Cooked

Table of Contents

Max sent him a glower as a signal he was in no mood for neighborhood chatter. Or even worse, a pick up. But the man just returned his blue-eyed stare. Suddenly Max realized the stranger wasn’t just looking at him, he was looking into him.

A shiver moved down Max’s spine as if someone were walking on his grave. He’d looked into those blue eyes before. Who was this? Someone he’d dealt with before? The special “connection” he was supposed to have? Or maybe just a user he’d partied with, then broken free of.

Prologue

Life was turning out to be one giant shit show. Maybe he wasn’t smart or rich or even all that good-looking. Maybe he was just another rat trying to crawl out of the sewer. Still, Les sure didn’t deserve what he got. Hit by a train near the Fourth Street underpass. Everybody thought he just tripped, probably even passed out from the alcohol that stewed his brain, but Denny had his doubts.

He couldn’t even claim the body, or what remained of it. The police had that. They were holding it for evidence they’d said. Not that he could afford to bury him, let alone get a proper headstone. Lester Lee Archibald. One hell of a name. Dennis Ray wasn’t much better, Denny only slightly more so. At least it rolled off the tongue when one was high as a kite.

The six o’clock news said Les was just a hard-partying biker hit by a late night train, right before a commercial for Bounty. Yeah, that made sense. It made it easy to wipe Les away like you’d throw away a used up paper towel. Except that he hadn’t been drinking before he left to meet up with Reaper one hour before. He sure as hell had been nervous, though. But when Reaper called, you learned to answer. He had that kind of power over people. Les had given Denny a rare second look when he swung his leg over his Harley. Told him to stay away from Reaper. And women. But most of all, crank.

Denny’d tried to tell the cops, but who’d believe him? He was just a lowlife speed freak. Not to be trusted. As a matter of fact, he’d been heading out to make another score when those two detectives stopped him. Cornered him in the alley like they had balls for brains. He hadn’t expected it. With the way they were dressed, they’d just blended in with the street scene. If they hadn’t have flashed him their badges he never would have taken them for cops.

“Help us and we’ll help you,” the blond one said. Get him to Reaper and they’d do their best to get justice for Les. Shit. If he ratted out Reaper, he’d end up with his guts splattered like graffiti on a wall. Just like Les. Then again, what did he have to lose? His life wasn’t worth much the way it was. Help the cops take out Reaper for what happened to Les. Don’t help and they’d stay on him like white on rice until he was locked away in a cement cell. He just couldn’t take that. He wasn’t strong like Les. He knew it wouldn’t take him long before he was babbling like a damn baby.

He trusted them even less than he could be trusted.

Denny spit out a bitter laugh. He’d love to see someone else take a fall for once.

Chapter One

He remembered a bright flash and an explosion, deafening in its intensity. But after that, nothing. The pain in his head assured that every time he put two thoughts together, agony shot through his cerebrum.

“Come on!” A voice shouted. The sound wobbled, then pulled together to form words. “We gotta get outta here.”

“Come on.” The words were repeated, now from further away.

To lift his head from its resting place on the ground was a herculean task, but after a few minutes he managed it. He breathed in dust and coughed, the movement sending painful shock waves through his body.

“The cops will be here any minute and I don’t want to deal with any more shit right now.” The voice was becoming frantic in its urgency. Clearly, if he didn’t get up and out in the next few seconds something terrible was going happen. Even worse than nearly getting blown to bits? He might have smiled at the irony if he hadn’t been working so hard at getting himself off the ground. His companion seemed uninclined to help.

He stood and steadied himself. Then noticed he was standing in some type of storage shed, or what had been one a few minutes ago. The strong smell of chlorine burned his eyes and nose. The explosion had destroyed a large portion of the single room. The man yelling at him was clearly not concerned with salvaging any of the materials stored there. His patience was at an end and he was running toward the door. Another explosion may have been imminent, but he had no way of knowing. He couldn’t recall what he’d been doing before the big boom. In fact, he couldn’t recall where he was or even his name. All he could do was stumble after his companion.

Outside was night. From what he could see from the dim glow of a few scattered street lights, the half-demolished shed stood in the back of a small, tumble-down bungalow. One in a string of several on a working class residential street, where lawns were barely more than patches of weeds, storage areas for trash cans and one long-forgotten swing set. A wave of sadness washed over him to think that people lived like this. A feeling of desolation threatened to overwhelm him.

His companion jumped in a battered Chevy truck parked nearby and started the engine. A sign for him to get in, too, or he’d be left on the street to deal with whatever aftermath was to come. He climbed gingerly into the passenger seat. When he put his hand to his head it came away frosted with blood.

“Hey,” he croaked out. “I think I need a doctor.”

The driver emitted a short, nervous burst of laughter. “You’re funny. You ain’t that special.”

“I’m not joking. I must have got knocked on the head pretty good.” He turned to look at his companion, a gaunt man somewhere in his mid-twenties. He needed a shave and probably a bath. His clothes, a plaid shirt and faded jeans, were rumbled and dirty. The man kept his eyes on the road as he gunned the truck through the side streets, making turns that made him cling to the door handle.

“Christ. Will you slow down?” His stomach lurched along with the truck and threatened to empty itself. Somehow, he was sure he had a concussion.

“Are you kidding me? You might be able to walk from this scot free, but can you guarantee the same for me?”

No, he couldn’t, he realized. In fact, he didn’t know anything at all.

“Who are you running from?”

Driver shot him an incredulous look. “The cops, Reaper, you name it. And I sure as shit don’t wanna be the one to tell Reaper how the lab blew. I never shoulda listened to you. Fuck.”

He took a hand off the wheel long enough to drag it through his shaggy, light brown hair. “Any more bright ideas, Maxie boy?”

Max. Was that his name? Even that didn’t sound familiar. The glare from the street lights were stabbing his eyes like icepicks. But driver was still looking to him for answers. What was he supposed to say?

“I don’t know. I need to lie down for a minute. Get rid of this splitting headache.”

“We can hang low for awhile at the penthouse on Fourth Street.” The driver gave out a bitter laugh. “Reaper won’t step in shit that deep.”

