Chapter Eight

 

The phone rang on Hutch’s desk three more times before Starsky gave up and dropped the receiver back into the cradle.  He picked it up and dialed again, this time reaching the dispatcher at headquarters.  "Millie, this is Starsky.  Can you patch me through to Hutch?”

 

“Starsky, Captain Dobey left instructions to put you through to him if you called.  Stand by.”

 

In two seconds, Dobey came on the line.  “Starsky, where are you?”

 

“I’m at my apartment, Cap’n.  Where’s Hutch?  I’ve got a lead.”

 

“All hell’s been breaking loose here.  Don’t come to the station.  Hutch is checking out a lead, too, but I don’t know where he is.”

 

“What d’ya mean you don’t know where he is?”

 

“I don’t want to know,” Dobey clarified.

 

“What’s goin’ on?” Starsky asked, not liking the frazzled tone of the captain’s voice.

 

“Simonetti’s in the process of swearing out a warrant for his arrest for assault and battery.  Hutch roughed him up right here in my office.  Damn fool!”

 

“What?!”  Starsky couldn’t believe what he was hearing, but then reconsidered, knowing his partner’s temper and immense dislike for the man.  After all, how many times had Hutch had to stop him from taking a swing at Simonetti?  Man, he would have loved to have been there!

 

“I don’t know what the lead was, but Hutch seemed pretty excited about it.  I suggest you find him—and make it fast.  Simonetti is also trying to convince the DA to charge you with manslaughter.”

 

Starsky’s hand involuntarily flew to the top of his head, his fingers raking through his hair.  “Okay...okay...I’ll find him,” he reassured Dobey.  “I’ll call Huggy, Mickey, Sweet Alice.  One of them may have tipped him off.  But what about Simonetti?  How long before he gets the warrant for Hutch?”

 

“Let me worry about that.  You just get a move on,” Dobey told him, then slammed down the receiver.

 

˜  ™

 

The Torino sped toward the abandoned stadium, Starsky artfully dodging cars, the Mars light clearing his path.  A quick phone call to Huggy had provided him with what he needed to know.  He just hoped he could intercept Hutch before his meeting with Fifth Avenue ended.  Starsky knew Hutch had laid everything on the line, now it was up to the two of them to find the answers to the puzzle before they both ended up behind bars and couldn’t do anything to prove his innocence.

 

Starsky pulled the car into the parking lot and jogged toward the ticket gate.  In the distance, he could see the sun glint off Hutch’s blond hair and the garish bright-colored, checked sports coat that was the trademark of the fading con man, Fifth Avenue.  As he approached, both men spotted him and waited for him to join them.

 

“How’d you know we were here?” Hutch asked.

 

“Huggy,” Starsky answered.  “I hear you’ve been busy makin’ Brownie points with Simonetti,” he added, without humor.

 

“Nothing I haven’t wanted to do for a long time,” Hutch answered. 

 

“Hey, I don’t know what you guys are talking about, but I’d rather not been seen chit-chatting with the two of you.  Bad for my reputation, if you get my drift.  All I want to know is, do we have a deal, Hutchinson?”

 

“That depends,” Hutch said, turning his attention back to Fifth Avenue.  “First, you have to tell us what you have.”  The man was as tall and thin as a walking stick.  Hutch wondered idly if a strong wind could blow him over, or whether he just looked like it could.  His dyed wire-thin mustache and outdated sports jacket engendered a look that had probably been stylish when he was a young man in the 1940s, but now, it was only caricaturish and out-of-place.  Hutch felt a momentary stab of pity for the older man, then quickly focused on what had brought them here.

 

“Hear you’ve gotten yourself into quite a pickle, Starsky,” the con man said, glancing at the detective and flicking the ash from his cigarette.  He did so with what he considered flair, seeing himself as a debonair man of the world.  “But the truth of the matter is, your Mr. Kramer wasn’t the angel that the media has made him out to be.”

 

“If you know something, spit it out,” Starsky said impatiently.  “Hutch and I will do whatever we can to get you leniency on your charges.”

 

“Hold your horses,” Fifth Avenue said.  “I need more assurance than that.”  He was enjoying having the upper hand with these two for once.  They were all right, as far as cops went, but he’d never had much use for authority figures.  They just didn’t show him the respect he was due.  He was an artist, and he had his pride.

