Dahn Tu

The Blintz

 

 

 

Chapter One

 

“And I’m gonna beat ya for once in my life.  You know, Hutch, I’d’ve beat ya before, if you didn’t cheat all the time.”

 

“Cheat?!” he replied, staring at me as if I’d lost my mind.  “For your information, Starsky, I do not need to cheat to beat you at Monopoly.  Nobody would!  You stink at that game.”

 

I turned to look out the window of the Torino at the driver’s side mirror, but I was really trying to hide the smile spreading across my face.  Hutch was right.  I really did stink at Monopoly, but that was only because I thought the game was stupid.  It never made any sense to me at all.  I mean, you push a little dog or a shoe around the board and buy property.  That much I understand.  What I don’t get is why I have to have all the properties with the same color card in order to buy houses for them, or why I charge my friends money to stay on my land with or without houses.  And why should I charge more money for rent just because I have three houses on one piece of property?  If only one person is staying there, it makes sense that he can only use one house or one hotel room, so why charge him for the whole thing? 

 

“I just don’t get it.  I go round and round the board just like everyone else, and I buy stuff just like everyone else—”

 

“Yeah, but all you ever buy are the railroads and maybe a utility.  You can’t win that way.”

 

“But I like the railroads,” I said, just a little defensively.

 

Hutch sighed, and to tell the truth, he sounded a little exasperated.  “That’s pretty obvious, Starsk.  But I think it’s a bit much when you holler ‘All aboard!’ whenever somebody lands on one of them.  And I can’t even begin to tell you what I think of that stupid engineer’s hat.”

 

“A ‘bit much’?”  I took a quick glance in his direction.  “Oh, and I suppose you don’t like the train noises either?”

 

“It’s not the train noises as much as those other noises you make all the time—”

 

Our conversation was interrupted when Mildred’s voice came over the radio.  “Zebra Three.  Come in, Zebra Three.”

 

Hutch grabbed the mic.  “This is Zebra Three.  Go ahead.”

 

“Zebra Three, I have a patch-through from Captain Dobey.  Please stand by.”

 

“Standing by.”  Hutch glanced at me, and I shrugged my shoulders.  We weren’t really in the middle of anything big right then, and I hadn’t done anything recently to annoy the captain, so I had no idea what he wanted.  We didn’t have to wonder long.

 

“Starsky?  Hutchinson?”  Even through the radio speakers, Dobey’s voice sounded unusually strained and harsh.

 

“This is Hutch, Captain.  What’s up?”

 

“We have a hostage situation at the Regent’s jewelry store on the corner of Mercado and Twenty-Fourth Street.  The SWAT team is already in place, the police negotiator is on the scene, and you’re to report to a Captain Marston.”

 

Hutch looked at me again and saw the confusion on my face.  “So what do you need us for, Cap’n?  Sounds like you’ve got it under control.”

 

“I talked to Captain Marston just a few minutes ago, and due to the circumstances, we thought Starsky might be particularly useful on this one.”

 

Now I was really confused.  Hutch just shrugged, so I grabbed the mic out of his hand and asked the most obvious question myself.  “Useful how, Cap’n?”

 

“Our perp is a vet, Starsky.  A Vietnam vet.  He’s been on the line with Marston and has been bringing up things in Vietnamese.  Until they can get an interpreter there, they wanted to know if anyone in the department knew Vietnamese or was in Vietnam and might be able to help.  You were the first person I thought of.”

 

“Terrific.  We’re on our way.  Zebra Three out.”  I hung up the mic slowly, a weird feeling settling in my gut.  “What am I?  Some sort of war psycho expert?” 

 

Hutch rested his arm on the seat back, and I felt the familiar squeeze of his hand on my right shoulder.  “You’ve been there, Starsk.  Sometimes that counts for more than anything you can be taught in any negotiator’s course.”  I shook my head, sighing in resignation.  “Besides,” he continued, obviously trying to cheer me up.  “Look at the bright side.  It sure beats riding around town watching our fingernails grow.”

 

I snorted out a little chuckle, but deep inside, I still had the feeling that nothing good was going to come out of the situation.  As Hutch placed the Mars light on the roof, I executed a perfect U-turn and, siren blaring, we were on our way.

 

˜  ™

 

Predictably, the entire 2400 block of Mercado was a circus by the time we got there.  The SWAT team had parked their van right in front of the building, and there were several patrol cars pulled in close, with uniformed and plain-clothes officers milling around, most of whom were staring at the closed blinds of the jewelry store.  I parked the Torino a short distance away—didn’t want to take the chance of a stray bullet knocking out one of my windows—and Hutch and I made our way to the front of the crowd.

