'm the captain, and I call the shots. Go home, Hutch. I'll see you back here after you drop Starsky off at his place." Unless there are more "incidents" once the sun comes up.

"'Night, Cap. And go home yourself, okay?" Hutchinson lumbered out of the office, climbed listlessly into his car, and drove the long way home, stopping by County General to look up at Starsky's room for about five minutes. At least things were peaceful there.

He had no idea how wrong he was.

*****

Restful sleep eluded Starsky from the outset that night. He tossed and turned, and dreamed of a younger Vic Monte kissing the top of his head, saying goodbye, and leaving him for California -- a world away to a ten-year-old.

Don't go, Uncle Vic! Can't I go with you? Don't you love me no more? What'd I do wrong? I love you.

His small body, dressed in his brown short-pants suit he wore to church and temple, reaching out for the vanishing uncle, but held back by his father.

His father, who always smelled faintly of vanilla-ish musk, soothing him, telling him he would see Uncle Vic when he and Nicky visited Al and Rosie next summer, telling him he could write to him, reassuring him he had done nothing wrong, reassuring him Vic Monte loved him.

Every forty-five minutes or so, Starsky jolted awake. His memories only served to increase his physical pain, making pain control impossible. He asked for and received a mild sleeping pill. That did nothing for him, either. Monte's desertion simply played over and over in his dreams. Then the dream shifted suddenly to present time.

An office he'd never seen but knew was Monte's. Turning around to see Monte standing behind a huge mahogany desk. Hearing the familiar click of a hammer being pulled back on a gun. Turning to see the gun -- a police service revolver. Yelling to Monte to get down. Reaching for the weapon and seeing the shooter for the first time.

His eyes met. . .his eyes.

He jerked awake just as his finger squeezed the trigger. Panting and sweating heavily, his dilated eyes searched the room, seeking something familiar to salve his disorientation and his conscience. Disorientation slowly morphed to realization, but his conscience ached.

Admit it, you putz. You still love him. You still hate him. You hate him so much that you never wrote to him, never went to see him when you visited or when Ma sent you here to live.

But you still love the man who might've had something to do with Pop's murder.

His right hand, now a solid fist, punched the bed repeatedly. He choked back tears, sending his Adam's apple into convulsive bobs. He wanted to scream at the runaway jackhammer pain in his shoulder and head.

Then something undeniable, indefinable, compelled him to look out the window. He could see nothing through the partially open blinds except faint light from the parking lot and street lights. Something out there quieted his ambivalence, eased his challenged moral sense, decresendoed his pain.

He took a deep breath that at first was shaky, but ended in firmness. He checked the wall clock. A few minutes past four. Long past time to let go of his childish hatred of Victor Monte. Time to sleep.

He did sleep -- dreamless, peaceful, rejuvenating.

*****

Starsky felt the heat -- stoked by being ticked off at his partner and by needing help to get dressed -- travel rapidly up his neck and into his face as Hutch struggled to grasp the pull tab of his jeans zipper. "Terrific, jus' terrific. If you'da brought my sweatpants like I asked, you wouldn't have to be doin' this," he said to the back of the blond head.

Hutch had a good sweat going now, making it even more difficult to get a hold on the pull tab. "I couldn't find any, all right?" he snapped. "I've been up half the night, and you're lucky I brought you anything to wear." He took a deep breath in frustration. "This, uh, thingie is buried in the bottom part of the flap." He cursed under his breath. "You got something against button-fly jeans?" With a sharp jab into Starsky's crotch, which elicited a yelp and a strained "Those ain't punchin' bags!" from the dressee, and a hard tug on the flap, Hutch's fingers found suitable purchase on the tab. "Ha! Got it!" He straightened too quickly, and his head caught Starsky's chin. Both men saw stars for a second or two. Hutch recovered first and muttered sheepishly, "Sorry, buddy." He smiled with shy charm. "Okay, here goes."

The pain pills Starsky had taken in anticipation of getting dressed and going home were useless in controlling the fresh throbbing in his head. His anger and mood deepened. "If you catch Mr. Mighty in that zipper . . ." The threat to do great bodily harm was easily identifiable in his tone.

"Well, Starsk, if you wouldn't buy jeans a size too small, that wouldn't be an issue, now would it?"

"It wouldn't be an issue now if you'da brought the right pants, dummy."

"And who the hell would actually name their johnson anything, especially 'Mr. Mighty,' huh?"

"Cindy would. At least, that's what she called it last weekend."

"Cindy? She that stewardess with the sweet, slow, Delta-dawn accent? She the reason you didn't answer your phone?"

"'And the southern girls with they way they talk'," Starsky sang.

"You know, old buddy, I believe she left off the last name."

"Uh? Whaddaya mean?"

"Should be 'Mr. Mighty Mouse.'"

"How would you know?"

"You forget -- I've seen you in the shower."

"Well, I haven't seen you, Peewee."

"Ouch! That cuts me to the bone, Starsk."

"I call 'em like I don't see 'em. Now be careful, willya?"

"Don't have to be." Hutch snickered at Starsky's questioning, wary look. "All done. You are officially a non-flasher. But you'll have to make do without being buttoned."

"'Bout time!" He playfully shoved Hutch away. "Now, get me outta here."

Hutch wiped the sweat from his brow. "Your shoes." He pulled a well-worn pair of plain tan boots from an old shopping bag.

"Oh, yeah." Starsky sat on the edge of the bed and extended his left leg. "And they're boots, Joe College. They didn't have flashcards at Minnesota? If I was you, I'd ask for a full refund. College degree, and can't tell the difference between sneakers and boots."

Hutch squatted in front of Starsky. "You can go barefoot," he stated. "Then we'll see who gets called 'Sasquatch' and sends little kids screaming for the boogie-man."

"Okay, fine," he said in a conciliatory tone. Geez, you're grumpy when you get only a few hours shut-eye. "Hey, you pack my book?"

As he worked his friend's foot into the boot, Hutch said tiredly, "Yes, it's in the bag with your other stuff."

"I was readin' it last night, and I had this great idea. It could mean a whole new career for us. If we ever got tired of being cops, that is."

Hutch rolled his eyes; he knew in detail what the idea was without Starsky elaborating on it further. As if ever either of us would get tired of being cops. Upon reflection, he couldn't believe he had even toyed with the idea of being a doctor or a lawyer. He decided to blame this latest scheme his partner was cooking up on the drugs; they were certainly responsible for all his singing. At least while he's taking them. "Can we talk about this later? I'm too tired to figure out how to convince you it's a daft idea. Other foot."

Starsky obliged. "How do you know it's a daffy idea if you ain't heard it yet?"

"Starsk, none of your plans have ever made any sense." Hutch grimaced, held his breath, and pushed until Starsky's foot wedged into the boot. "There." He huffed once, then stood.

"I think my idea for doggie diapers was great!" He began waving his right arm for emphasis. "Think of it -- no fear of stepping in a pile when you're playing Frisbee in the park. Or grazin' in the grass with your best girl of the moment." He adjusted an absorbent pad between his strapped arm and trunk. "We coulda been millionaires by now, buddy. The problem with you, Hutch, is you're not a visionary like me."

Hutchinson snorted. "Oh, you're wrong there, partner. I am a visionary. I see that your little schemes would only be successful in shrinking my savings."

"I don't want you coming to me with your tail between your legs and whining that ya shoulda listened to me when some turkey from Podunk is a gazillionaire because his buddy backed him in makin' poochie panties."

"Should anyone ever get rich from that idea, Starsk, don't worry about me. I might not have a bundle of dough, but I'd still have my pride. And that is priceless." He reached into a second, newer shopping bag. "Couldn't find anything at your place big and warm enough to go over your hump and arm. So I stopped by Danny's Sportswear and picked up an extra large sweatshirt." He held up the cardinal red garment with black letters across the front.

"A Buccaneers shirt! Hutch, this is great!" Excited, he waved Hutch closer. "Help me get it on quick, okay?"

Hutch was able to slide the sweatshirt on his partner easily. "Now you have something official to wear when your favorite team's on TV, instead of that ratty red T-shirt."

"Aw, this is the best, Hutch. Thanks!" he exclaimed as he rubbed the crinkly lettering. "But when did you have time to get this? Danny's closes at 9, opens at 10."

"Christmas is less than a week away, dummy. Danny opened the store at 8. He is just pandering to the crass, over-the-top consumerism that has become the new meaning of Christmas."

Starsky was about to give his partner a lecture on holiday spirit when one short, hard rap on the door stopped him. They exchanged rapid, vigilant glances. It sure as hell better not be Monte again, seethed a suddenly furious Hutch, or I will not be held responsible for my actions. They held their breaths and watched the door open. Hutch instinctively turned to face that direction and placed himself between Starsky and the visitor. "Aw, shit," he heard Starsky exhale in his ear.

Simonetti and Dryden sauntered into the room. "Well, Dryden, looks like we lucked out and got one-stop shopping today," said the white, curly-haired Internal Affairs officer.

Hutchinson, maintaining his position between Starsky and the new arrivals, said, "If it isn't Bay City Police Department's own Leopold and Loeb,* come to murder the careers of young, innocent police officers."

"I thought they were Mike and Ike. Ya know, they kinda look alike, especially those beady little eyes and cheap suits, and they act like a couple-a bums."

"Now, now, Hutchinson," said Dryden, a tall, sinewy black man, as he gave Starsky a disgusted look, "bad cops kill their own careers."

"So I guess that means my partner's and my careers are alive and kicking," said Hutch as he fought to stand his ground against Starsky's push. He finally felt him relax some. "Then why are you here? To check up on a fellow officer injured in the line of duty?"

"We're here because it was reported to us that Victor A. Monte came to visit you yesterday, Starsky. Dryden and I are, uh, intrigued by this. Why would a major player in the Mafia visit a cop? I can understand why he might want to get in touch with Detective Hutchinson. But he visited you, Starsky. He had no idea that Hutchinson would be here."

"Why don't you ask him?" spat Starsky.

"I'm asking you, Sergeant Starsky."

Though the emphasis on his last name was soft, the dark-haired detective caught it. "What the hell is the way you said my name supposed to mean?"

Simonetti cleared his throat simply to keep Starsky and Hutchinson waiting for his answer. "Whatever you want it to mean. But I do find it interesting that the Mafia has so many Jewish members in it. Don't you?"

