Recompense

Missing Scene for Bust Amboy. Hutch wants to do right by Mickey, but her situation brings up memories of his own drug withdrawal.

“Damn.” Hutch slammed down the receiver, the urge to slug the person he’d been speaking to so strong he had to restrain himself from yanking the cord out of the phone.

Starsky shoved their shared bag of Bugles into Hutch’s lap. “Struck out again?” He hadn’t typed a word on the arrest form stuck in his typewriter.

“That was the last rehab bed on the list!” Hutch tossed a handful of the crispy snacks into his mouth, the act of crunching therapeutic even though he didn’t actually like Bugles. “None of them are willing to take a patient without payment or insurance.”

“Then she’ll have to go to County.” Starsky peered into the bag as if examining the horn shaped snacks was all important. The resignation in his voice betrayed his studied indifference.

Hutch knew the game. Starsky was staying calm to allow Hutch his temper. That was how they rolled. Would any of it help Mickey Rinaldi?

He glanced over at the girl curled up in a chair, asleep with her head pillowed on a desk. She needed care he couldn’t provide. They should have called juvey or possibly child protective services after the ER staff gave her the once over and released her. To the doctors and nurses there, she was in decent shape. A few bruises from the beating Amboy’s goons had given her, and while clearly an addict, there was nothing they could do when she wasn’t suffering withdrawal symptoms. Hutch couldn’t let this go.

His own withdrawal from heroin was still too raw, too recent, and he’d been drug free for an entire year.

“County doesn’t do a thing for addicts,” Hutch said savagely. “They keep ‘em for a couple days and release the patient right back to the same life as before.” He lowered his voice to avoid waking her up, glad the rest of the evening shift detectives were out investigating crime.

“She’d be hookin’ the next day,” Starsky agreed with a half shrug.

“She needs a chance,” Hutch said. “What you gave me.”

Starsky raised an eyebrow, a fond grin flitting across his mouth before miming a “who me?” to make Hutch laugh.

Didn’t quite work, but Hutch felt lightened nonetheless. Starsky had risked everything: his career, his reputation, his life, to get Hutch through the worst of withdrawals. If there was any span of days Hutch would never forget, it was those forty-eight hours sequestered with Starsky on Huggy’s lumpy mattress, sweating out the horse. He’d vomited, he’d cried, and he’d raged, yet Starsky had held onto him, never once letting him drift away or get lost in the horrible depression that descended once the worst had passed. He could do no less for Mickey.

Withdrawal was hell. No place he’d wish for a seventeen-year old who’d managed to remain surprisingly sane after a year on the streets. In a weird way, she’d been lucky, if that was the right word. She’d always landed on her feet, despite hooking. Attracting Amboy’s eye had provided her with good food, clothing, and a bed to sleep in, with the deadly benefit of a daily serving of the most addictive drug on the market.

To the casual observer, she didn’t look like a heroin addict. No hollow eyed, lost waif with uncombed hair, furtively shooting up in a dank tenement. Mickey was curvy and well fed, her hair lustrous and bouncy. Less noticeable were her constricted pupils, even in low light, and the way she scratched the irritated skin where she shot up. Hutch had seen the needle marks in the crook of her elbow, exactly where his had been. But he knew those were not the only evidence of her addiction. She’d have to maintain her drug level carefully to look as good as she did, which meant regularly injecting between her toes, maybe behind her ears or other easily disguised places. Was that why the ER wouldn’t admit her? She’d looked too good?

His rage threatened to boil over. Hutch surged to his feet, needing movement, a solution. Starsky’s hesitant tap-tapping on the typewriter didn’t help his mood one iota.

“Private treatment centers,” Hutch said, clicking his fingers. “Like the one Sharman’s parents got her into.”

“Which cost the gross domestic product of a small Latin American country to get into,” Starsky commented, applying White-out to his form. “Where you gonna get that kind of dough?”

“What was the name of that place?” Hutch searched their cluttered desktops for the phone book.

“Casa Bonita,” Starsky replied, staring at him.

“Perfect.” Hutch flipped open the big book to the right page, running his finger down the listings. “I’ll pay.”

“You’ll what?” Starsky climbed over his chair, crowding in against Hutch’s hip. “You can’t max out your credit for-”

“For her?” Hutch countered harshly, his belly so tight he had flashbacks of cramps from a year ago. “‘Cause she’s a hooker?”

“Hutch, you know I don’t mean that!” Starsky gave her a quick look over his shoulder. “You’ll be in debt forever.”

“I have something set by,” Hutch said evasively, dialing the number. He’d never told his partner about his inheritance. The amount was embarrassing, and he let the family bankers deal with the bulk sum. This was a legitimate reason to use some of that largesse.

He listened to the line ringing on the other end. It was late evening, but these kind of places expected the addict to need a refuge at all hours. Sure enough, a sweet voiced woman answered the phone, and in under five minutes he’d reserved Mickey a place.

Starsky had stood listening, flabbergasted, for the entire conversation.

“You want to drive?” Hutch asked, well aware Starsky wanted answers. “This place is an hour away.”

“Will be midnight before we get there.” Starsky frowned. “What’ve you….”

“Starsk,” Hutch whispered. “I would not have a job if you hadn’t…” He couldn’t say the actual words, not in public. Not where there were ears around every corner. Cops from IA could very well be walking by at any moment. “I probably wouldn’t have survived.”

He’d caught Starsky flat-footed, that was for sure. Starsky crossed his arms, widening his stance as if he needed a firm foundation in case of attack. “I didn’t have to make a choice.” He observed the sleeping Mickey for a second, looking back at Hutch with such sadness. “Addicts don’t die from withdrawal, they just think they will.”

“If I’d…” kept using hung in the air between them, unvoiced but understood, “I would have killed myself,” Hutch said simply. He’d always wondered how Starsky knew so much about withdrawal.

Starsky reached for him, gripping his arm. Hutch turned just enough that their entire bodies were touching, from thigh to shoulder. Almost a hug. What they could do, as men, in a public space.

“Never,” Starsky said fiercely. “I won’t let you.” He heaved a breath, eyes glittering. “Ever.”

“Then let me do this,” Hutch said, comforted to his soul. “In pay back.”

“Does it help?” Starsky’s fingers brushed across Hutch’s chest, over his heart.

How long before he forgave himself the shame of being kidnapped and hooked on horse? Until he assuaged his own guilt? A lifetime. Yet Starsky never held one ounce of blame or accusation. He had never considered Hutch at fault whatsoever. He’d held Hutch’s hand, the love never wavering, guiding him back to health.

“It’s a start,” Hutch said.

FIN