 

“Look, we’re running out of time here,” Hutch told him.  “I feel certain we can convince the DA that you didn’t know the diamonds were stolen.  We’ll give you our word that we’ll do everything in our power to get your charges reduced.”

 

A weasily little smile curved the older man’s lips.  “Very well, gentlemen.  I guess I can’t ask for more than that.”  He coughed, something he did a lot these days.  Maybe there was something to this business about smoking being bad for the lungs, after all, he thought.  “Mr. Kramer had a gambling problem.  Over the past six months, he’d gotten in over his head with Frank Fontella.”

 

“The mobster that runs that numbers racket?” Starsky asked.

 

Fifth Avenue nodded.  “One and the same.”

 

“How much over his head?” Hutch asked.

 

“About two-hundred grand.”

 

Hutch looked at Starsky and rolled his eyes.  How could Kramer have been in that deep without anyone knowing?

 

“Is this information a sure thing?” Starsky asked, almost afraid to believe it was true.

 

“Solid gold,” the old man said, flicking his cigarette again.  “The Deacon, Frankie’s muscle, came by looking for Kramer the day before you wasted him.”

 

Starsky winced at Fifth Avenue’s description of the shooting.  “Did he say anything?  You know, anything that might be useful?”

 

“Said his boss was tired of the guy handing him a line and he was running out of time.  Asked me to pass the word on.  I told him we didn’t run in the same circles, that Kramer was strictly an amateur, while I—well, you know my reputation.”

 

“Where can we find this Fontella?” Hutch asked.

 

“Has a place down on Forty-fourth and Clark Street,” Fifth Avenue told them.  I don’t know how talkative he’s going to be, but I suspect he’s pretty pissed right now, seeing how he won’t be able to collect his two-hundred Gs, thanks to Starsky.”  The con man laughed and sputtered at his own joke.

 

Hutch dug into his jeans pocket and pressed a fifty-dollar bill into the man’s hand.  “I don’t want your money.  This is peanuts,” Fifth Avenue said, shoving it back into Hutch’s palm.  “Just remember your promise to speak with the DA.”

 

“You’ve got it,” Hutch assured him, as the two detectives turned on their heels and started back to their cars.

 

“I take it you didn’t enlighten him to the fact that the DA will likely be prosecuting me for manslaughter and arresting you for assaulting a police officer,” Starsky said once they were out of earshot.

 

“Didn’t see any reason to bring up something I don’t intend to allow happen,” Hutch shot back.

 

˜  ™

 

Starsky parked the Torino in front of the Tango Club, a sleazy-looking storefront decorated with exaggerated life-sized bad paintings of long-legged, over-endowed women wearing gaudy Latin dance costumes, complete with feather boas and skirts that slit seductively over their right legs.  The paintings were done in orange and black, but the colors had long since begun to fade to pink and gray.  Trash and empty beer cans littered the sidewalk and the area around the main entrance.

 

“Classy joint,” Starsky remarked, as he and Hutch started toward the front entrance.

 

“I’m sure the clientele is equally classy,” Hutch said.

 

When they reached the door and tried the knob, it was locked.  Certain someone was inside, Hutch pounded on it heavily, waited less than five seconds, and pounded again.

 

“Maybe they aren’t here,” Starsky said.

 

“Maybe they are,” Hutch answered, pounding again.

 

Suddenly the door jerked open and an oversized bald head poked out, towering over the two of them by at least six inches.  “Yeah?  What d’ya want?  Can’t you see we’re closed?”

 

Hutch straightened his shoulders, hoping to look a little intimidating, and said, “We’re here to see Fontella.”

 

“Oh, yeah?  And who the hell are you?  Mr. Fontella don’t see nobody without an appointment.  He didn’t tell me he was expecting nobody.”

 

“Is that right?” Hutch interrupted, flipping his badge open.  “I think he’ll want to make room for us on his calendar.”  He glared up at the giant and didn’t blink an eye. 

 

“Cops!  You’re all the same,” the man spat.  “Think all you gotta do is flash your badge and it’ll get you in anywhere.”

 

“Doesn’t it?” Starsky shot back arrogantly.

 

“Excuse me,” Hutch said politely.  “What did you say your name was?”

 

“Maurice,” the giant boomed back.”