Starsky fumed while he considered what his answer to the first question would be, should be. Vic, if you really loved me, you'da never come. "He was a friend of my grandmother and step-grandfather. I haven't seen or talked to him since I was ten. My partner didn't even know I knew Monte until yesterday." He felt Hutch's tautness melt a bit with his measured response.

"But something bothers me, Starsky. Why did you choose to eat at the exact same restaurant your family friend was scheduled to have a special meal and have a contract on him executed?"

"Coincidence, I guess, Simonetti. Dumb coincidence."

"I don't believe in coincidences, Starsky. It's my job not to believe in them."

"So you believe in what -- every cop is dirty until proven clean?"

"In your case? Yes."

"Starsky's done nothing wrong, you buttwipe!" shouted Hutchinson. "He hasn't been in touch with Monte for twenty years. I should know -- I'm his partner."

"But you aren't with him twenty-fours hours a day, seven days a week. You can't possibly know every person he calls on the phone, or every person he shares a meal with."

"I believe him and in him, Simonetti. Can you say the same about your partner?" Hutch watched with smug satisfaction as both IA officers tensed.

"We're not here to discuss my relationship with Dryden," Simonetti said, his discomfort coming through loud and clear. Starsky poked Hutch in the small of his back upon seeing Dryden's eyes shoot bullets at his associate. "Your conversation in the hallway at the station house was overheard by several people. You, Hutchinson, wanted to go back to your place. A couple of the witnesses thought Starsky was a bit too eager to head for this restaurant Giovanni's -- especially since this was at the end of a grueling day for you two."

"Of course I was eager, Simonetti! I was starvin' and scrambled eggs wudn't gonna be enough. And I love Italian food. Don't you? With a name like yours, I'd think so." Then, as if he was just discovering the obvious, Starsky needled, "Hey, with a name like yours, I'd think you'd have ties to the mob." Hutch had to work hard to keep from laughing.

Simonetti's face instantly turned a deep red. He balled both hands into fists and started towards Starsky and Hutch.

Dryden encircled his partner's arm with one of his large hands. "Hey, Simonetti," he said with a conversational lilt to his voice, "don't let that lousy kike get to you, man."

In an eyes-wide-open rage, Starsky shoved Hutch to their left. He catapulted himself at Dryden, pushing the surprised taller and heavier man backward until he had him pinned against the door with his right fist at his throat. "Don't you ever call me or any other Jew that, you understand, you. . .you. . ."

Hutch, who was not surprised that he had to expend little energy in holding back Simonetti, thought, Don't say it, Starsk -- take the high road.

"You lowlife piece-a snakeshit."

Dryden had kept his arms at his sides and dared not push against the muscled arm holding him hostage. If he had done either, he knew his airway would be crushed. The violet eyes that looked up at him burned with a defiance born of centuries of persecution. Dryden reluctantly admitted to himself that he understood. He tore away from the stare, looking to Simonetti and Hutchinson for assistance.

"Starsk."

Hutch's simple, non-judgmental pronunciation of his name brought the squall in Starsky under control. Slowly, he backed away, shot a warning glance at Simonetti, and stopped at the edge of his bed. He stared out the window, his back to the room, his fisted hand rammed deep in a pocket.

"I suggest we forget any of this happened," said Hutch.

"Bullshit," hissed Dryden. "That wild man accosted me, and I got two witnesses."

"And two witnesses to you calling a decorated and wounded police detective an ethnic slur. I suspect he wouldn't be the only one in trouble."

Several seconds ticked by, during which the atmosphere in the hospital room sweltered. Finally, Simonetti, with a detestable glare first at his own partner, then Hutchinson, muttered, "Don't think this investigation is over. By the time we're through, we'll know everything both of you have done since birth. It may take a while, but we'll find the dirt, and we'll nail you both to the wall."

"To paraphrase what my partner said to Vic Monte yesterday, get the fuck out of this room."

Dryden gave Starsky's back a hateful sneer. You're mine, Jew boy. One of these days, I'll have your fucking head on a platter. Outwitted and openly antagonistic, he and Simonetti left, seemingly adding life to the room with their exit.

Moments later, Hutch stood by his partner. "Well, our little visit with Lucy and Ethel went better than I expected."

Starsky snickered. "Think I could get a job as a school crossing guard?"

They chuckled together while Hutch wrapped his hand gently around the back of Starsky's head and Starsky patted Hutch's chest a few times.

*****

Starsky was well into vocalizing his fourth Christmas carol -- Silver Bells -- on the ride home when he stopped suddenly to ask, "Ya know, I've been thinkin', Hutch."

"Oh, yeah, Gordo? What about?" he replied eagerly. If he's talking, at least he won't be singing carols.

"Who would most want Monte dead, huh?"

"Starsky, stop it right there. You shouldn't be talking to me or anybody else about this."

"Since when've you started letting regulations get in the way of us puttin' our heads together?" he asked irritably.

"Since your involvement with the target will make breaking regs even worse."

"Who're you gonna tell that we had this conversation, huh?" Despite his disappointment that Hutch wanted to go by the book in this, Starsky did appreciate it, and considered himself exceedingly lucky to have Hutch watching both his literal and figurative back.

Hesitantly, Hutch said, "All right. But this is really just a theoretical discussion, if anyone ever asks, okay? But don't blame me when you wind up as the men's room attendant at the St. Francis next month. Now, what was the question?"

Starsky grinned. That's my boy -- always willing to take risks to get the bad guys. "Who would most want Monte dead?"

"Oh, I'd imagine any number of people. Dobey and I considered that already, and we have a list a mile long."

"But most. Gotta be somebody either crazy enough or greedy enough to take him out."

Hutch contemplated where Starsky was taking this. "Somebody would have to have a hell of a lot of nuts rattling around in his noggin, or consider money more valuable than life. But go on."

"Okay, lookit. Somebody who was cuckoo in the cranium would go after Monte, because doing so would be a death sentence for him, too. Maybe Monte did something to him or a family member, and he's loony for revenge. Like with Theresa. She's gotta know that any protection of her would only go so far, even with her bein' family. But she made the call anyways."

"I'll go along with that. That's why she's in protective custody."

"Okay. Now, maybe there's somebody who's greedy enough to take the risk of being whacked himself because he wants what Monte's got, 'cause along with that comes one helluva lot of power. Sure wouldn't be the first time. I'd say it was one or more of his own flunkies."

"What about the code? This whole thing of being family? Dobey and I both think one of his own wouldn't set him up. Even if he did, he'd have to know he'd definitely be dead meat, because he couldn't possibly defend himself against those loyal to Monte."

"Omerta is becomin' a code of the past, Hutch. Loyalty and silence don't mean much when the FBI and Justice are shakin' witness protection in your face instead of a twenty-year stretch in some crummy federal pen, or when a new godfather has taken over. The mob is changin'. If what we've been hearin' about Joe Durniak is true, don't you think it's more than possible that somebody within Monte's organization would turn against him?"

Wonder when the last time he had contact with Durniak was? IA's bound to find his connection to Starsky. Just put the other concrete shoe on his career. "But the feds supposedly have Durniak's back against the wall. He's too old to go to prison, so he's making a deal."

"Not so long ago, Hutch, a 90-year-old wouldn't take a deal. And greed and power are stronger than family to some of these flakes."

For about a quarter mile, there was thoughtful silence in the LTD. "If it turns out you're right, partner," said Hutchinson, "you will be limited to one 'I told you so.'"

"One's all I'm gonna need," Starsky said smugly. "You talk to Huggy? Maybe he's got somethin' for ya."

Hutch breathed deeply. "I've decided to keep Huggy out of this one. Too many happy trigger fingers. And same goes for you -- no more, Starsk. You're on sick leave."

We'll see.

Several carol-free minutes later, Hutchinson parked his car behind Starsky's Gran Torino. "See? Your gypsy wagon's home, safe and sound, just like its owner."

Starsky beat Hutchinson out of the car. Immediately, he began a close examination of every square inch of his ride. Eventually, he stood to look at his bored friend. "She looks fine. Not a scratch. Remind me to thank whoever towed her, okay?"

"Sure, Starsk. Ready to take the stairs?"

The curly-haired detective took a moment to think about it. "No time like the present."

Hutchinson ran ahead, taking the steps two at a time, holding the bag of Starsky's belongings before him, while Starsky followed at a more staid pace. By the time he reached the landing, he was perspiring lightly despite the cool weather. "Maybe a couple days off ain't such a bad idea."

Hutch had already unlocked the door with his key and opened it. "No need to push it. Now, should I announce you?"

"Wha'? I got a visitor or somethin'?"

"Well, it does look like a party might be happening." Hutch swung his arm in a flourish.

A puzzled expression on his face, Starsky carefully scooted sideways between Hutch and the frame into his apartment. A quick look around changed his to enchantment. His home was completely decorated for the season -- manger, menorah, and everything else. "It's, it's, all finished! Cindy and me only got so much done. . ." He took a deep breath and could smell the peppermint candy canes and hand-strung garlands of popcorn, cranberries, and matzo balls hanging from the Fraser fir. He turned his head to Hutch. "How? When?"

Hutch dropped the bag to the left of the door. He grinned at seeing Starsky's eyes as bright as new dimes. "Yesterday afternoon, I called Mrs. Walters. Told her what happened, then picked her up and brought her here at her, um, insistence. She made you some sandwiches and a big pot of beef stew. Should be in the fridge. I'm pretty sure she and Junior finished the decorating."

"She's the best." Dorothy Walters, a black woman with a shock of gray in her dark brown hair who qualified as a genuine Earth Mother, was the mother of Jackson Walters. Jackson was one of the men responsible for getting Starsky out of the gang life when he was in high school. Jackson's son, Junior, was just a little younger than Starsky was when Miriam had sent him to California. The four of them had readily welcomed Hutch into their "family" the first time Starsky brought Hutch with him for Sunday dinner.

"And she mentioned something about bringing by an apple pie this afternoon. Junior'll be over once school lets out at noon."

"I'm gonna hafta call her" -- yawn -- "later." Starsky yawned again, suddenly feeling the exhaustion that the morning's events had heaped on him. He stumbled toward the sofa, the bedroom being too distant a destination at the moment.

"Starsk, I'm going to the market to pick up a few things for you. Be back in about thirty, okay?"

"'Kay." He carefully sank onto the couch. "Hey, none of that sayonara seaweed or decimated liver."