A few more turns took them deeper into the city. The buildings grew larger and closer together on either side until the driver pulled into an alley behind a dumpster. Referring to the rundown tenement building they entered as a penthouse must have been someone’s idea of a sick joke. People didn’t live here – they merely survived. Hallways were littered with broken bottles and even a few broken down human bodies. They curled in on themselves as they dozed or leaned haphazardly against the walls like forgotten scarecrows. Max covered his nose from smell of unwashed bodies and marijuana that cloyed the air.

Max followed the other man to unit on the third floor where he didn’t even bother to knock before pushing in the door. A man and woman wearing little more than underwear lay entwined on a mattress on the floor. The only other pieces of furniture in the room were a broken down table with two chairs and what had once been a couch but was now little more than a grimy cushion supported by springs.

The couple on the mattress barely stirred. His companion fell into one of the chairs. Max just stood there.

“Go ahead. Sleep it off.” The young man said derisively as he threw out his arm to indicate the couch. “Cuz when you’re over it, sleeping beauty, you’re gonna have to explain to Reaper how a couple of hundred worth of crank he’s been waiting for just went up in smoke.”

As distasteful as the idea was, Max didn’t have much of a choice. His legs wouldn’t hold him up any longer. Even though he remembered something about keeping a concussion victim awake, he collapsed onto the couch. His last thought before he lost consciousness for the second time that night was that the fabric smelled of things he thought he recognized but didn’t want to name.

Chapter Two

When Max opened his eyes it was no longer night, but how late into the day he had slept was unclear. Newspapers taped against a window leaked light like dirty water. The woman was awake, too, and sat sprawled on the mattress, dressed in an over-sized t-shirt, a giant Rolling Stones tongue curled over her knees. She blinked lethargically. Her lover and The young man who had brought him there were gone.

Max slipped out a groan. The woman looked over with heavy lidded eyes, then turned away. “You alive?” She asked in a way that make him think she didn’t care one way or the other. The uncaring struck a dissonant chord. Before when he’d been sick or injured, there had been gentle hands to sooth him, give him an aspirin, a hot cup of coffee, or just to rub his back. Hadn’t there been?

Max pulled himself into a sitting position. The pain in his head was still there but bearable. Nearly.

“Yeah, I’m alive.”

“You may not be for long once Reaper hears about the lab. Heard you guys blew it sky high.” She gave a little giggle then covered her mouth with her hand. Her mood changed from sleepy to amused to somber as though a switch had flipped in her head. She licked at her dry lips nervously. “Gonna have to start all over again. Find a new place.”

She may have been attractive at one time but now she was far too thin, Max noted. Her chestnut hair hung in strings. Dark circles swallowed her eyes and her teeth were unnaturally gray. Those signs alone told him she was a hype as if they flashed neon. He didn’t need to see the needle tracks near the crook of her arms. A feeling of familiarity washed over him then. The first since yesterday’s blast had knocked him to the ground. As unpleasant as all this was, apparently this was where he belonged.

“What’s your name?” He asked.

“Why you askin’ that? You know my name.” She rolled to her knees. Then stretched like a cat, arching her back to show off the small mounds of her breasts. It was sad display of seduction.

“That hit on my head got everything fuzzy. How about reminding me?”

“Okay then.” She smiled at him as if she’d just agreed to play a game. “It’s Gloria.” She stood up and made her over to him, teetering rather than sauntering.

“Now how about telling me some things about you. Carl and Denny won’t be back for hours. We can get to know each other better,” she cooed.

“I . . .I,” he searched his memories for something to tell her, finding nothing but an aching emptiness. “I guess I can’t remember much.”

Gloria gave another little giggle, then placed her knees on either side of his thighs as he sat on the couch. “Yeah, I’ve been on that trip before.” Her breath gave off a slightly rotten odor.

“You’re Max,” she indulged him. “Showed up about a week ago. Denny says you’re his cousin but you don’t look a thing alike.” She ran a finger down the side of his face and dipped it into her mouth in what she probably thought was an erotic manner. “Said you wanted to get in to see Reaper. That you had some business with him.”

None of it rang a bell. Gloria, Denny, Reaper. The names swirled together like water colors, ending up in a muddy mix. But it was clear what “business” they were in. Making and selling crystal meth, a drug growing in popularity on the streets of California. Uppers, crank, speed. Easy to cook up in homespun labs, but dangerous as well. How did he know that? Was he a pusher? Or even a junkie?

Just then a memory washed over him of flying wonderfully high, then falling to earth with pain ripping into his gut. Turning his blood to fire. An overwhelming need taking him over while arms held him back. Warmed him, rocked him. A deep voice with a musical drawl whispered soft reassurances. Such blue, blue eyes.

He shook his head and found himself looking back into Gloria’s eyes. Blue eyes, yes, but dull and faded like worn-out jeans. Not the sparkling blue of his memory.

“Denny’s my . . . c . . cousin?” Which one was Denny? The gaunt, pick-up truck driver or the mattress man? Or neither. Maybe it was someone else. Would he even recognize him if he saw him? Max’s palms began to sweat. His head still hurt like hell. The unknowing was terrifying. Yet he felt like he wasn’t normally one to scare easily. But how could he be sure?

Gloria leaned over and nipped at his neck even as he tried to hold her away. “Hey. Ah . . .I don’t want to get between you and Denny.”

“What’s to get between?” Her words were muffled against his skin.

“Well . . Carl then.”

She stopped long enough to give an empty laugh. “Sure.” She pouted as she leaned back into him. “Who do you know, anyway? Can you score some stuff right now? Cuz’ I could sure use some.”

“What I could use a bath and some solid food.” Max pushed her aside and got to his feet. He still felt weak but nothing a decent breakfast couldn’t cure. He hoped. He looked around the room and quickly determined he’d find nothing healthy here. Gloria had curled back into the couch. The light of feigned interest now faded from her eyes. She may be a junkie, but she looked delicate and vulnerable and his heart felt a tug. Young yet ages old at the same time. She shouldn’t be here. None of them should be.

He went into the bathroom to splash water on his face. Tepid drops fell reluctantly from the faucet until Max gathered enough to rub on his face. In a chipped mirror the face of a stranger stared at him. He came back into the main room just as the two men from the night before straggled in.

The driver, whose name he figured was Denny, had a split lip and blood stained his chin. An eye had been brutally blackened. He held a arm loosely and swayed on his feet. Carl flopped on the couch next to Gloria. She didn’t move away.

