Double Dutch

109

After pursuing a suspect onto a flight to New York (without Dobey’s approval), Starsky and Hutch next run afoul of two ambitious New York cops—Cagney and Lacey.

 

Originally published in mixed Starsky and Hutch anthology zine Pushin’ the Odds in 1983.

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“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” the tall blond cop asked his partner for the fiftieth time.

“Sure!” The dark and volatile member of the duo balanced precariously on a first-storey window-ledge. “Have I ever steered you wrong?”

“Many times,” Hutch muttered, thinking of some of the more hare-brained schemes they’d been involved in over the years. “And playing Spider-Man this soon after getting out of the hospital isn’t exactly a brilliant idea.”

“I’m back up to par, goddammit!” Starsky seethed. “Better’n before, even! All that Physical Therapy and stuff—”

“And eating a decent diet for a change…” Hutch backed off, remembering. Eight months since the shooting, and he’s still anxious about it… how close he came to dying, or being a permanent basket-case… Let be.

“Blechh! Thank god that’s over with. They took me off PT and rabbit-food a month ago, and that means I’m okay.” Starsky flashed a defiant grin.

“So we wind up in New York, playing cat-burglar. Terrific.”

Starsky inched over to the next window. “Are you still sore about our hopping that plane?”

“We’ve been out of touch for five hours! Dobey’s going to—”

“He’ll be delighted when we march in with LaCosta in tow.” Starsky looked upward, peering through the window.

Hutch looked at the debris that surrounded them. “Are you sure this is the right alley? They all look alike in the dark.” And, he added to himself, we always wind up in them.

“Look. Every apartment house has an alley, right?”

“Yeah, but—”

“And LaCosta went into this apartment house, right?”

“Yeah, but—”

“And according to the little line-up in the hall, there’s an apartment registered to LaCosta in this building, right?”

“If this is the right building,” Hutch groused.

“So all we have to do is get to his window, right?”

“Starsk, I still think we should have wired ahead…”

“SHHH! I’m almost there…”

“FREEZE, TURKEYS!!!” Somewhere in the alley a loud voice demanded immediate attention.

“Starsk…” Hutch whispered.

“YA DEAF? COME ON OUTTA THERE!!!” The voice was more insistent, and was punctuated by the ominous snick of a pistol being cocked.

“Uh…” Hutch couldn’t think of anything clever to say.

Starsky decided he’d just found out what a fly feels like as the swatter descends.

“Okay, get down, and come on out where we can see yez!” a slightly deeper voice commanded from the street-end of the alley.

Hutch sighed and moved his hand towards his jacket pocket. Before he knew what was happening, his arm was gripped in a professionally vise-like grasp and twisted behind his back. He got a close-up view of the soles of Starsky’s shoes as the owner of the voice neatly frisked him and confiscated his Police Special.

“I was trying to show you my identification,” Hutch said to the wall in front of his nose.

“Oh yeah?” snapped the Bronx-accented voice. “And what about the Human Fly up there? Come on down, and let’s see what you look like on the ground.”

Starsky gingerly dropped to the pavement. There wasn’t much light in the alley, but what there was of it showed two figures in the short-sleeved shirts, slacks, and distinctive caps of the NYPD. The taller one shoved Hutch out of the alley and onto Third Street, while the shorter one held a pistol steadily at Starsky’s abdomen.

Under the streetlight, the two New York cops were sharply revealed as females: one long-limbed, grim, and blonde; one short, feisty, and dark. The poetically-minded Hutch thought of a greyhound and a pug-dog.

Starsky, more practical, simply thought they were the most unwelcome intruders he had met since his Cousin Milton had caught him playing ‘doctor’ with the little red head next door.

“Girls… ah, Ladies?” Starsky began, smiling hopefully.

“It’s Officer Cagney and Officer Lacey,” the tall blonde snapped, “And I’d be very interested in hearing your explanation for that little acrobatic exhibition you were pulling. Playing you were Philippe Petit? Or are you just a Peeping Tom?”

“That is, before we book yez for attempted burglary,” the other cop put in.