"I make no promises. Don't go anywhere."

Starsky was now reclining on his right side, head toward the door. "Ain't goin' nowhere. 'Specially the bathroom." He raised up on his right elbow and craned his head around until he could see Hutch. "What if I gotta go before you get back? I can't be callin' up ol' lady Donahue next door to help me. It'd give her a heart attack. And me a stroke."

The blond man already had one hand on the doorknob and was halfway out. He crinkled his nose. "Odd choice of words there, Starsk."

"Aw, come on, Hutch. Be a pal. Seriously, what if -" Starsky stopped upon seeing Hutch's roguish grin.

"Then hold it." Swiftly he closed the door and skipped down the stairs to increasingly panicky shouts of his name.

*****

"Okay, Blondie's gone," said one of the men in a blue Buick sedan as they watched Hutchinson pull away from the curb. He removed the ever-present drinking straw from his mouth. "About fuckin' time. Think the boss will raise a fuss about you bein' late?"

The other man, a human version of a small mountain, pulled his ski mask into place. "If he don't, dat means he's dead already, and we wouldn't gotta be doin' dis."

The first man, who had pulled his mask down as well, shook his head. "When are you going to speak right, Sammy? You sound so ign'rant."

"When I got the dough to have somebody learn me da right way, okay? Won't be long now. T'ink dat cop'll do it, Dom?"

"Hell, yeah. He'll ask how many bullets we want in Monte. We gonna get ourselves a new hitter--and won't cost nothin'." Dominic started the engine. Slowly, he steered the car to a parking space ahead of the Torino. "Let's do it."

*****

Starsky rapidly gave up yelling for Hutch. He began to soak in the twilight that swirled around his eyes and brain. Humming Brahms' Lullaby, he let his eyelids change the dusk to dark. The front door opening hardly registered in his ears.

Moments later, the dark became darker. Sensing the alteration, he mumbled, "Hutsh?" His eyes opened to no more than mere slits when a coarse hunk of hardened flesh jammed his head deeper into the cushion and his consciousness into blackness.

*****

The LTD had gone four blocks when it coughed and clunked to a dead stop. Hutchinson smacked the steering wheel and breathed a "Dammit!" And this the Friday before Christmas. This'll be in the shop for days. Which means I'll have to drive that wheeled tomato. He got out of the car, waving negligently at those honking their horns at him. Sheer anger at this unexpected circumstance gave him the strength to single-handedly push it to the side of the road.

He gave the dented door a swift kick. He took off at a jog back to Starsky's place but stopped at first corner. He slapped his forehead with the heel of his hand. He ran back to his car, dragged open a door, and scooped the potted poinsettia off the back seat floorboard. Tucking the plant securely between his left arm and body, he set off for Starsky's again, but this time at a fast walk.

As he neared the apartment, his trained eye automatically noted the appearance of a new car, a big, blue sedan. He thought it odd that it wasn't giving off much heat when he passed it, but conceded it could have just taken a short trip out of one of the nearby garages. He shook off the persistent nag of paranoia.

He took the stairs one at a time. He thought it best not to knock, so he immediately reached for the knob. It wasn't until he touched the metal that he noticed the door was minutely ajar. I'm positive I shut the door all the way.

The paranoia rose to manifest itself as an adrenalin rush. He tossed the plant high over his shoulder. It arced over the surrounding greenery and hit the ground with a barely detectable thud at the same time he had the Colt firmly in hand. With his left hand, he inched the door open. He could feel his heart pound in his neck, his breaths stab in his chest.

He immediately spotted a darkly clad figure in the kitchen near the phone. It was doing something, which he couldn't make out right away. He eased the door open just enough to squeeze through. He led with his gun, only to have it painfully knocked from his hand. Before he could emit one sound, he was squashed between the door and jamb. He winked out, but the adrenalin -- and his seemingly inborn need to protect his friend and partner -- brought him back almost at once. He struggled to find some way to gain leverage so he could push against the force trapping him.

The figure in the kitchen saved him. "Don't kill him, stupid! He's the one we need!"

Need? Me? Hutch grabbed a deep breath as soon as the pressure on him disappeared. He stumbled into the room, only to find himself controlled by a gargantuan left hand wrapped tightly around his right forearm. At least my hand doesn't hurt anymore, he thought as he scoped out the situation.

The hand was connected to one of the largest human beings -- I think it's human -- he had ever seen. Head and face covered with a red-trimmed black ski mask, dull dark brown eyes with a lust for violence emanating from them, an unmoving, boneless Starsky draped over the impossibly broad right shoulder.

Hutchinson threw a hard left punch into the gut of the man holding and succeeded in doing nothing but hurting his hand. The giant retaliated by twisting the cop's arm, bringing him to his knees. Hutch let out a sharp gasp. One part of his mind, however, attended to the ring the huge intruder wore. The ring that had made a distinctive bruise on Carmelita's face.

By then, the other man had joined them. "Don't break his fuckin' arm!"

"Okay." The giant proceeded to kick Hutch's thigh.

Hutch howled in pain. So you wanna fight dirty. Ignoring the ache in his left hand, he drove its heel into what he hoped was his captor's genitals. His hand didn't get past the tree-trunk thighs. Before he could regroup for another attack, he found himself skidding along the floor until something unyielding stopped him harshly. "Unhhhh," he groaned with the last of the breath left in him. He fought to keep blackness away.

The next thing he knew, someone had pulled his head back by the hair. His breath and more pain came stuttering back. He opened his eyes with great effort to see the smaller man squatting in front of him, filling his visual field. "You two must have the same costume maker," he remarked hoarsely when he saw another red-trimmed black mask. But the eyes were different. They were a lighter shade of brown, hungry, and mean.

"Everybody's gotta be a comedian nowadays." He jerked harder on the blond hair. "Listen up, punk cop. You finish the job you stopped, you hear? By two a'clock. That's a little over four hours. Or your partner dies." Abruptly, he pushed Hutch's head downward and released his grip, resulting in a hard knock on the floor.

Hutch moaned and teetered at the edge, his abdominal muscles contracting in an effort to curl up. Can't. . .don't. . .

"Once it's done, wait for a call here. We'll tell you then where you can pick up Curly Top in time for the early dinner special at Giovanni's." He snickered at his own joke. Can't. . .don't. . .

Another kick, this time to his gut, sent Hutchinson over the edge. He was fully unconsciousness long before the kidnappers left with his partner.

*****

The growing pain from his back and head wounds gnawed Starsky to awareness. Moaning softly, he coerced his eyes to open. At first surprised, then distressed, he saw nothing but darkness. I'm blind! was his first anxious thought. A split second later, when he put together all sensory input, he realized he was in a moving car's trunk.

Tangible panic joined him in the close space. Involuntarily, he began to hyperventilate. He was certain the compartment was shrinking and the air along with it. The wooly mammoth on his chest didn't help. For a fleeting moment, he was sure he tasted the suffocating, putrid air of Vietnam. He ordered himself to focus on getting out.

That was going to prove harder to do than he expected. He lay in the trunk on his left side, knees bent behind him, and his right hand, bound with rope that wrapped around his waist a couple of times, behind his back. "Dammit!" he swore softly.

First, he tried to straighten his legs, but stopped when the muscles cramped. He fizzed through his teeth and waited for the spasms to dissipate. Next, he tried rocking his entire body side-to-side in ever-increasing swings. All that accomplished was to heighten his shoulder pain.

He settled back to his previous position and attempted to think. His claustrophobia gained strength, however, and his ability to reason diminished proportionately.

A large pothole in the road rendered everything -- his irrational fear, climbing pain, hyperventilation, escape -- moot. The jolt was enough to send him into a deep stupor.

*****

Fresh air stimulated Starsky to regain his wits as he was lifted out of the Buick's trunk and slung over the shoulder of a huge man. He could see the car was parked in a dilapidated one-car garage. He bounced around when the man climbed a few rickety steps to the back door of a clapboard house that had seen much better days several decades ago. He heard nothing but a small generator they had passed as they entered the structure.

The house smelled of cheap cigars, stale urine, fortified wine, rancid cooking oil, and general rot. His stomach, already queasy due to the vile headache that seemed to envelop the whole of him, knocked at his throat. Go ahead. Upchuck down Dumbo's back and find out what pain really is. The stomach settled down.

They passed through what Starsky surmised had been a kitchen at one time. The immense man stopped in the next room. Starsky caught a glimpse of a tattered sofa and a small TV as he was swung off the shoulder and plopped on an unexpectedly sturdy ladderback chair, as if he weighed no more than a bag of feathers. He grimaced at the shot of pain in his wounds. He shut his eyes in gratitude when the pain swiftly returned to its near scream-provoking level.

Opening his eyes again, he saw his captor's masked face for the first time. "You musta got up on the wrong side of ugly," he said conversationally. He saw the hand too late and had to take the full force of the slap. "Aaugh!" His head swam and tried to sink, but there was no mercy this time. He tasted blood. Dammit. Like I got any to spare.

The giant was tying him to the chair. "Guess I should be glad that rope's not around my neck and you're not wearin' white sheets, right?" He tried to keep his tone light and charming. "Hey, not so tight," he hissed as the captor pulled roughly on the rope to tie it.

"Shuddup."

Starsky decided to follow the simple, growled command. Moments later, another man, also masked and somewhat smaller than the detective, joined them. "You better get outta here," he said to his cohort. "I'll finish up wit' him."

"Everyt'ing else okay?"

"Yeah, nobody around but bums and rats. The garage door's in place. And your car still has its hubcaps. Now, get in it and go to work."

Starsky shivered at the thought of huge rodents feasting on his body parts. "Hey, Paul Bunyan, take me with you, okay? I hate rats."

"Shud-up!" The giant kicked the chair, sending it and its occupant falling to the left. Unfortunately, the impact to his shoulder wasn't enough to knock him out. He screamed.

*****

He heard his name first, spoken by a familiar, cracking voice. Next came the smell of chalk on the hand that patted his cheek. Then the active volcanoes of pain dispersed throughout his body shook him awake further. He tasted the coppery, tangy sweetness of blood. His tongue searched for the source; he had bitten the inside of his cheek. None too eagerly, he opened his eyes.

"Hutch, you're awake!" the dark blotch before him said. "I already called for some cops and an ambulance."