 

“Well, Maurice, suppose you tell your boss Detectives Starsky and Hutchinson are here to see him now.  Otherwise, we’ll have to insist you all be guests at our place—you know—downtown?”

 

Maurice snarled, then gritted out between clinched teeth, “Wait here,” and slammed the door in their faces.

 

“Impressive, Hutch,” Starsky complimented him.  “Glad to see you haven’t lost your touch since I’ve been gone.”

 

“It’s only been one day,” Hutch said.  “Besides, if you’ve really got it, you don’t lose it, Starsk.”

 

In a few seconds, the door opened wide enough for them to enter, and the big man ushered in the two detectives.  “Mr. Fontella will see you in his office.”  He steered them through the club, bereft of activity, other than two busty dancers on the stage rehearsing their routine, and a pudgy little man with a broom, lazily pushing trash around the floor.  With the lights up, the club looked even more shabby and rundown on the inside than it had on the outside.

 

Maurice reached over Hutch, his long ape-like arm grazing the top of Hutch’s head, and pushed open the door to Fontella’s office.  “Here they are, Boss.”  Inside, a second bodyguard, smaller in stature, moved aside to let them enter.

 

Starsky and Hutch stepped inside the smoke-filled office.  The red carpet and red-and-gold striped wallpaper only intensified the claustrophobic ambiance of the room.  Fontella, or someone who fancied himself as his “decorator” had adorned the walls with animal heads fastened to trophy boards, clinging to the wallpaper like grotesque, unnatural growths.

 

“Geez,” Starsky said under his breath.

 

“Looks like a safari gone bad, huh?” Hutch whispered back.

 

“Okay, what do you guys want?” Fontella asked without preamble.  The obese man puffed on a fat Cuban cigar and made no effort to rise from the large fake zebra-skin chair behind his desk.  “I don’t have time to pussy-foot around with cops.  So just tell me what you want and get the hell out.  I’m a very busy man, and I got a business to run here.”

 

“Now that’s not very hospitable, is it, Frankie?” Starsky said.  “We just need a little information.”

 

“I’m not in the habit of helping the fuzz,” Fontella sneered, chewing on the Cuban cigar.

 

“We just want to talk about one of your regulars,” Hutch said.  “Jim Kramer.”

 

“Who says I even knew him?”

 

“Come on, Fontella,” Hutch said.  “Don’t play games with us.  Word on the street is, he was in to you for two-hundred grand.”

 

“So what if he was?  Thanks to Jesse James there, he ain’t gonna be around to pay me either,” Fontella said, nodding toward Starsky.  “I saw you on the news, hotshot.”

 

“Did you threaten him?  Threaten his family?” Starsky pressed.

 

“What if I did?  I didn’t kill him.  You took care of that.  Besides, I already told that other cop everything I know.”

 

Starsky and Hutch exchanged glances.  “What other cop?  Someone’s already asked you about Kramer?” Hutch asked.

 

“Yeah, some stiff in a suit.  Came in here, pushing his weight around like he owned the joint.  Simons...Simmons¾”

 

“Simonetti?” Starsky finished for him.

 

“Yeah, that was his name.  Simonetti.  Real jerk.  Thought he was Mr. Tough Guy.”

 

Realization swept over them like a tsunami.

 

“Besides,” Fontella groused.  “I wasn’t the only one he owed.  He was in to Nicky Montel for about fifty G’s.  Loser’s probably worth more dead than he was alive.”

 

“You’re a real gem, Frankie,” Starsky said sarcastically, as he and Hutch turned to leave the office.  “All heart, too.”

 

Starsky paused at the door and leveled a cool stare on the sleazy man.  “Oh, one more thing, Frankie,” he said, waiting until he was certain he had Fontella’s full attention.  “If my partner and I hear even a rumor of you bothering Mrs. Kramer, we’re gonna take it real personal.  Understand?”

 

“Screw you,” Fontella spat back daringly.

 

“Better listen to him, Frankie,” Hutch reiterated.  “One whisper, and we’re all over you like white on rice.  That’s a promise.”  Hutch waited a beat, then added, “Are we completely clear on this?”  The icy calm in his voice only increased the weight of the warning.

 

Fontella chewed the fat cigar nervously, his eyes darting back and forth between Starsky and Hutch.  “Okay,” he finally relented.  “Okay.”

 

˜      ™