 

“Where’s Captain Marston?” I asked a young officer who was busy trying to take a statement from an elderly Asian woman jabbering at him in Chinese.

 

“Right here,” came a voice from behind me.  I turned around and found myself face to face with a tall distinguished-looking man dressed in a suit and tie and, of all things, a bulletproof vest.  “You must be Detective Starsky.”

 

I couldn’t say much for his tailor, but at least he wasn’t stupid.  “In the flesh,” I replied, shaking his extended hand.  “And this is my partner, Detective Hutchinson.”

 

“Hutch,” Hutch replied as the hand shaking formality was repeated between the two of them.  “What can you tell us?”

 

“Not much,” Marston admitted, wiping at the sweat on his forehead with a clean handkerchief.  “About two hours ago, this guy walks into the jewelry store and demands all the money in the register.  Smashed a couple of display cases and took some watches and necklaces—things that would be easy to pawn.  The store manager activated the silent alarm, and, from what we understand, some over-eager rookie used his lights and siren to clear traffic to get here fast, but didn’t cut them soon enough.  The perp heard the siren and went berserk, shot the manager, and took everyone in the store hostage.”

 

“Have you had any contact with him?”  I craned my neck to see if I could make out anything through the front windows, but the blinds were tightly closed. 

 

“A couple of times.  When he wasn’t speaking in Vietnamese, I managed to find out he’s got three people in there—the manager, a clerk, and a customer who wandered in at the wrong time.  He swears the manager’s still alive, and says he’ll stay that way if we cooperate.”

 

“What does he want?” Hutch asked.

 

“The usual.  Money, food, and safe passage outta here.  Not very original.”

 

“Look,” Hutch continued, and I could hear the impatience in his voice.  “We were told that this guy’s a vet.  Who ID’d him?”

 

“That doctor over there,” Marston answered, pointing to a short dark-haired man seated on the curb several feet from where we were standing.  “He was having his wife’s watch repaired and was just leaving the store when the perp walked in.  Says the guy’s name is Joe Chastain.  Apparently, he’s a regular at the methadone clinic the doctor runs downtown.”

 

“Perfect.”  I couldn’t help the sarcasm in my voice.  “Old Joe’s a hype.”

 

Hutch and I exchanged a look, and I knew he was thinkin’ the same thing I was.  With Joe possibly strung out and lookin’ for a fix, things just got a great deal stickier.  Hutch ran a hand down his face before he spoke.  “Hey, Starsk?  What d’ya say we talk to the doctor, see what we can find out about this guy, and go from there?”

 

“Don’t go anywhere,” I said to Captain Marston, as Hutch and I headed over to the doctor. 

 

“Excuse me, sir?”  Hutch approached the doctor, holding out his badge.  “I’m Detective Hutchinson and this is my partner, Detective Starsky.  We’d like to ask you a few questions.”

 

“I’m Doctor Howard and I’ll do whatever I can, Officer.  That man in there is a patient of mine, and I don’t want to see him get hurt.”

 

Hutch’s eyes cut sideways at me before he continued.  “Look, Doctor.  We realize you have rules about patient confidentiality, but if you could tell us anything at all that might help, it won’t go any further than here.”

 

The doctor studied a spot somewhere past Hutch’s left shoulder before he finally made eye contact again and started talking.  “I first met Joe a few years ago.  He’s a Vietnam vet, and I don’t suppose you’ve seen him yet, but he’s horribly disfigured.  He suffered second- and third-degree burns over eighty percent of his body during the war, and it left him, well, not very pleasant to look at.  When he got back to the States, his wife divorced him, took their only child, and he was left with nothing but pain, skin grafts, and a face difficult for even a mother to love.  He started out taking prescription morphine for his pain, but that eventually led to street drugs, mostly heroin.  Every once in a while, he either decides to quit or just doesn’t have enough money for his next fix, and then he comes to me.  I’ve tried to help him, but...”  The doctor’s voice trailed off and he broke eye contact again, shaking his head.

 

“Does he have any family?” I asked the doctor, although I didn’t hold out much hope.  “Anybody that could maybe talk him out?”

 

“Yeah, he’s got family, if that’s what you want to call them.  His ex-wife moved out of state several years ago, but his father lives just a few miles from here.”

 

Hutch cocked an eyebrow at me.  “Any luck there?”

 

Without expression, the doctor said, “Joe’s father refuses to have anything to do with him.  He won’t speak to him, won’t see him...as far as he’s concerned, his son died in Vietnam.  You’ll get no help there.”