Blinking several times cleared the detective's vision. He managed a feeble smile at the young black teenager sitting on the floor next to him. "Hey, Junior," he said, husky-voiced. "What are you doing here?"

The thirteen-year-old gave him a puzzled look. "I'm where I said I'd be after school. And what happened? Where's Starsky?" His worry amplified his changing pubescent voice.

Alarmed, but still not quite processing information adequately, Hutchinson asked, "What time is it?"

"'Bout 12:30."

Hutchinson's brain galloped into full awareness. "SHIT!" he exclaimed. He sat up as the first stage to standing. The room spun, but he continued undaunted. Once on his feet, the room stopped spinning but he started circling. The much smaller boy steadied him until he got his sea legs and the nausea subsided. He looked down at the face looking up at him; the sable brown eyes filled with tears and concern petitioned him for answers. "I don't know where he is, Junior, but he's okay. I'll have him back in plenty of time to have a slice of your grandmother's apple pie while it's still warm."

Junior nodded and bit his quivering lip. He took some comfort and reassurance from the blond man's hand on his back. Slowly, he let go of Hutch's waist and took a step back.

Hutch noticed the faraway sounds of sirens. Not much time. "Junior, did you touch anything other than the phone?"

"No, sir. I did like you and Starsky taught me."

"Terrific. Perfect. Okay, I want you to stay and tell 'em everything. I gotta do. . .gotta do something to get Starsky back." Distracted, he paused for a moment. O God, please help me. "I'll be back here as soon as I can. One of the cops'll see you get home."

"NO!" Junior shouted. "I want to be here for when you get Starsky."

Hutch stared at the boy, awed by his maturity, his presence of mind, his devotion to a man not his father. Through Junior, he began to understand the depth of Starsky's Monte-driven pain. "Okay, fine." But before he could go on, Hutch had to have some relief from his own physical pain. He smiled at Junior again, rubbed the boy's head, then limped into the kitchen. He went straight for the cabinet in which Starsky kept aspirin, Tylenol, and a spare car key. He palmed the key first. He threw three tablets of the latter into his mouth, chewed, and swallowed. He swore at his slowness when he heard a set of tires screech to a halt. Resigned to the fact that he'd have to stay a bit longer, he found a clean glass and filled it with water. He was drinking it when Captain Dobey, breathless and blustering, ran into the apartment. Hutch cursed again.

"Hutchinson! You want to tell me what the hell is going on?!" He stopped in his tracks as soon as he noticed the boy. "You the one who called this in?" he asked of the juvenile.

"Yes, sir."

"Good boy." Facing Hutchinson again, who now stood next to the boy, Dobey said, "I'm waiting. And it better be good. I've been trying to get you on the radio or by phone for the last hour. I was already on my way here when the call came in."

Hutchinson told Dobey everything, except for the motive behind Starsky's kidnapping. He knew Dobey would not let him leave because the captain would be afraid of what he, Hutchinson, would do. Hell, I'm afraid myself. "And I've got less than an hour and a half to find him before they kill him, Captain," he concluded. "So I can't be standing around here making polite conversation with you."

Dobey sensed Hutchinson wasn't telling him all of it. He knew what was happening on the streets, knew that whoever had put out the contract on Monte wasn't going to stop until the man was dead, knew the endless lengths Starsky and Hutchinson would go to for the other. He also knew there would be almost no way, short of putting him in cuffs, to keep Hutchinson from whatever length was before him now. "I can see you're hurtin', Hutch. I want you to get checked out by the paramedics. And I'll put out an APB on that Buick. We'll find him."

The sound of running footsteps clambering up the staircase temporarily halted Hutch's response. Seconds later, two uniformed officers joined them. "Captain?" asked one of them.

"No, we won't, Cap'n. This is something only I can do." Hutchinson gave Junior a quick shoulder hug and a parting smile. Assigning his pain the status of a gnat, he strode to the door, sweeping past Dobey and the uniforms.

Dobey shuddered at the dismal, resigned worry in Hutch's tone. But he couldn't allow him to leave. "Hutchinson!" he barked. "Get your ass back here! That's an order!"

At the threshold, Hutch paused and looked back at his superior officer. "Stuff that order, Captain." His long legs made short work of the stairs.

Not entirely astonished by Hutchinson's behavior, Dobey mentally threw up his hands. He glared at the widened eyes of the patrol officers. "If you two don't want to join Detective Hutchinson on my shit list," he snapped, "I suggest you secure this area. NOW!" He snorted at the officers as they scurried away from his wrath, and swore at the sound of the Torino's engine roaring to life and tires peeling away from the curb.

A hard tug at his right sleeve elicited a short throb of pain from his gunshot wound. It was the boy. "Oh, sorry, son, about the language. What's your name?"

"Jackson Walters, Junior, sir. But you can call me Junior. Come here." He waved for Dobey to follow him. A number of steps later, he pointed to the wall next to the telephone in the dining nook.

The captain read the marginally legible printed message made with a black laundry marker: FINISH THE JOB YOU ST. It took less than ten seconds before its full meaning hit him like an arrow between his eyes. Don't do it, son. Find some other way. Just don't do this. What he had to do made him sick to his bones.

He picked up the receiver and dialed the direct number to Dispatch. In moments, there were APBs out on a blue Buick with a partial plate number of GRD and a red-and-white Gran Torino with the plate 537-ONN.

*****

Hutchinson heard the description of Starsky's car go out. "Dammit!" He knew that somehow, Dobey had figured it out. And Starsky was as good as dead. The city was just too big to find him in less than ninety minutes. Not with the head start his captors had.

Simultaneously, he realized two things: he had to ditch the Torino as soon as possible and he had to seize control of the situation. "Think, Hutchinson, think!" he said aloud.

It worked some. He recalled a small, rarely used park only a few blocks away from the route he was taking to Monte's office building. Checking all around him and seeing no squads or unmarkeds, he made a quick right.

The park, as he expected, was empty. He chose the most secluded parking spot. Cutting the engine, he leaned back and scooted down until his head met the top of the seatback. He shut his eyes to the outside world. He tried to think through the ultimatum, the horrific choice, he had been given.

Indecision ate at his soul, a vulture tearing at the eyes of a very much alive meal. Of course he would kill to protect his partner. He had done so in the past, saving the life of Josh Carlson, his partner when he was a uniform. He had killed or wounded to save Starsky a number times. Once, he had even feared he'd lost his humanity, so enraged he was at the possibility of losing the man he loved and trusted most in the world.

But to kill an unarmed man, in cold blood, who did not pose an immediate threat? Even though the man was despicable beyond words? Would that make him as reprehensible as the target, or would he be doing the world a favor? But most importantly, would Starsky have anything to do with him if he carried out the hit on Monte? Why couldn't the choice have been either his life or Starsky's? That would have been effortless to decide.

Fingers drummed on the steering wheel. There is a way. There just has to be a way.

Starsky or Monte.

Okay, start from the beginning. Was there anything Lockly or Joey or Theresa said that could give me a clue?

Starsky or Monte.

Fingers drummed faster. What about Monte? Anything from him? Dammit, what do you know about him and his organization? His worst enemies? His best friends? Think!

Who lives, who dies.

Try to remember everything those two fruitcakes said. Now, the fingers snapped to some subconscious cadence. There's got to be something there -- you just can't see it. Okay. "You finish what you stopped…"

It all comes down to you.

"…By two o'clock." Why then? Why not sooner? Or later? In time for dinner?

You hold life and death in your hand today.

Fuck! We're running out of time!

Starsky or Monte.

One last finger snap, eyelids whipping open. He knew what had to be done.

He checked his timepiece: 12:48. Not much time. He reached for the radio's mike, but stopped shy of actually using it. No, they can't know anything.

He climbed out clumsily, favoring his aching thigh. After locking the car doors, he limp-sprinted for the nearest public phone at the park's entrance. Shoving in a quarter, he dialed a number he knew by heart.

"Big O Productions, Bruce Brazelton speaking."

"BB, it's Ken Hutchinson."

"Kenny, my boy! Long time no hear. This past June, wasn't it, when we hit that jazz club together? Change your mind about being a cop? Or how about moonlighting. One film. I promise it'll be tasteful. That's all I'm askin'." The fast talker finally paused for an answer.

Involuntarily, Hutch blushed crimson. "No, I'm still not interested."

"I've been thinking about a script. How about this as a tagline: This cop backs one kind of magnum heat by day, another by night. Like it? If I can't get you, think that partner of yours might do it? Always looking for new talent, Ken."

"BB, I need your help right now."

Brazelton immediately noted the seriousness and desperation in the detective's tone. "Sure, Ken. Anything," he said with uncharacteristic sedateness.

"I need to borrow your car, and are you really the wiz you say you are?"

"Absolutely, on both counts."

"Terrific. I'll be right over."

Hutchinson ran for the nearest main street. He had to wait for two agonizingly long minutes until there was an available cab. Jumping into the filthy back seat, he promised the hack an extra fifty bucks if he could get him to the corner of Winston and 12th in ten minutes.

*****

Starsky had fought against the application of a broad, silk tie as a blindfold. He had lost that battle, and had remained on his side, still tied to the chair, his head suspended over his shoulder. Thanksgiving turkeys ain't got it this bad.

Quite by accident, Starsky had discovered that singing certain Christmas carols had a pain-relieving effect. The activity had another unforeseen benefit, as well: it drove his abductor crazy. At first, Dominic had reacted by simply turning up the volume on the TV set. But Starsky had just sung louder, and had won a few small concessions from Dominic -- a makeshift pillow for his head, temporary loosening of the ropes, a change in channel, the moving of the space heater closer to him -- by vowing not to sing for a while. Unfortunately, none of the concessions ever included the answer to Starsky's question of why he had been nabbed.

The hour-long noon news program was ending as the detective finished one of his "bribes" of room temperature ginger ale. He chewed on the plastic straw Dominic had given him. "Hey, it's past lunch time and I'm starvin'. Got anything to eat?"

"No! Shut the hell up. My story's comin' on."

"Oh, yeah? Which one is it?"

Dominic sighed theatrically. "Love of Life. Now, shut your trap, cop." He pulled up to within a couple of feet of the tube when the theme music began.

Starsky snickered at the thought of this wiseguy actually getting hooked on a soap opera. He saw this as the perfect opportunity to get his answer. He started singing, as loud as he could, White Christmas in a purposely terrible imitation of Bing Crosby.