“What happened to you?” Max walked over to him but Denny jerked away.

“Well, cousin,” he spat out the word like sour milk. “Reaper wasn’t too happy with what happened last night. A couple of his goons let us know outside the drive-thru. But I guess you’ll get your wish. He wants to see us. Now.” He glared at him through his good eye.

Chapter Three

Reaper held court at Spartan’s Bar. A biker watering hole on a country road halfway between Los Angeles and San Bernardino. Far from the grime of the city and the prying eyes of law enforcement. Like a castle set on a hill, Spartan’s had a clear view of anything coming and going for miles. A trail of dust as telling as the thunder of horses’ hoofs.

“Denny. I’m glad you could make it.” Reaper smiled as if he’d been chewing ice. The wrenched arm and black eye Denny had received earlier had delivered the message loud and clear. There was no sense trying to run. He’d never get far enough.

Reaper wasn’t a large man, but surprisingly thin boned underneath his biker’s jacket. Max got the impression that if Reaper were to stand rather than lean back in his chair, Max would have several inches on him. But his eyes were keen. It was obvious that he ruled his empire with brains while he let his guard dogs be his brawn. No matter how they appeared, Max sensed the leather-clad bruisers coolly shooting pool and downing beers were anything but indifferent to the exchange taking place in the back.

Denny shifted nervously from side to side. He rubbed his palms together, then stuck his hands in his pockets, only to pull them back out and rub them together again.

“This is the cousin?” Reaper nodded toward Max.

“Max,” he supplied his own name when Denny stayed silent.

“I hear you’ve been wanting to see me.”

“Yeah, I hear that, too.” Max retorted. He didn’t like that way the man was looking him up and down slowly, as if he was chained to the floor.

“What the fuck’s that supposed to mean, smart guy?” Suddenly Reaper’s smiling vanished and the ice that had been on his lips found its way to Max’s spine.

“It means that last night’s party left me with a bit of a hangover. But that’ll clear up shortly.” He said evenly, returning Reaper’s perusal. The thought crossed his mind that maybe he should be more nervous than he was. He was on the other man’s turf with no one at his back. But he refused to let this bully in black leather intimidate him. Not like the way the loss of his memory made him question who he was.

I got ya covered, a voice echoed from somewhere in the back of his mind. The words calmed him and he stood taller.

Max could feel several heads turn toward him before Reaper sent out a howl with laughter. Then stopped abruptly and stared at Max with narrowed eyes that cut through him like a knife. “You must be telling the truth because no one would be crazy enough to pass off that kind of bullshit on me.”

Behind him, Denny made a choking sound. Reaper shifted his dark look to Denny. “Denny knows, don’t you?”

The object of his menacing gaze just shrugged his shoulders.

“You wouldn’t be trying to play me, would you, Denny?”

“No way, Reaper.” His lips held a tight line while his voice shook.

“Of course, not.” Reaper stood up then. Max was right. He was a short little shit. But he walked over to Denny and patted him on the cheek like a trainer would pet a dog curled at his feet. Three massive silver rings with tribal designs decorated on his fingers. A Hells Angels death’s head superimposed over “1%” symbol was tattooed on the side of his neck.

“Now are you going to tell me what happened at our little operation last night?”

“I’m real sorry about that.” Denny spilled out a little too quickly. “I don’t know what went wrong. Just one a those things I guess. Ya know?” His hands had emerged from his pockets again and he was scratching at his arms.

“Sure,” Reaper purred in a way that said he knew but didn’t believe in explanations.

“I’ll make it up to you.” The way Denny was shaking and groveling, Max thought it was a wonder he didn’t wet his pants. He felt no familial recognition or empathy with the man. In fact, he was almost ashamed to be related to him.

Guilt burned his gut like acid. Where was his loyalty? Without it, he was no better than anyone else in this dive. But maybe that was why he was here. To help Denny out of a jam he’d gotten himself in with this mobster wannabe. But Denny had barely said two words to him all the way out here while Max had been more focused on forcing the pain from his head than in making small talk. All he could do was play along.

“Of course you will.” Reaper moved his hand down to squeeze Denny’s bad arm and Denny winced.

Max stepped forward as if by instinct, but as soon as he did he could feel the energy in the room change as everyone straightened and turned toward him. ‘So it wasn’t my imagination we’ve been watched the whole time,’ he thought.

Reaper released his hold and addressed Max. “Don’t be stupid. Everyone here is loyal to me. They’d die for me or kill for me. ” Max didn’t miss the emphasis on the word “kill.” “Kapeesh?”

“Yeah,” Max ground out between his teeth.

“Then next time you come back here you better bring twice the usual. Or start double checking shadows. This territory belongs to me. You’re just guests. Don’t wear out your welcome.”

Chapter Four

By the time they got back to the penthouse, Denny had itched his pale skin practically raw. The ants wouldn’t leave him alone, he claimed, while he paced the sparse room in long, jerky strides, growing increasingly irritable and argumentative by the minute.

“What good are you?” he demanded pointedly of Max. “If you’re going to help me, then help me.” Accusing Max of withholding some magical power from his own blood relation. Max felt as powerless as if he’d jumped from an airplane without a parachute. Spinning faster and faster as the ground rushed up, with no way to forestall the inevitable crash landing.

He didn’t know what to do or where to go. He didn’t even know exactly where he was. If only the fog in his head would clear.

“You gotta know where to get more ice. Don’t tell me you guys don’t know.” Denny stopped and turned to look at Max with restless, pleading eyes. “You owe it to me now. It’ll be days before we can cook any more up more stuff on our own.”

He might not have much empathy for the Denny who picked the wrong friends to hang out with on the playground, but Max did have empathy for Denny the walking wounded. He could almost feel the pins and needles, the cravings gnawing at him from the inside out and the disconnect from reality as if it were his own.

I’ve gone through this, he thought as he watched Denny crisscross the room. I might not be an addict now, but there was another time, another place . . .

As much as he hadn’t wanted to accept it, he was slowing coming to conclude this must be his world. Why else did he have this sense of familiarity with trash-filled rooms and tainted people? Drugs dealers and distorted truths. If he didn’t belong here, then where? It all seemed a part of him yet distant, like reading a mystery novel with whole chapters torn out. But there was something more, too. A major character was missing.