 

The doctor rose from the curb.  “Well, gentlemen, that’s about all I can tell you.  I just wish there was something more I could do.”

 

Hutch put his hand on the doctor’s arm and gave it a reassuring pat.  “Thank you, sir.  We’ll do what we can.”

 

We walked back toward Marston and I could tell Hutch was deep in thought.  “What’re you thinkin’?” I asked, pretty sure I already knew what was on his mind.  And I didn’t like it.

 

“Marston said Chastain wants food, right?”  At my nod, he continued.  “And there’s an injured man in there, right?”  Again I nodded.  “So, let’s negotiate.  We’ll tell Chastain he can have his food if he’ll let a paramedic bring it to him so the manager’s wound can be treated.”

 

“And who might that paramedic be?” I asked, already beginning to worry.

 

“Me.”

 

“No way,” I stated emphatically, shaking my head to let him know I meant business.  “You’re not goin’ in there.  This guy’s got a screw loose, and he’d probably just as soon blow you away as look at you.  Besides, I know a little about what he went through—”

 

“Which is exactly why you need to be on the outside talking to him.  He needs to be in touch with someone he can relate to, someone he can trust.  You’re the perfect candidate, Starsk.  So it makes more sense to let me be the one to go in and play doctor.”

 

I was in no mood for his arguments.  “I don’t like it, Hutch.  It’s too risky.  We’re gonna go back to the SWAT van and talk to this guy.  Who knows?  Maybe I can get through to him, and we won’t have to risk anyone going in there.  It’s worth a shot.”

 

“Okay,” he relented, though I could tell he wasn’t too optimistic.  “We’ll play this your way.  For now.”

 

˜  ™

 

It turned out that Hutch was right.  After talking to Chastain on the phone for forty-five minutes, I knew I hadn’t gotten very far.  For the briefest of moments, we may have connected in some weird way.  We talked about ’Nam and found that we’d been in many of the same hellholes over there, had many of the same experiences that makes a guy want to crawl down into the bottom of a tequila bottle and never come back out.  He’d been like every other soldier I’d known—frightened, angry, and wanting to go home.  Only home had changed for him when he’d returned.  As soon as we started talking about coming back to the States, it was like somebody flipped a switch and he shut me down.  Then it was all business.  He wanted a helicopter with enough fuel to fly for a minimum of four hours, some sandwiches and beer, and $100,000 traveling money.  He wouldn’t budge, no matter how hard I tried to reason with him.  The mayor and police commissioner had predictably decided they weren’t going to negotiate with terrorists, so they were no help at all.

 

Since I had made no progress, I knew it was coming, but I still didn’t like it when Hutch brought up his idea again.  Unfortunately, Marston was within earshot this time and was all for it.  I was outnumbered.  So, with some protesting on my part and a whole lot of begging and pleading from Hutch, he changed into one of the paramedic’s uniforms and prepared a bag full of the bandages and medical-looking stuff he would need.

 

I didn’t get a chance to talk to him alone until we were making the final adjustments on his wire.  I’d insisted on that.  Hutch was reluctant, to put it mildly, but there was no way I was lettin’ him go in there without some sort of communication.  I taped the wire to his chest as snugly as I could and patted it in place with my hand.

 

“You’re lucky you don’t have chest hair, Hutch.  It’ll make it a lot easier to get this thing off you when this is all over.”

 

He looked down at his chest, making sure everything was in place before he pulled his shirt down and began to tuck it in.  “Yeah, but judging from the amount of tape you used, it looks like I stand a pretty good chance of losing a lot of skin.”

 

A heavy silence hung in the air, and I realized I couldn’t do it anymore.  I had no more small talk left in me.  “Hey,” I said quietly, grabbing him by the left arm to get his attention.  We were standing face to face beside the SWAT van, the crowd of people rushing around us almost forgotten.  He looked up at me, his eyes questioning.  “This guy’s crazy, Hutch.  I know his type, and he’ll do anything he has to to survive.  Don’t underestimate him.  ’Kay?”

 

“Okay.”

 

“And don’t be a hero.  Just go in there, do what you gotta do for the manager, and get out.  ’Kay?”

 

“Okay.”

 

“And—”

 

“Starsky.”  His voice was quiet, determined.  “I got it.  I’ll be careful.  And I’ll come back out here so I can beat you at Monopoly tonight.  Okay?”  He gently patted my stomach with the back of his right hand.

 

I smiled in spite of myself.  “Okay.” 

 

He picked up his medical bag and the box that held the burgers and beer, and, with a last nod in my direction, he headed across the street to the store.

 

˜  ™