Dominic swiveled quickly in his chair to look upon his victim. "What'll it take this time to get you to shut up, you freakin' idiot?!"

Starsky's lips curled at the corners slightly. "Why'dja snatch me, huh? Won't make you rich, ya know."

Dominic rolled his eyes. "Yeah, it will."

"How's that? Nobody's gonna pay ransom for me. No way you're gettin' rich."

"It ain't ransom, songbird. So now you know why we took ya. Shut up, or I'm comin' over there and kick your ass." He swung around to watch the screen.

"'Just like the ones I used to know, where the treetop -'"

"You're a nut case, copper!" Dominic loudly interrupted. He growled deep in his throat before continuing speaking over his shoulder at high speed. "Ya know, I wouldn't be surprised at all if your partner don't kill Monte. He probably wants us to kill you, so he don't have to put up wit' your yammerin' any more!"

Starsky blanched at the instant realization of what Dominic said. "Damn you!" he shouted as he struggled vigorously but futilely to free himself. Through bared teeth, he hissed, "You will not turn my partner into a murderer."

"Hey, I don't hear from one of the guys by 2, you're his-tor-ee. We gave your blondie man plenty of time to do the man, 'cause we'd rather have a dead Monte than a dead cop, ya know?"

"You're a coward! You don't have the guts to do your own dirty work."

"I may be dumb, but I ain't stupid. Us killin' Monte wudn't exactly the smart thing to do."

"If my partner doesn't take out Monte, you think it's real smart to kill a cop? He won't stop, and neither will all the other cops, until they find you. And I wouldn't want to be in your shoes when they do." Starsky strained at the rope and mouthed a curse when there was still no give. Just my luck that knuckle-dragger knows how to do one thing really good.

Starsky kicked at the air and ceased trying to free himself so he could rest for a few minutes and give himself a chance to think. Hutch, I know you won't do it. You gotta know I'd rather die than see you do that to yourself. It's not your fault.

Abruptly, he shook off the defeatist thoughts that made his skin crawl. Hell, I still have almost an hour to get away. I'll convince this goon to let me go, and I'll call you at the last minute, just like in the movies. I'll have to call dispatch to have 'em patch me through, since you'll be cruisin' the streets lookin' for me. Just don't be at Monte's -- at least, not for that reason.

He startled himself when it dawned on him that he didn't wish Monte any harm. The hate and the childish desire that Monte would meet a horrible death, things he had carried somewhere dark within him for twenty years, had morphed to pity. Pity for a life barren of freely given respect, trust, even love.

Rested, Starsky began talking. He talked for twenty minutes, but somehow, Dominic tuned him out. Reaching his limit, the captive hollered, "Damn you!" He rocked his head from side to side in frustration. "Will ya at least let me go to the john? You know, if I'm gonna die, I don't want to go smellin' like I needed my diaper changed."

Dominic clamped his hands over his ears briefly and shook his head. "Okay! Okay! Keep your pants on!" He chuckled. "Pretty good little joke, huh, copper?"

"Yeah, why don't ya change jobs. You're a laugh riot. Hurry up, wouldja? I really gotta go."

The wiseguy pulled his ski mask on before approaching the overturned detective. "Starsky. What kinda name is that, anyhow?"

"What?! Man, I just hafta take a leak. What does my name have to do with that?"

Dominic took several rapid, deep breaths. He squatted, grabbed the chair in two places, and heaved it and Starsky to the upright position. He exhaled forcefully. "Is it Polack?"

Starsky, slightly dizzy from the swift change, gulped. "Yeah."

"You Cath'lic or Jew?"

"Does it make a difference?"

"Well, yeah, sorta. If I have ta whack you, I'd like to say the right kinda prayer, ya know. I was raised a good Cath'lic, but I know some Jew prayers."

"I'm Buddhist," he lied.

"Oh. Don't know any of those prayers. Sorry."

Starsky rolled his eyes beneath the tie. "It's the thought that counts. Now, hurry up."

Dominic jerked off the blindfold. "Better not try anything, or I won't wait 'til 2."

Starsky squinted and blinked until his eyes adjusted. "Don't worry. I'm in no rush to do anything but Number One." By the time Dominic had freed him from the chair, Starsky's eyes had adjusted and the dizziness had disappeared. Slowly, he stood, a little unsteady at first. He worked some kinks out of his back. Soon he was functional enough to walk unaided. "Which way?" Dominic pointed vaguely behind Starsky.

He found the bathroom in the small house without difficulty; all he had to do was follow his nose. Though the lid on the toilet was down, the strong odor of standing urine managed to permeate the surrounding area. Adding to his misery was the fact that he had been wrong about the carols quieting his pain; he hadn't hurt much because his left arm and shoulder had fallen asleep. Both were tingling awake quite uncomfortably. He stopped in the hallway at the threshold. "Okay, untie my hand."

"Uh-uh."

"What -- so you gonna hold. . .my thingie?" Starsky saw the mask move to the cringe beneath it.

"No way I'm touchin' that!" Dominic's arms flapped around as he thought. "Okay, I got it. First, I, you know, undo you. Then I untie your hand." The covered head went down. He wiped his sweaty palms on his pants several times. "I can't believe I gotta do this," he whispered.

Despite his urgent need, Starsky saw an opportunity and seized it. He lifted his knee fast and hard into his abductor's solar plexus.

Dominic exhaled, his hot breath piercing Starsky's sweatshirt. He stumbled backward but avoided falling by grabbing the red shirt.

Starsky's spine had met the doorjamb and the contact momentarily jarred him. He was already recovering from it when Dominic pulled him forward. He lost his balance and fell into the smaller man. They went down.

The narrow hallway and Dominic's writhing and ineffectual attempts at subduing Starsky slowed Starsky's efforts to get off Dominic and out of the house. Once he did get off the kidnapper, he had a hard time standing. Seeing Dom start to noticeably recover stoked the fires in him. I won't get outta here if I don't do something else to slow him down.

He smiled a sincere apology at Dom then kicked him in the groin. Dom's mouth opened, but no sound emerged. He curled into a ball and hand-hugged his crotch. At the same time, off balance because his arms were tied and he had leaned too far back for the kick, Starsky fell back, crashing to the floor. Had his dressing been less bulky, the impact would have been excruciating. Instead, it was merely tortuous. He shrieked a "Dammit!" For a split second, he prayed for unconsciousness.

But survival and friendship and old times cut the prayer short. He had to get moving for himself, and Hutch, and even Monte. Nobody else is gonna get hurt because of all this crap. Several deep breaths and a prolonged "AAAHHH" later, he was standing.

He shuffled swiftly through the house and presently found the front door. "Oh, hell!" he said angrily as soon as he remembered he couldn't turn the knob. He backed up a few of feet in preparation to kick it down. He didn't try that, once he recalled what had happened to him the last time he kicked something.

Now he girded for the full body attack. Concentrating on breathing, he aimed the right side of his body at the door. He charged.

And bounced back, hissing in new pain from his right shoulder and more pain in his left. It also reminded him of his full bladder. "Oh-shit-oh-shit," he said as he danced in a small circle. He suspected the door had probably been barred on the outside. "Another way. Gotta be another way out."

There was. "Back door." But he stopped in his tracks when he heard Dominic thrashing around. He'll be up before I get there! He focused on the filthy, cloudy picture window near the front door.

Don't have time to fight him anymore. Not sure I can win, either. He gulped in big breaths.

Quit thinkin' and just do.

He ran toward the window. "AAAAHHHH!" Tucking his head. Leading as much as possible with his right shoulder. "AAAAHHHH!" Jumping high enough to clear the sill. "SSSSHHHH--" Breaking glass. Flying. Hitting the ground, a former patch of lawn, still soft from the recent heavy rains. Somersaulting sideways twice. Stopping in a near-fetal position. Bladder screaming for relief. "--it."

Knocked all but breathless, he gasped for air. His left shoulder pounded with awakened and renewed pain. Everything else that hurt seemed minor, except for one thing. "I shoulda waited 'til after I went," he moaned.

He lay there, motionless, while he recouped some of his energy so he had a reasonable chance of standing and staying that way on the first try. Can't be much past 1:30. Still got a little time to get to a phone. He looked around the neighborhood. Though he couldn't see much, it was enough for him to identify it -- the one square mile piece of real estate burned out, looted, and abandoned by all but the homeless in the poorest section in Bay City. "Aw, dammit!"

Without warning, a bullet buried itself in the ground a couple of inches from his head. Reflexively, he rolled forward to his knees. He rocked forward, then back, to stand. Taking off in a stumbling, awkward run for the nearest cover -- the broken down house next door -- he glanced at the house from which he'd escaped. There was his kidnapper in the window frame, one hand ripping off his ski mask, the other hand wielding a .22 caliber gun. You fall, you die. He labored to keep his feet.

*****

Hutchinson drove the borrowed black Datsun 240Z right past a platoon of police officers and Captain Dobey and into the garage of the building housing Monte's offices. Hutchinson smiled at Dobey's predictability. He couldn't fault the captain, though, because he would have done the same thing. He selected a stall in the middle of the visitors' parking section. The clock on the dashboard informed him it was 1:40. He unfolded himself from the sports car, straightened his clothes, and headed for the elevators, trying to effect a prancing walk despite a minor limp.

Standing guard near the bank of the garage elevators were Cyril Babcock and Bart Simmons, two of his fellow detectives. Dobey's pulling out all the stops. Wonder if he's got someone outside Monte's door? Well, here goes nothing.

"Monsieurs," Hutch said in a passable French accent, nodding at them as he strolled by to press the button for the elevator. He stood there for several long minutes, wondering if they would see beneath the long-haired brown wig, the brown contact lenses, the bump in the nose, the bushy handlebar moustache, the body-hugging aqua silk T-shirt, and the black leather pants and blazer. The entire time, he could feel their eyes scrutinizing him, could hear a little catch in one's breath followed by an embarrassed exhalation, could smell their disquietude.

The door swished open, and he tried not to show his relief. He entered the empty elevator car alone. So far, so good. He pressed 36, leaving behind a damp fingerprint. Facing forward, he politely smiled at the detectives. Don't push it… "Pardonez-moi. Ur, going up?" He held his breath.

"Um, no, thanks. We're waiting for someone," said Babcock.