Max pulled out his wallet and stared at his driver’s license. The disheveled blond hair and care-worn blue eyes were his, but the name, Max Carter, didn’t sound at all familiar. The address listed was San Francisco. Denny’d just shrugged his shoulders when he’d asked about it. ‘You’re here now,’ was all he’d said.

Denny fell into the couch. “You gotta go get something,” he snapped, then curled into himself.

Clearly, Denny was blaming their current circumstances on him. A sense of responsibility flooded him, pulling him into its murky depths. “Yeah, okay.” Max headed out the door. A mini market was three blocks away, the kind with bars on the windows and doors and where truant teenage boys lingered, smoking cigarettes. Maybe it had aspirin along with its stock of MD 20/20 and Pall Malls.

Max covered the sidewalk in long-legged strides but soon realized he wasn’t alone. He was being shadowed by a dark-headed man who had emerged from the city streets like steam rising. Although his well-worn leather jacket wasn’t the pitch black of Reaper’s crew, he wore a look of street-wise formidability about him just the same.

He followed Max into the mini mart and stopped a few feet away as Max searched for pain relievers in an aisle along with baby oil and condoms. “Hey,” the man whispered quietly, absently studying the selection of Trojans.

Max looked at him and nodded a stilted acknowledgement, then turned back to the shelf. He picked up a bottle of Bayer.

“Any information you’d like to share?” The dark haired man asked with a persistent, even slightly impatient, east coast inflection. Was it Max’s imagination or had he inched closer?

A shiver moved down Max’s spine as if someone were walking on his grave. He’d looked into those blue eyes before. Who was this? Someone he’d dealt with before? The special “connection” he was supposed to have? Or maybe just a user he’d partied with, then broken free of.

All he knew was that for the moment he had his hands full with Denny, his memory loss and the mess his life seemed to be. And if this was one of Reaper’s goons checking up on him, he really didn’t feel like having an arm broken today. The last thing he needed was someone else to get involved with. Not until his head had cleared, anyway.

Max turned away from him and went to take the bottle of aspirin to the cashier. But the other man wasn’t about to let him go that easily.

“Hey,” He spoke a little louder. Then, “Hey, Hutch!” when Max continued to do his best to ignore him. But then he grabbed at Max’s arm when he’d taken a few steps away.

The dark-haired man gave his bicep a firm tug and spun him around. “What’s goin’ on?” He wasn’t asking about the state of the world. He was asking about him. The sudden concern in the other’s eyes took him by surprise.

Max wished he could tell him. ‘Hutch,’ he’d called him. A strange name. Or perhaps a nickname. The word sent a stab of pain through his frontal lobe. But the man’s hand on his arm was warm and supportive rather than threatening.

Memories seem desperate to sprout like seeds struggling in rocky soil. Memories of security and belonging. Love and laughter. But there were other memories, too. Of free-flowing ecstasy followed by hours of agony. Bone-crushing cramps and teeth-shattering chills on a rumpled bed.

Yeah, he was a hype alright. How else could the feelings be so vivid? He might be clean for now, but there was a time he was just like Denny and Gloria. He was one of them.

“If you’re going to help me, then help me.” Denny’s words just a short while ago came back to haunt him. Max gave his head a little shake. Home was down the street in a tenement that should have been condemned long ago. That smelled of urine and puke, Mary Jane and despair.

Max shook off the man’s hold and quickly paid for the pills while the dark-haired other just stood there and watched oddly stone faced. Apparently having decided he wasn’t worth the bother.

Chapter Five

“You think this will help what I got?” Denny slapped the aspirin bottle from Max’s hand and it hit the floor with a ping. “I need a fix, man. I need some crank,” he whined. Denny stalked away from Max then turned back to face him. “Are you gonna run out and get that for me?”

When Max just looked at him through the fog struggling for something to say, he turned back away, rubbing his arms distractedly. “I didn’t think so. I never should have listened to you in the first place.”

“Why? What did I say?” Max asked quietly, almost afraid to hear the answer.

Denny’s rhythmic rubbing slowed and his eyes took in Max disbelievingly. Almost as if seeing him for the first time. “Christ. You really don’t remember, do you?” Max stayed silent while Denny’s anger grew.

“You said if I got you in to see Reaper, you could take him down for what he did to Les,” he spewed out, not bothering to hide his jaded disillusionment.

“Les?”

“Yeah, Les!” Denny shouted. “My brother who stepped in front of a train, thanks to Reaper. There’s barely enough pieces of him left to bury! Everyone said it was some kind of accident. But I know different.”

Having looked Reaper in the eyes, Max could agree. His threats seemed anything but empty.

Denny fell back onto the couch and leaned his head into his hands, scrubbing them through his dirty hair then rubbing his eyes. “Les was all I had. But he made the mistake of standing up to Reaper. Now I’m stuck with you. And I’m in deeper shit than ever.”

Max knelt down in front of Denny. He didn’t remember Les but he could well understand that he needed to help this feckless cousin who’d lost his brother. After all, that made Les his cousin as well. Despite his lack of familial sympathy, his sense of loyalty was powerful. Maybe that covered all ills. Max put his hand on Denny shoulder in an awkward attempt to comfort. It just felt cold.

At that moment Carl and Gloria stumbled through the door, grins hanging loosely on their faces.

“Lookie what I got,” Carl announced, as he pulled a baggie from the pocket of the threadbare jeans hanging from his thin frame. Gloria fairly danced around him as he held it up high.

Denny pushed Max’s hand from his shoulder as he stood up. He made a grab for the bag but Carl held it away. “Hey, this is my score.”

“Come on, man.” Max winced at the whine in Denny’s voice. “You know I’ll be in back in business in a few. Give me some now and you’ll have plenty later. You know I’m good for it.”

Carl went to table and tapped white powder from the baggie onto a piece of newspaper. Gloria leaned over it, her previously dull eyes now blazing like a lioness with a fresh kill. Denny followed her over as if hypnotized. He pulled out a small rectangle of foil and lighter from his pocket.

Max watched as Denny quickly formed the foil into a funnel-shaped tube, then added a pinch of the white powder to it. Denny, Carl and Gloria took turns heating the foil and passing it from one to the other, handling the silver funnel and inhaling as reverently as a prayer circle. As their eyes closed in rapture, Max’s stomach rolled and he felt a pull like a strong undertow. He was relieved they didn’t pass the foil his way.

The session had given Denny a burst of energy. He hit the streets with Max in tow, energetically rounding up the materials necessary to set up a new kitchen: coffee filters, matchbooks, road flares, iodine tinctures, boxes and blister packs of over the counter cold medicine and mason jars of transparent red and yellow solvents. The ingredients weren’t all that difficult to collect. A glowing promise here, a well-worded threat there. Finding a secure location to distill them presented another problem. They’d been under the radar in the neglected neighborhood shed but the mid-town tenement had too many hungry, prying eyes.

With their trunk loaded, they drove through every dirty alley and deserted factory complex in the county, places Max was sure only the rats knew about, but he couldn’t shake the feeling they were being followed. That he was being followed.

Chapter Six

There has to be a safer way to make a living. A way to contribute to life rather than steal it away. A place to sleep that has clean sheets, warm water and something more than cold meals out of a can. Even a homeless shelter has to be better than this, Max thought as he followed Denny’s directions setting up equipment at their new lab. They’d found a secret haven in a rundown church-turned-daycare center that had been abandoned when even that couldn’t pay the bills. The long faded sign out front read “Little Angels” but it seemed more like hell.

Max was disgusted by the idea that this is what his life had been before the blast wiped away his memories. Although he seemed to know his way around this business well enough. He considered the idea that maybe he should take this opportunity to make a new start now that his life was a tabula rasa. But maybe what he’d done before the blast was even worse than what he was doing now. Who knew what kind of record he had? Thoughts pinged painfully through his head like a clanging pinball. Denny seemed to be even more tight-lipped about him than he was about everything else. With the exception of getting even for Les.

He couldn’t forget the dark-haired man in the mini mart. The crystalline eyes that pierced him, as if seeing into his soul. Now another thought crossed his mind. Perhaps the man hadn’t been a junkie or dealer at all. He sure didn’t look like one. Maybe he had been the exact opposite. Someone on the other side. A parole officer, perhaps, hounding him for jumping bail. But he didn’t look like one of those either.

When they had painstakingly cooked up enough meth to satisfy Reaper, they made the long trek out to his outpost, sure they were being watched from all directions. A stop and search by the police meant certain jail time. There was no going back.

The hairs on the back of Max’s neck rose as they entered the biker bar, the inside of which was cast with shadows even in the late afternoon. It was a place that time – and decent society – had forgotten. Two rough-looking men stood just inside the door like sentinels. A few more hovered over the pool table welding thin cue sticks in beefy hands. But just like before, they were alert to Max and Denny’s every move.

They walked up to the bar but before they even had a chance to ask for Reaper, the heavily tattooed man behind the counter turned away, gesturing for Denny and Max to follow. They were directed to a windowless back room filled with dusty crates that could just as easily have held firearms as other supplies.

“Wait here,” Barman growled out. A scar creased his thick chin and his eyes were unreadable.

When he shut the door behind him, Max thought he might not be able to breathe.

“Remind me how you talked me into this,” Denny grumbled as he paced the small room. “After this deal is over, I’m getting the hell out of here.” Then he gave a little laugh. “Or more likely, I’ll just take my hell along for the ride.”

Just then Max heard a weak groan coming from behind one of the crates. He looked to Denny questioningly then followed the sound. He moved two of the wooden containers and recoiled at his discovery. The dark-haired stranger who had followed him into the minimart was curled up in a corner with his wrists and ankles tightly bound. His sparkling eyes had been blackened and were swollen nearly shut. Blood from a long gash was dried on his forehead. More blood stained the front of his T-shirt. The brown leather jacket he’d worn previously was gone.

“Christ.” Max took a deep breath to collect himself then knelt down to check the man’s condition. When he lifted the man’s head gingerly between his hands, he groaned again.

“Hutch.” The word the man had used earlier in the minimart was nearly a sigh on his cracked lips.

With his eyes so swollen like that how did he know?

“You sure took a wrong turn somewhere, buddy.” Max told him as he gently examined the man’s head wound. It looked severe but hopefully not life-threatening. Still, he needed to see a doctor. Soon. And he doubted Reaper would be obliging.

“I guess I did,” the man panted as Max moved his hand from his head and ran it lightly down his ribcage. “I came looking for you.” He winced as Max touched a tender spot.

“Don’t talk. Looks like you got a few broken ribs. Just rest easy.” Max tried to adjust the injured man’s position to make him as comfortable as possible against the crates.

“Terrific,” the man mumbled. But his breathing seemed to ease at Max’s touch, despite the obvious pain.

“Do you have anything to cut these ropes?” Max asked Denny.

“Are you shittin’ me? Even if I did, I’m not touchin’ ‘em. He’s lucky he’s still alive.”

“Well, look who’s joined the party,” Reaper sneered as he entered the room. “Isn’t it time to tell me what game you’re trying to play?” He said as two of his leather-clad muscle positioned themselves on either side of the door.

“No game,” Denny practically whimpered. “I swear it.”

“Then what’s with this cop tailing you?”

A cop? Jesus. Max’s quicksand pit was caving in fast.

“I never seen him before in my life.” Denny scrambled. “Right, Max?” He turned to Max for confirmation, fear and something else – a plea? – bright in his eyes.

“He may have been following us, but I don’t know who he is.” Max stood and confronted Reaper, flexing his hands. The sudden desire to hold a gun flashed through his mind. He longed for the comfort of warm steel resting heavily in his palm. “And if he’s a cop, do you really think it was smart to beat him half to death?”

“He didn’t want to answer my questions. I don’t like it when people aren’t straight with me.” Reaper gave the man on the floor a withering look. “I guess things got a little out of hand.”

“I can’t afford to have people cross me,” Reaper continued then shifted his gaze to Denny. “The way Les crossed me. People like that tend to have unfortunate accidents.” He let his words sink in for a few seconds before turning back to Max.