Hutchinson shrugged nonchalantly and rolled his eyes. As soon as the door shushed shut, his breath rushed out. See? The power of positive thinking. Oh, dear God, this has to work.

The elevator stopped to let on six people returning from late lunches. Hutchinson moved to the rear, but not before seeing a couple of uniforms. He prayed that the six were together and would be getting off on one floor.

His prayer wasn't answered. All six wanted different stops, but two were above the 36th floor. Sweat gathered beneath his false moustache and rivered down his spine to puddle in the small of his back. The numbers above the door seemed to light up at a snail's pace.

Finally, the chime sounded as the door slid open on the 36th floor. One long step and he was in the hallway only feet from where he'd confront Monte. He tugged his pocketwatch out - 1:49. You better be good, Hutchinson.

He checked the plushly appointed corridor in both directions -- no sign of anyone. He ripped off the wig and moustache, popped out the lenses, and threw them all in a nearby trashcan. He worked on removing the artificial lump on the bridge of his nose as he strode to the main entrance to Monte's warren of offices. He stuffed the prosthetic into a pocket.

Now he stood at the ornate door separating him from the only man who could save his partner's life. He took out his badge wallet from the jacket's breast pocket. Taking a deep, long breath, he flipped it open and stared at the shield for a lifetime. Here goes nothing again.

He walked in without knocking. The receiving office was spacious and tastefully decorated. A plain-faced, redheaded woman wearing a tailored suit sat behind a desk just to the right of an elaborately carved door. Before she could greet him, he had the badge in her face and said in such a way that no one dared deny him, "I have to see Vic Monte now."

Wide-eyed, she needlessly and belatedly gestured for him to go in.

Monte looked up from a ledger he was using, taken aback by the grim-faced detective suddenly standing on the opposite side of his desk. "Got to go, Jimmy M. Lunch on me next time I'm in Frisco, okay?" He slowly hung up the phone. "Surely, your mother raised you better -"

Hutchinson cut him off with a loathsome glare. "Shut the fuck up, Monte. If you don't listen, then Starsky's dead in" -- he looked at the grandfather clock to his right -- "nine minutes."

Monte's smirk fell from his face, replaced by serious concern. "I'm listening."

"The turkeys who took out the contract on you want me to finish the job because I got in the way of its completion. And to make sure I carry it out, the price is Starsky." Hutch paused to clear the quaking in his throat, the ache in his soul. He was surprised to see Monte's olive complexion turn ashen. Maybe he really does care about Starsk.

"It's simple," Hutch continued. "Your life or Starsky's. By two o'clock. It's my choice."

"But you can't kill me in cold blood! You're a fuckin' cop, for cryin' out loud!" Monte's right hand slinked toward a drawer.

You manipulative, selfish piece of garbage. Do you put anyone before yourself? "Keep your hands where I can see them." Hutch grinned inwardly at the target's sinister glower. "The way I see it, Monte, this city would be a better place without you in it. But without Starsky, the world would be much worse off." He heaved a breath. "Once they know everything about you and about Starsky, could a jury convict me of murder?" He paused, this time for effect. "Eight minutes."

"Is that it, Hutchinson? You just gonna torment me to death so I die of a heart attack?" he raged.

Ignoring that question, the detective said, "I know who put out the contract."

Monte leapt from his chair. "Who, dammit, WHO?!"

"At least two of your own men. I don't who, exactly, or if they are the only ones, but I am positive they're yours, Monte."

"How?"

"Just before they left with my partner, one of them told me Starsky and I could make the early dinner special at Giovanni's if you were dead by 2. That's almost seven minutes away. There is no way the media could know and report your death before 6. Only someone here would know."

Stunned, devastated, Monte fell back into his chair. "I don't believe. . ."

"Do you truly love Starsky, or are you just blowing smoke to cloud his vision, trying to finesse that adoring ten-year-old you presume still lives within him to your own ends?" Monte's face told him nothing. "Starsky's my partner, and the best friend I ever had. I'll do whatever it takes to protect him. Will you?" The face remained blank. "Does one of your bouncer-type goons wear a ring with a buckle design?" The face now spoke volumes.

*****

Sammy took up the entire love seat in the bodyguard/chauffeur office to one side of Monte's. He mindlessly flipped through the Mad magazine while he watched the wall clock. Five more minutes. Dat cop's sure is takin' a long time. Maybe he ain't gonna kill da boss. Dom ain't gonna like havin' to kill a cop.

He jumped and flung the magazine skyward at the single, window-rattling shot. Before the magazine could fall back to earth, the bulky man had opened the door to Monte's office.

There was Monte in his chair, arms drooping, mouth hanging open, big red spot just to the left of mid-chest. Turning his head on his thick neck, he saw the blond cop, a smoking gun in his hand.

"Holy shit," Sammy "Buckle" Rizzo whispered.

*****

Starsky made it to cover a millisecond ahead of the second bullet. He kept going, despite each footfall coarsely reminding him of his full bladder, knowing that his best chance against getting shot was distance. By the time he arrived at an intersection, he had developed a rhythm to his running. Fairly confident that his chances of falling were now reduced, he halted to check things out.

The cross street, Gannon Avenue, was a formerly major thoroughfare, lined with small businesses of all sorts. Since the riots, though, everyone avoided this street, and the entire neighborhood, if at all possible. It was deathly quiet at the moment. The stoplight changed for no one.

He turned to his right and raced along. Two blocks later, he collided with a street person who had just stepped out of a recessed doorway. Starsky fell, hitting the sidewalk first with his left shoulder. He grunted in agony and rolled until he lay in the gutter on his back, too dazed to move.

The street person, a middle-aged white man dressed in rags and reeking of fermented grapes and urine, had fallen as well, but didn't suffer anything he could feel. He spied the red sweatshirt and decided he must have it. He crawled over to it. "I'll take this," he said to the crossed blue eyes. He pulled on the left sleeve, which quickly came loose from the rope's hold. "Poor fella -- only got one arm. Oh, well." He started pulling the rest of the shirt up.

Starsky came to his senses. "Hey, what the hell you doin'?"

"You run me over, and I'm taking this nice, warm shirt as compensation for my troubles."

Starsky was about to tell the man what he could do to himself when it occurred to him this would be a good thing. "You can have it, but it won't come off unless you untie my hand," he said with snake-oil salesmanship. "See this rope around my waist? It's around my wrist, too. Untie it, and the shirt's yours. But you gotta hurry."

The man nodded a few times and disappeared into the building from which he came. When he returned, Starsky was standing. The man brandished the largest pair of scissors the detective had ever seen. He gulped involuntarily. "You do know how to use those things, right?" he asked with jovial fear.

The wino smirked. "Of course. I used to be a tailor. That's what drove me to drinking."

Starsky squeezed his eyes shut and turned his head away. He heard the snick of the scissors, but instead of feeling freedom from the rope, he felt a rush of cool air where the left sleeve used to be. "What, what, what. . .?" he said as he looked from the hole to the man and back several times.

"Decided I couldn't take the shirt off the back of a man with only one arm. But you're not using the sleeve." With a grand gesture, he wrapped his prize around his neck. "Makes a right nice scarf. Perfect for Christmas." Suddenly scared, he asked hesitantly, "You wouldn't be the man Dr. Kimble is looking for?"

"No, I would--" Starsky's answer was cut off by the firing of the .22. The shot went wild, but goaded him into action. "Get back inside!" he shouted to his companion. Though it was tempting to follow him, Starsky didn't want to risk the man's life any further. He took off and ducked into the first alley he came to.

He was in luck. The passage was between two five-story buildings. One had been a small warehouse, the other an office building. The side door into the warehouse was open. He dashed in, carefully closing it behind him. When he heard the running feet enter the alley, he held his breath and waited.

Dominic, now fully recovered from the assault and livid at the indignities Starsky made him suffer, stopped only a few yards from Starsky's hiding place. "Where'd ya go, copper?" A few seconds later, he continued to jog down the alley.

Starsky exhaled strongly. He dragged in several lungfuls of stale air. Quickly he looked around. There was a staircase. The roof. Maybe I can see where I should go from up there. His first step sent a number of metal containers banging into each other. He hunched his shoulders. Maybe he didn't hear it? He was almost at the first landing when he heard footsteps skid to a stop outside the door. He ordered his legs to double-time.

*****

Hutchinson swung his right arm until the gun was pointed at Sammy's head. "I finished it," he snarled through clenched teeth. "I've just wasted one unarmed man, and another won't be hard to do. Make that call right now, or you'll join your boss in hell."

Sammy held his hands up. "Okay, Blondie. I gotta go to the office?" He waited for the cop's response.

Several seconds ticked by before Hutchinson gave a short nod. Sammy backed into the smaller office, his eyes never leaving the weapon still trained on him. Hutchinson stayed out of reach.

The large man quickly opened a closet door, but Hutchinson said, "Careful," as he reached inside for something. Moving more slowly and sweating profusely, Sammy removed a CB radio rig. Gingerly he set it on the seat of the chair closest to him. In fifteen seconds, at almost 1:58, he was calling for Dominic. After five hails, there was no response.

Hutchinson cocked the hammer back. Sammy dropped the microphone. "Check the frequency and try again," Hutch ordered. You're still alive, Starsk. I can feel it. Perspiration trickled down the sides of his face. Fear he was wrong drenched his soul.

"Okay, okay, okay." Sammy twisted the dial back and forth, then called again when he was sure he was at the right place. "I-I don't know why dis ain't workin'. It was a couple days ago." His expression pleaded for the detective to believe him.

Hutchinson flew at him, knocking him against the wall. Sammy slid down until his butt met floor. Hutch, bending over the hulk, roughly gathered Sammy's jacket and twisted it until it tightened around the chunky throat. He stuck the barrel of his weapon deep into the meat under his opponent's shocked left eye. Gently, firmly, compellingly, he said, "Where is he?"

"A house on Wisteria. In dat section of town dat got all burnt up in the riots a few years back."

"Number." Even, affectless.

"Uh, uh. . .oh, shit, I don't remember!" Sammy grimaced as the collar got tighter and the gun dug deeper.

"Number." Now with menace.

"It's, uh, one five five seven two," he squeaked out "Yeah, dat's it. It's got green shutters on some of da windows."

Hutchinson abruptly loosened his hold on Sammy's clothes and soundly patted the wiseguy's cheek once. "Good boy, Sammy Buckle. Let's hope you don't have the death of a police officer to add to your long list of felonies." He took a deep breath and said while his eyes were still on the kidnapper, "He's all yours, Monte, until the other cops get here."