“I demand that my people have complete loyalty to me. Now, if you want to be part of my crew you’re going to have to prove yourself. Just remember, you came to me.” He gave a brief nod to the man on his right and he immediately stepped forward to grab Denny roughly by his arm. Denny yelped out in pain and Max started toward him but was pushed aside as the second man moved to search crudely through Denny’s pockets. When he found the supply of ice they’d brought he pulled it out and tossed it to Reaper.

Reaper turned the bag over in his hands. “I’ll just check this out with Denny here, while you have another job to do. Then, if everything meets my satisfaction, you’ll get paid.” Reaper gave him a wolfish grin.

“What other job?” Max asked warily.

“I need you to take out the trash,” Reaper responded, nodding to the injured man curled in the corner. “Deke’ll help you load that cop and the sorry excuse for a bike he road in on in the truck and take him a few miles out to dump him.”

“What for?” Max tasted a sourness churn up from the pit of his stomach.

“So he won’t bother us anymore. You said yourself it’s not smart to beat up a cop. Make it look like he had an accident with his bike. Got lost. Hit a rough patch of gravel. By the time anyone finds him there won’t be much left of him to say otherwise.” Another wolfish grin. This guy wasn’t just a kingpin. He was psychopath. He was actually enjoying all of this.

“Denny will stay here until you get back.” His meaning was clear. Denny was his insurance that Max would follow orders.

Chapter Seven

The muscleman who had searched through Denny’s pockets now reached to haul the wounded man to his feet. He let out a sharp moan that made Max’s insides clench and he hurried over to help him. They put him in the back of a pickup truck along with the Yamaha motorcycle he’d ridden in on as Reaper and Denny looked on.

“When you’re finished you can come back and pick up your cousin and your payment. I’ll make sure he stays out of trouble while you’re gone.” Reaper added, his meaning unmistakable.

Deke drove a few miles up the highway, then turned off at a barely visible dirt road. Max held onto the door handle as the truck bounced over the rough road. He tried not to think of the dark-haired man trussed up in the back. At last they came to a stop. There was nothing but open country for miles around.

“I’ll let you have the honors,” Deke as they went around to the back of the truck. Fresh blood from his head wound streaked the now barely-conscious man’s face. Max climbed into the back to pull him out and set him on the ground as easily as possible while Deke threw the motorcycle out behind him.

The sun was beginning to set. Once past the horizon the landscape would be black as pitch. Even now the temperature was dropping and a chill breeze stirred. Max thought how cold the man would be without a coat. The odds of him surviving the night out here were slim but the odds of his cousin staying alive if Max didn’t follow Reaper’s directions were even slimmer.

He remembered how he’d felt when the dark-haired man had looked at him in the minimart. Almost as if he was looking into a mirror and seeing another version of himself. He’d touched Max’s arm as if he somehow had a right. Max’s stomach lurched and he thought he might empty it right there in the dirt. Once he was done with this business he was leaving – he didn’t care how fast and how far he had to run. Or if Reaper’s gang would find him. He’d rather be dead than live with this reality.

“Can’t we at least cut him free?” Max asked the big man hovering in the background. “It’s not like he’s going anywhere. Besides, Reaper wanted to make this look like an accident, not an execution.”

Deke grudgingly handed over a wicked looking switchblade and Max knelt down to cut the ties on the man’s wrists and ankles. “Hutch,” the man moaned again.

“I’m sorry, pal. I really am. I don’t know who you are or what you want. But you sure stumbled into a hornet’s nest. I hate to leave you like this. If there was any other way . . .” The stranger’s eyes opened at the sound of Max’s voice and he gazed up at him with a look of hope that gradually lapsed into confusion. Then incredibly, trust, even as he must have begun to realize he was about to be abandoned there to the elements.

Max turned away to focus on the mountains in the distance, not wanting to see the simple faith that shown impossibly through the other’s pain-glazed eyes. “If it was just me, we’d make a run for it. I really would. But if I don’t leave you here they’ll kill my cousin. He may not be much, but he’s my cousin, man.”

“’S okay.” The man answered him weakly and his eyes flicked over to Deke. “Do what ya gotta do. I understand.”

The words shook him. Max turned now to stare at him incredulously. “You do?”

“Sure, blondie.” The man gave him a faint smile, despite his swollen and cracked lips. “It’s just the kind of person you are. Loyal to the core.” He coughed then and grabbed at his ribs.

“Really?” Max asked with disgust. “That’s funny coming from a stranger. ‘Cuz I sure as hell don’t know what kind of person I am. How could you know me better than I know myself?”

“Maybe I do at that. Now go on. Get outta here. Go back for Denny.” The man curled in on himself, clutching his ribs.

Max slowly stood. He turned toward Deke standing by the open door of the truck, backlit by the setting sun, his rough features in shadows. He took a step and froze. Suddenly, it wasn’t Deke’s face he saw, but his partner’s – twisted in pain, then pitching forward into his arms in a darkened rooftop doorway.

“Why’d you have to go and do that?” he’d asked him softly. He’d just shot their one lead to the poison that was inexorably killing him.

“It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

That same look of trust and faith had been on his face then, too. Starsky had been willing to die to keep him – Ken Hutchinson – safe.

Hutch quickly masked his expression, hoping Deke hadn’t noticed his transformation. Walk away from Starsky? No fucking way. Not in this lifetime. “How about letting me drive this time,” Hutch asked as he approached, the blade loose in his outstretched hand.

“Just give me the knife and get in,” Deke growled. He reached out his hand to take it from him but instead, Hutch made a quick slicing upward motion and cut deep through the leather of his jacket and deep into the underside of Deke’s arm.

“Fuck!” Deke lounged for Hutch but he jumped back, then crouched low, brandishing the knife in front of him.

“Plans have changed asshole. Now if you don’t wrap that arm up, you’ll bleed to death. Or if you’re lucky maybe you’ll just lose it.”

A look of terror passed over Deke’s face as he clutched at his wounded arm with his other hand, blood quickly soaking into the worn leather. “Now get away from the truck and start walking. If you don’t stop you might get to help by midnight.” Moonlight flashed off the silver of the blade as Hutch waved it at him again for emphasis. Deke grimaced but backed away.

“Get moving before I slice your other arm.”

Deke removed his hand and stared incredulously at the blood that dripped through his fingers. It must have been a long time since anyone had dared challenge him. “Fuck you whoever the hell you are. You’ll pay for this.” He glared malevolently at Hutch then traipsed off into the night.

Hutch spared him only a few more seconds before he tucked the knife in his jacket pocket and rushed over to Starsky. Kneeling by his side, he brushed the dark hair back from his head wound, his hand coming away with smears of blood.

“Oh God, Starks. I am so so sorry.”

“What . . . what the hell was that?” Starsky winced.

“There was an explosion at the meth lab. I got knocked to the ground. Must have banged my head pretty good. I couldn’t remember anything. Not my name, not the job.” He took a gulp of air and his hand tightened in his hair. “Not even you.”

“I knew . . .something was wrong. Came out here looking for you. Must have . . . gotten too close. A couple goons jumped me. Found the wire. . . . ”

“Shhh now.” Hutch soothed. “I’ll get you to a doctor.”

Starsky reached for his hand and struggled to sit up. “You said Reaper has Denny. He’ll kill him if you don’t get back soon without me. Before Godzilla, anyway.”

Hutch sat back and braced Starsky against his chest, wrapping his arms around him, partly for warmth partly just to make sure he was real rather than another part of his waking nightmare. “I’m not going to just leave you here, Starsk.” He felt him shudder with every breath and fought to restrain the firmness of his grip.

“Wha . . . what do you suggest?”

“I don’t know just yet. But I’ll think of something. I am the brains of this duo.” Hutch rested his chin on Starsky’s curls and smiled. Even injured, threatened and entangled with a biker drug lord, life was infinitely better than when he’d woken up that morning.

“I don’t suppose . . .you have a gun.” Miraculously, Starsky’s voice seemed a slight bit steadier.

“No, but maybe. . .” Hutch reluctantly eased himself away and went over to the truck. “Bingo!” he shouted out as he found a piece shoved up under the driver’s seat. “Trust the best gangs to keep their vehicles fully loaded.” Hutch opened the gun to check the clip. “Still, one gun isn’t going to be much help against a whole army.”

“But our division also has a tank.” Starsky was looking at the full-sized truck.

“Do you think you can make it?” Hutch took in Starsky’s battered form huddled on the ground. No doubt he’d had a concussion and a few cracked ribs just for starters. Hutch’s own blinding headache had only begun to fade. But their thoughts were quick to reconnect.

“Piece a cake.” Starsky’s cocky grin came off more like a grimace. “Just this time you’ll have to drive.”

Chapter Eight

Hutch lifted Starsky to his feet and tried not to react to Starsky’s gasp. A few more steps to the truck and Starsky couldn’t hold back another a cry of pain as Hutch practically lifted him into the high passenger seat.

Once behind the wheel Hutch leaned over, drew the seat belt across Starsky’s lap and clicked the buckle at his hip. Starsky’s eyes had squeezed shut and his lips had drawn into a tight line. Hutch laid a gentle hand on his thigh. “Christ, I’m sorry for getting you in this mess.”

“You didn’t get me into nuthin’ partner. I was the one who let my guard down. I couldn’t figure out what was going on with you.” He opened his eyes and looked straight at Hutch, and Hutch felt that familiar sensation, like looking in a mirror. “I couldn’t read you, ya know?” His wheezing comment still tinged with concern.

Hutch looked away and swallowed. His gaze fell to the 9mm pistol on the seat between them. He took hold of Starsky’s hand and put the gun in it, wrapping Starsky’s fingers around the handle then pressing his own fingers against Starsky’s to hold them in place. “No matter what happens, stay in the truck. And hold tight to this.”

“Sure, Hutch.” Starsky sighed shakily, then leaned his head back against the seat.

Hutch retraced the drive back, going as fast as he dared, wincing with the slightest jar, flicking his eyes to the figure on his right sitting unnaturally stiff, one hand on the door handle, another on his ribs, until he saw the lights of the misleadingly rundown bar come into view. At least they had surprise on their side.

Hutch pictured the inside of the building in his mind. The booths and pool tables to the front, the bar on the left. An offices and store rooms to the back, where Denny was no doubt being kept until Max and Deke returned. Harleys were propped up around the structure like tin soldiers.

Hutch knew their vehicle had been watched since their lights came into view. No doubt Reaper would have been advised when they’d just been a flicker on the horizon. Hutch pulled up to the front and left keys in the ignition. “Give me about fifteen,” he said grimly.

Starsky made a valiant effort to send Hutch a look of encouragement. “You get ten.”

Hutch patted him on the arm then slid out of the seat and approached the entrance with more hubris than he felt. The never ending game of pool barely paused as he walked in, but that didn’t ease his mind. Reaper sat in his customary spot at a booth in the back, a leather-clad brother leaning on either side.

“Okay, the job is done.” Hutch went up to him and announced. “That cop will never see daylight. Now send out Denny and hand over our money.”

“Where’s Deke?” Reaper barely raised his head from the beer he was caressing.

“I left him off to take a piss. I didn’t care to wait. He should be coming in in a few.”

Reaper barely reacted. He took a long look at Hutch, searching for any sign of weakness. Hutch’s jaw tightened as he returned his venomous stare, thinking of how Reaper’s henchmen had worked over the man out in the truck. How they’d wanted to leave him for dead.

Reaper smiled slowly and took another swallow from his bottle. “Send out the punk and pay the man,” he instructed his sidekicks.

They moved away at his command like robots and Hutch seized the opportunity to slide into the booth next to Reaper, sending him a cold smile. As Denny was brought from the back room a few minutes later, Hutch slid the knife out of his pocket and pressed it against Reaper’s side. He felt the gang leader’s slight intake of breath.

“Now tell your goons to back off or I’ll shove this knife right through your gut.” Hutch thrust the blade harder into Reaper’s side for emphasis.

Reaper just continued to smile. “You have balls, I’ll give you that.”

“That’s more than you’ll have if you don’t tell your men to stand down so we can walk out of here.”

“What’s goin’ on?” The man who’d brought Denny asked.

“Apparently, Max thinks to outsmart me.”

“Just slide out nice and easy.” Hutch applied pressure with the knife until he felt it pierce flesh. Reaper inhaled sharply and his soldiers tensed at the sound.

As he moved out of the booth gingerly, his men shuffled back in confusion. Not having Reaper call the shots, especially in the heart of his own fortress, left them unsure of how to react. Hutch never broke contact with the knife but stood ready to respond to any threatening move. He gave Reaper a little shove toward the door and Reaper took a stiff step forward.