"What?" Sammy's voice cracked from sudden dryness.

Hutch stood and stepped to the side. He took some perverse pleasure in seeing Sammy's panicked eyes meet the cruel ones of his employer. He snickered at seeing the growing stain at the thug's crotch. He returned the prop gun, a .25, he had shot Monte with to his ankle holster. He raced by Monte, who caught his left arm on the backswing. He stopped, his snort asking "What?"

"Fuck him, Hutchinson. I'm going with you."

Hutch yanked his arm from Monte's grip. "The hell you are." He pointed his right index finger at the mob boss and narrowed his eyes. "You stay away from my partner. Forever." He turned to face Captain Dobey. Perfect timing. I'll have to send that secretary some flowers. "Captain, that pile of blubber on the floor is one of Monte's men who hired Lockly and Martin. To start, you can arrest him for rape, murder, and kidnapping. I'll think of more later. Right now, I have go. I may be too late already."

Dobey prevented Hutch from getting by him. "What the Sam Hill is going on, Hutchinson? Too late for what?" he barked. His eyes widened on seeing the red stain on Monte's shirt.

"He may be dead, but there's a chance he's not. I'll tell you in the car on the way there."

Dobey let Hutchinson pass. Hutch went directly to the phone on Monte's desk and dialed dispatch. As he watched his detective, Dobey said to Babcock and Simmons, "This is all yours."

Hutchinson dropped the receiver half-on the cradle and ran from the office, Dobey a step behind him. Monte marched to Sammy, and slapped him viciously across his fear-filled face. Next, he confiscated a key ring from the bodyguard's pants pocket. He parted the two detectives, who had entered the smaller office, like the Red Sea and was gone before either one could ask him to stay.

Simmons shrugged philosophically at the inconvenience of having to interview Monte at some other place and time. Taking out his set of handcuffs, he whispered to his partner, "See? I told you Frenchie was really Hutch. Now pay up."

*****

Starsky stared at the closed door between him and the roof. He listened to Dominic. Second flight. He grinned, remembering how his pursuer had tripped up on the scattered cans and cursed a blue streak. But if I don't think of somethin' fast, he's gonna trip right up here and ruin my day.

In the distance, he heard a church's clock play a short melody then chime the hour. He counted two. Hutch, I know you didn't. And you're gonna know soon I'm okay.

He took a deep breath and grimaced at the pain it amplified in his back. He was convinced, though, that his shoulder hurt so much was because his bladder was pressing against it. Can somebody die from holding it in? he thought as he headed back down the stairs as quietly as he could.

Dominic, breathing heavily from exerting his out-of-shape body, didn't hear Starsky descending the stairs. The kidnapper, sensing a presence near the third landing, looked up just in time to see the cop's boot before it connected with his chin. He tumbled down the stairs until he stopped at the second landing. He fought to stay conscious.

Starsky beat it down the stairs as fast as he could. He stepped over Dominic. That foot had almost touched the next step when Dominic grabbed the planted leg and pulled. Starsky pitched forward, screaming his pain and frustration silently. He lay on the landing in a jumbled heap. Unable to move for the moment, he looked up the staircase, just in time to see Dominic literally airborne, coming at him.

Sucking air through gritted teeth, Starsky pushed on a railing post and rolled in a ball down the last flight. He saw Dominic lift his upper body off the boards, then collapse into unconsciousness, dropping the pistol to the step below him, right before he himself passed out.

*****

Hutchinson had Dobey's Ford Crown Victoria rolling before the captain could close the door. Jaw muscles set, he flipped the switch for the siren. Dobey took care of the mars light.

Sighing deeply, Dobey harrumphed. He stole a glance over his shoulder and nodded his approval at the black-and-white following them. "Now will you tell what the hell is going down, or do I take your badge and weapon now rather than later?"

Hutchinson tapped on the brakes lightly and cut the wheel to the left to keep from hitting the rear end of a city bus. Unfazed by the near collision, he turned back to the right as he stepped on the accelerator. He forced his jaw to relax so he could tell the story to his boss. He told Dobey everything, including Starsky's notion that the instigators were probably in Monte's organization, Brazelton's assistance with the disguise, his own hunch that Monte would have to believe he was ready to kill him since there was no real proof against his lieutenants.

Suddenly, a cement truck backed into the street too few yards in front of the Crown Vic. Hand over hand, Hutchinson steered another hard left and eased his foot on the brakes. The rear fender crumpled from the impact on the truck's back end. His foot stamped on the gas pedal before the squad following them could hit them. The squad, now parallel to the truck, broadsided it.

Hutch directed the car back to the right, but to miss head-on wrecks with two oncoming vehicles, he forced the car to straddle the sidewalk. A moment later, he was back on the right side of the road.

Dobey was about to order Hutch to slow down when the radio squawked his name. He jerked the microphone from its holder and said calmly, "Dobey." Hutch swerved over the centerline to pass a VW Beetle chugging along. He pulled in front of it in time to miss sideswiping a Pontiac Firebird. He and Dobey rocked side to side a few times.

"Charlie Two-Twelve arrival Wisteria. Building is abandoned, but there is evidence of very recent occupation."

Hutch's heart paused and listened while Dobey asked the question that burned in both men's brains. "Any sign of blood or a struggle?"

"Possible struggle, no blood observed. Window may have been broken recently; no indication that it rained in there ever."

Hutch's heart started again. I knew it.

Dobey hid his sigh of relief. "Copy that. Begin searching area and coordinate with backup when it arrives. ETA three minutes. Out." He had to fight against the g-forces of the car accelerating even more to hang up the mike.

*****

Starsky regained consciousness at the sound of someone groaning and something insistently nudging his flank. He blinked away his disorientation. The groaner, he realized, was his captor. Get your butt in gear, boy, he commanded himself. Hutch must be nuts by now. And you know how pissed he gets when he's nuts. Aw, don't say "pissed." He scooted away from whatever was poking him. The poker spoke.

"You git outta my house! This is my place, and you come stormin' in here, makin' all kinds of racket. Git!"

Starsky looked up and over at the source of the angry command. His eyes found rheumy, pale brown ones in a haggard, dirty face. The wrinkled mouth continued, "I've laid claim to this place, and only folks I invite are welcome. You ain't invited."

"Sorry, mister. Don't know what got into me. If you'd help me up, I'll be on my way."

"Good." The squatter had the cop on his feet faster than the latter thought possible. The man held onto Starsky's arms for a few moments to steady him. "Now, skeedaddle, and don't let the door hit your fanny on the way out," he said gruffly.

Starsky flinched at the unexpectedly strong hands. Grandpop here will definitely be able take care of himself. "That guy up there," he said, flicking his head gently toward Dominic. "He's wasn't invited either. And he's got a gun. Maybe you better lay low until he leaves."

The derelict freed him Starsky instantly and said, "Like hell I will." He mounted the first step.

Starsky knew he couldn't defend the old man -- he was pretty sure he couldn't defend himself right now. Reluctantly, sluggishly, he headed for the open door leading to the alley. He could hear Grandpop and the kidnapper going on about trespassing. Once he reached the door, he leaned on the frame. He opened his mouth to speak, to plead with his pursuer to leave the old man alone, then said, "Shit!" instead when he saw Dominic had recovered the pistol and had it aimed at his chest. He flung himself outside; the slug splintered wood where he had just been.

He closed his eyes in exhaustion. Forcing them open, he turned right and jogged down the alley -- running was beyond his capabilities. Even the bloodcurdling "Copper!" could not induce more speed in him.

*****

The Crown Vic, siren off but mars light still circling, rolled to a stop at the light on Gannon at Wisteria. Hutchinson chose to take a right and was almost through the turn when his eye caught a flash of red that came and went in a heartbeat. Intuition forced him to abort the turn. He veered the car back onto Gannon. "I saw something, Captain. Should be red and to your right."

Dobey nodded. After a couple of blocks, he grabbed Hutch's arm and said, "In that doorway."

Hutch slammed on the brakes and rammed the gearshift into park. He was out of the car before Dobey could open his door. Almost vaulting over the hood in one leap, he hit the sidewalk standing and peered into the semi-darkness. He saw the red again. A moment later, he made out a grimy face above the red. "Sir? I'm a police officer. May I see your scarf?"

"You Lieutenant Gerard?" His eyes went to the black man now standing at the white man's side.

Puzzled, Hutch responded, "Um, no, sir, I'm Sergeant Hutchinson."

"Good. Didn't think so. I wouldn't talk to that cop. But I'm not taking my new scarf off for nobody. Just got it from the one-armed man. He wasn't usin' it."

Hutch felt his throat spasm. I can't be too late. He startled at Dobey's hand touching his back lightly. He coughed weakly. "Do you know where this one-armed man is now?"

"No, but he ran off that-a-way." The street person stuck his arm out of his sanctuary and thumbed to his right. As if his pointing was a cue, a single gunshot sounded from that direction.

Hutch took off toward the sound, palming his Colt as he ran. Dobey returned to his car. Snatching the mike again, he said, "Shots fired, off Gannon between Iris and Wild Rose. Two, probably three, plainclothes on site. Units in the vicinity, respond code three." He flung the mike to the seat. The sirens were wailing by the time he had his weapon out. He joined Hutch in the chase.

His long, determined legs chewing up the yardage, Hutchinson heard someone scream out, "Copper!" in such a way that chilled his bones. He demanded his stride lengthen. Sirens were getting so close that he almost missed hearing two more gunshots. NO! he screamed internally, not wanting to waste needed breath on actually saying it.

He slowed somewhat as he neared the alley entrance. Rather than stopping at the edge of the last building to check out the situation before running into it, he took the corner wide. His brain processed two specifics immediately. The first was an average-sized man in black, who was throwing his gun down. The second was a sprawl of red and blue.

Starsky!

The man in black started running directly for Starsky. Thrusting his Python back into its holster, Hutchinson dashed after him. In short seconds, Hutch caught up with him, taking him down with a flying tackle less than five yards from the motionless Starsky.

Hutchinson sat up on his knees, straddling Dominic's hips. He was reaching for his cuffs when Dominic whipped his arm around and fisted Hutch in his ribs.