“You know what happened to the last person who tried to move in on my territory? Got his brains splattered on a railroad track. You, of all people should know that.”

“So you did have Les killed.” Denny spoke, then looked around the room in a daze as if he hadn’t realized the words had come from his mouth.

“Of course I did. I didn’t get my hands dirty, of course, but I sure enjoyed the show.” He grinned like a spectator fascinated by a macabre circus exhibit. “It was spectacular.”

“But don’t worry, boys. I’ll have something even better planned for you.” He was enjoying himself.

Hutch just gave him another shove while he addressed his ‘cousin.’ “Go on Denny. Get out in the truck.”

Denny seemed to wake up from his daze and realize the jeopardy they were in. He made a sprint for the door as Hutch followed with Reaper. Hutch was keenly aware of his exposed back and the eyes that were burning through him.

Just then he heard the roar of an engine and a magnificent crash. Outside, Starsky had thrown the truck into gear and plowed into a black monster of a bike that took three more down with it as it fell.

Bikers poured out the door shouting profanities, like hornets whose nest had been smoked, their attention no longer solely on Hutch and Reaper.

“Get in the back of the truck,” Hutch ordered Reaper. “Or have your choice of being filleted by me or shot full of lead by my partner.”

Reaper didn’t say a word but his icy glare conveyed all it needed. Starsky had appeared at Hutch’s side displaying the gun, his bruised and bloodied face gruesome in the half-light. Reaper looked at him and the first shadow of surprise registered, as if he was seeing a modern-day Lazarus. Then he climbed stiffly into the truck bed.

Hutch scrambled up after him and used some of the rope that had bound Starsky to tie Reaper’s wrists as he recited his Miranda rights. The malevolent glare from Reaper’s eyes no longer had the ability to intimidate him. He gave a final, satisfyingly vicious tug as Starsky limped back to the driver’s seat and pulled himself in behind the wheel. Denny had made it to the passenger side, slamming the door behind him to shut himself in as surely as securing a lion’s cage.

“Hold on,” Starsky yelled as he swung the truck around, taking out three more bikes with the left quarter panel the truck along the way. Hutch crouched down low, hung onto the side and smirked. Even in his present condition, trust his partner to be able to handle anything on four wheels.

Three miles down the road, Starsky stopped. Hutch jumped out of the truck bed with barely a look at Reaper, trussed up and repugnant as roadkill, and ran to relieve his partner behind the wheel. Starsky had slumped over, looking so much like a dead man that Hutch’s heart leapt in his throat.

Denny moved over wordlessly to allow Hutch to climb in beside Starsky and take over, one hand on the wheel, the other firmly around Starsky.

“You have a lot of explaining to do,” he growled to Denny as he felt Starsky’s weight lean into him heavily.

Chapter Nine

“I’m fine, Hutch,” Starsky practically whined. “You’re the one who got your brains knocked out.”

Hutch addressed Starsky from over the top of the magazine he’d been reading.

“I told you, the docs have already checked me out. Post concussive syndrome. I’m past the worst of it. Another day or two and I’ll be back on the roster. Which is more than I can say for you. Three cracked ribs, dislocated shoulder, bruised kidneys . . . “ Hutch paused a moment in his litany before he added bitterly, “The thugs who worked you over sure knew what they were doing.”

“Yeah, yeah I know. Don’t rub it in.” Starsky sighed and leaned back against the pillows.

Hutch set the magazine aside and studied his partner reclined in the hospital bed, his dark curls emphasized by the white bandage at his hairline. “But you never told them a thing.”

“Of course not.” Starsky’s tone held a mild hint of reproof. “Just like you didn’t leave me out in the desert.”

“No,” Hutch replied softly. A look of understanding, the feeling of having a missing limb restored, passed between them. He felt like the Picasso image he’d been seeing in the mirror the past few days had been reordered into something less grotesquely abstract, more natural.

“I just don’t get why Denny decided to keep you in the dark once he realized your memory loss was no game.” Starsky’s anger still leached through even though they both knew the dangers of undercover work. The best laid plans could fracture in an instant, like ice on a spring pond. One should never place all their trust in an informant – especially one as troubled as Dennis Archibald.

“He claims he didn’t really believe I’d lost it. Think about it, Starsk. He was walking a tightrope between Reaper’s gang and a jail cell. He didn’t know who to trust. He wanted someone to suffer for what happened to his brother. It didn’t matter who it was, as long as it wasn’t him.”

At least in that, they had succeeded. Reaper was sitting in a jail cell, the murder of Lester Lee Archibald only one of the many charges he faced.

Hutch gazed at the man the in bed, a mixture of horror and gratitude washing over and through him. He’d been so close to walking away, probably leaving Starsky to die. If he had, he would have been lost not for just few days, but forever. The idea chilled him, even though he would have been acting to protect the life of someone he believed himself responsible for. Starsky’d been the one who’d made peace with that.

Hutch still believed he’d failed Jeannie. Even though he’d been beaten and strung out to protect her. Last night he’d been willing to give up his soul to protect Denny. Starsky had understood. He knew who Hutch was even when Hutch didn’t know himself.

Hutch took a deep, steadying breath. The lives of Denny, Gloria and Carl had been made empty and hopeless by addiction. Hutch could identify with the ecstasy they felt when they were high, the desperation they felt when they weren’t. It made sympathizing with them, feeling a part of their world, easy. Not so long ago it could have been him if not for Starsky.

When Hutch had been quiet too long Starsky took his hand and gave it a gentle squeeze.

“Hey, buddy. You sure you’re okay? That blond head a yours still a little muzzy?”

Hutch squeezed back and added a reassuring smile. “I’m fine, buddy. I guess I just had a hard lesson about who I am.” He figured they’d drop by the Penthouse to check in on Gloria and Carl once Starsky felt up to it. If they saw him as one of their own, maybe he’d have more influence. An example of someone who’d walked through fire and lived to tell about it. But for now he just wanted to go home.

“Yeah? So who are ya? Besides a big, dopey blond who I gotta watch every minute or he gets himself in trouble?”

“Something like that.” He knew where he belonged and to whom.

FIN