Hutch grunted and fell to his left, landing between Dominic and Starsky's feet. Every insult his body had suffered in Starsky's apartment came roaring back with the new pain. Part of him wanted to just not move. But another part, much stronger and not entirely within, pressed him into action.

Dominic's feet had found ground again. He started to run before he stood up straight, headed further down the alley. He slowed when he saw a cruiser pull in. "Damn!" he yelled. Before he could change direction, a hand enveloped his ankle and pulled back. He hit the pavement with his nose.

Hutch kept his grip on Dominic's ankle. He stretched until his free hand closed around Dom's calf. He continued climbing up the kidnapper's leg. The cruiser had now stopped a few yards from them.

Dominic flexed a knee in hopes of hitting the cop as payback, not in any real hopes of getting away. Hutch felt it coming, and swiveled his hips so the heel bashed into a butt cheek rather than a much more sensitive area.

Dom howled his frustration when Hutch didn't fall or even loosen his handhold. A second later, he grunted hard at the knee that sank into the small of his back. He screamed again.

Simultaneously, Hutch unhooked his handcuffs with his left hand and grasped Dom's right forearm with his other. "You're - under - arrest," he panted. He snapped one hoop around Dom's wrist. He ignored the two uniformed officers who moved in to assist him.

"Damn, Blondie! That's bitin' inta me!"

Hutch grabbed and twisted Dom's left arm behind his back. As he fastened the other bracelet in place, he snarled, "Didn't you see the warning signs posted today? About sharks in the neighborhood? You swim with 'em, you're gonna get bitten." He nodded at the uniforms to take custody.

Starsky had managed to turn himself slightly to the right and hold himself there with his knee and hip flexed. "Hey, Jaws, if you can tear yourself away, you can use those flippers of yours to untie me."

Hutch was down on one knee by Starsky before he finished speaking. "You okay?" He wasn't entirely successful in hiding the tremor in his voice.

"No! I -"

Hutch cut him off with a frantic "Did you take a round?" He began a fast hands-on exam.

Starsky rolled his eyes. "No, dummy! Tripped over sump'in, and fell on my knees before the rest-a me followed."

Satisfied and grateful beyond words that Starsky had no new holes, he looked back to find Dobey. The captain was trotting toward them, brushing himself off after a literal run-in with the curious warehouse dweller. Behind him was another patrol car. "I don't see anything you could've tripped on, except maybe your feet, Sasquatch. Where's your knife?" he asked as he burrowed around in Starsky's jeans pockets.

"Who cares? An' my knife is prob'ly still in my clothes from the other night. Jus' untie me already!"

Hutch's hands began working at the rope's knot. "Oh, right. Okay, I'm untying you right now. But what the hell's wrong?"

Dobey, now with his detectives, said from his position behind Starsky's back, "What's the problem, Starsky?" A moment later, he was wiping his damp face with the always-handy white handkerchief.

"Cap, maybe you can light a fire under Pokey here. If I don't take care of business soon, people are gonna be callin' me Blondie."

"What?" Hutch and Dobey chorused together.

Starsky snorted angrily. "I gotta take a leak real bad. Geez, you two are dense."

"Why didn't you just say so?" asked Hutch. He kept his smile of relief to himself. He winked furtively at Dobey, who in turn covered his nose and mouth with the kerchief to hide his growing amusement.

The rope finally untied, Hutch rose to a half-crouch, grabbed Starsky by the back waist of his jeans and under his right arm, and stood the two of them together.

Starsky wavered precariously. Some color drained from his cheeks. He worked his right hand and arm to alleviate the stiffness and increase the circulation. "Hurry up and unzip me."

"Starsky, there's no bathroom around here. If you go in this alley, I'll have to cite you for public nuisance," he said with all seriousness. "That comes with a -"

"Fifty-dollar fine and/or three days in jail," he finished. "Gimme the damn ticket! See if I care!" He hopped from the ball of one foot to the other repeatedly in an impatient dance.

Hutch, only maintaining a straight face with great effort, sighed and unzipped the jeans while Starsky held onto the waistband. "No thanks for not catching the mouseketeer in the zip-trap?"

Starsky, already feeling infinitesimal relief from having a little less pressure on his bladder, glared frostily at his partner. Clutching at his jeans, he shambled a few yards to stand behind a battered, discarded armoire. He let his head fall back, closed his eyes, and let go with an extraordinarily long, heartfelt "AAAHHHH."

Hutch mentally ah'ed from a different kind of relief.

*****

Dobey had directed the uniforms with Dominic to head to Metro to start the booking process. The other pair he had wait with him. He and Hutch had traded amazed expressions for what seemed an impossibly long time for anyone to urinate. Eventually, Starsky did call for Hutch to help him "get decent." Less than two minutes later, the partners stepped out from behind the wardrobe.

Their adrenalin levels were non-existent and it showed. Hutch staggered along, listing to his right to keep from falling over with Starsky. His arm was around Starsky's waist, and Starsky's right arm was around his shoulders. Hutch held onto Starsky's hand tightly. Starsky's feet dragged along the pavement.

Alarmed, Dobey barked, "Ambulance!" at the uniforms. He ran to the detectives, only to be rebuffed by a hostile glower from Hutch. "You two look like you just went fifteen with the devil. Paramedics on the way," Dobey said. He stayed within catching range all the way to the cruiser.

Hutch gradually turned them until their backs were toward the patrol car. He leaned them against the front fender, then delicately ducked enough so gravity could help Starsky's arm return to his side. He smiled when his partner's fingers found their way into the side pocket of his leather pants. He returned his arm to its place around Starsky's waist. He looked skyward. Thanks. His head-to-toe throbbing aches seemed a very small price to pay.

As Hutchinson's gaze returned to earth, he caught sight of a figure partially obscured by the office building at the Gannon entrance to the alley. Every muscle tensed with his recognition of who it was. Monte.

Starsky, whose head had been resting on Hutch's shoulder, picked up on the sudden change. He looked up at Hutch's face to find his crystal blue eyes staring a warning. "What?" he questioned wearily. He tracked along Hutch's line of sight. He inhaled a staggered breath, and his fingers on both hands curled.

Vic Monte latched onto Hutchinson's eyes first. A slight bend of his graying head followed by a casual salute and grateful smile. Then he shifted to Starsky.

A shrug, an enigmatic smile, head tilting to one side, one hand reaching for his "nephew," but stopping before it got to waist level, then dropping back to his side. He turned and was gone.

Starsky exhaled in short pants audible only to Hutch. Glowing chills undulated through him.

Hutch held him tighter. "You all right?" he whispered to the glistening cobalt eyes.

Starsky swallowed to calm his overly active Adam's apple. Part of him wanted to run after Vic. For a moment, he was sure he would, and the only thing preventing him from doing so was grinding fatigue and pain. But running after him would have been a ten-year-old boy. He was thirty now, and a cop. Part of him he thought he had lost was found. Part of him he didn't think he missed had come back. Slowly, his fingers unfurled. Once he was sure he would sound close to normal, he whispered back, "Terrific. Couldn't be better."

This time, Hutch believed him.

*****

Dobey and the two uniformed cops had been mesmerized by what they had seen. How the hell am I going to write that up in my report? he had thought. The ambulance's arrival hadn't given him time to come up with an answer.

To his surprise, neither detective had given him a hard time when he insisted they both get checked out. He had watched and listened closely as the paramedics evaluated Starsky, then Hutchinson. The doctor taking the call back at County General's ER had approved a narcotic injection for Starsky and some aspirin for Hutchinson -- only because the blond cop had insisted that would be enough -- and a good night's rest for both. The doc didn't believe admission was necessary.

When Dobey left the ambulance to take a call, Starsky was reclining on the gurney and already feeling the effects of the morphine, if his shit-eating grin and his fractured version of the Twelve Days of Christmas were any indications. Hutch shared the bench seat with one of the paramedics.

The call was from Simmons. He reported that Sammy Rizzo had talked with little prompting and the promise of anonymity in whatever prison he was sent to. He had named Paul Ciccone and Carmine DeMarco, two of Monte's top soldiers who favored expensive Italian suits and many other aspects of high living, as the ringleaders. He and Dominic Palumbo were the only others in the conspiracy to take over Monte's empire. They had paid some theatre arts graduate students to recruit Theresa. He also had admitted to stealing Sol Polanski's Cadillac while Dominic shot at Mancini, Monroe, and Caldwell. This had been done on DeMarco's orders, to make it appear that the situation was inter- rather than intra-organization. There were APBs out on Ciccone and DeMarco.

Dobey's happiness that the first "skirmishes" hadn't led to an all-out war was dampened by the fact that there had been too many cop casualties. He returned to the ambulance to hear Starsky and the paramedic dramatically finishing the last fa-la-la-las of Deck the Halls. The two men laughed giddily, while Hutch rolled his eyes.

"Hey, Hutch, just who you tryin' to be in that get-up, anyway -- the Great White Pimp?"

"Not quite. All of this and more courtesy of Bruce Brazelton."

"BB?! You tellin' me you were making porno films while I was trussed up like an old man with a hernia?" Starsky scowled angrily.

"This is just part of the disguise he set me up with to get past the captain. He did try to recruit me for a film. Told him I wasn't into that sort of thing, but knew someone who was who might be a barely adequate substitute." Hutch paused, furrowed his brow, and asked, "You don't mind that I gave him your number, do you?"

"Hutch, that's pornography! You know I wouldn't do that -- not even if it meant I'd hafta go hungry! Besides, what would my mother say? Oh, geez, it's Friday! I gotta call her."

Hutch chortled at his partner's rapid change in conversation direction. "You can call her from my place. You're staying with me -- there's no way I can get your tired ass up that flight of stairs." Starsky stuck his tongue out at him. "And this movie thing, Starsk? Don't think of it as pornography. Think of it as, as, a marital aid."

"Married people don't need that sorta stuff! You owe me, Hutch. Big. Lookit, here's the deal. We work up an act, you know, like Rowan and Martin, with Grovner's book to help us out, and I'll let you be the straight man."

"That's fine with me. At least I'll have something to fall back on once you make it big in art films." Hutch slid to the edge of the bench, then out of the ambulance. "I gotta take care of some business." He smiled with just a hint of smugness, and left in search of the two social outcasts who had helped him and his partner. He had Christmas gifts for them in his wallet.

"Hey, Hutch," Starsky yelled after the receding figure, "whaddya mean, 'might be a barely adequate substitute'?"