“Will you let me get my ID?” Hutch asked softly. Very slowly he reached into his jacket and withdrew his wallet, while Cagney’s ice-blue eyes drilled into him and Lacey held the gun steady. He handed the wallet to Cagney. She glanced at its contents, passed it to her partner, and shook her head in total disbelief.

“Cops,” she said.

“I was tryin’ to tell you—” Starsky sputtered.

“L.A.,” Lacey said, handing Hutch back his wallet. “Kinda off your beat, ain’t ya?”

“It’s a long story,” Hutch sighed. “We were tailing a suspect, he got on a plane for New York, and we followed him.”

“I don’t suppose you bothered with little things like extradition papers,” Cagney sniffed.

Starsky looked at Hutch. “There wasn’t time,” he said, more to answer his partner’s accusing stare than hers. “If we’d called in, we’d have missed him. We nearly lost him in a John— ah, a men’s room…”

“We know what it is,” Cagney sneered.

Lacey holstered her pistol. “Okay, guys, tell you what; you check in at the 23rd Precinct—down the street, turn right at Seventh, two blocks uptown and hang another right. If you get the paperwork done, we’ll tag your guy and bring him in.”

“But he’s up there right now!” Starsky wailed, pointing at the targeted window. “If all this noise hasn’t scared him off, that is.”

“Anyone we know?” Cagney asked.

“He’s from L.A.,” said Hutch. “Name’s LaCosta.”

Cagney shook her head. “I’ll ask Charley if he knows him; Charley knows everyone south of Fourteenth.”

“There’s a LaCosta Art Supplies on Sixth Avenue,” Lacey said helpfully.

“The only art this creep does is repainting cars,” Starsky replied. “We think he’s tied up with an auto-theft ring. They pick up cars on the coast and send them all over the country.”

Cagney smiled at Hutch. The effect was electric; her square-jawed face suddenly became attractive, lit from within. “Get over to Captain Rinaldi at the 23rd, and get the papers. See ya!”

Hutch watched as the two women swung back into action and strolled off down the street, his eyes on Officer Cagney’s well-proportioned rear.

Starsky wasn’t impressed. “Damn! Those two idiot broads nearly ran us in!” he swore.

“They were right,” Hutch told him. “We’d better call in before Dobey gets the FBI out looking for us. And let’s hope he can get some grease under the wheels here, before LaCosta does another job and takes another trip.”

“You go make the call. I’ll watch the window.”

“I don’t think that’s necessary, Starsk. Besides, I don’t fancy traipsing through this town alone at this time of night. You come too.”

“Whaddaye mean, not necessary?! He could blow—”

“Look again.” Hutch pointed at the darkened window. “He went in, turned the lights on for a while, then turned them off and didn’t come out again. Look at your watch, too. I’ll lay you even money LaCosta’s peacefully asleep right now. He isn’t going anywhere.”

“Maybe the racket with those-those, uh, Officers woke ‘im up…”

“Then why’s his light still out?” Hutch took Starsky’s elbow and tugged impatiently. “We can stroll past the front door and see if he’s running out of it, but I think he’ll stay put until morning. C’mon, little buddy. Let’s go make the call and get legal.”

***

The two out-of-towners headed, grumbling, for the lights of Seventh Avenue. All of Greenwich Village seemed to be out and about in the late-summer heat of early September. Humanity seethed around them: young people in scantily-dressed twosomes and not always of the opposite sexes, old people shuffling along carrying bundles and shopping-bags, middle-aged people striding purposefully down the street as if it were noon instead of midnight, shrill children zipping through the crowd on roller-skates and bicycles and skateboards.

Hutch stopped in the middle of the crowd and waved his arms in despair. “Look at this!” he declaimed. “How can anybody live like this? Like ants in an ant-heap! It’s disgusting!”

“Right on, brother!” cheered a shaggy-haired character in a blue tank-top and green cut-off shorts. Everybody else ignored him.

Starsky took a deep, soulful breath of the soggy effluvium that passed for New York air. “I miss this, Hutch.”

“Considering that you left it when you were ten, I don’t see how,” Hutch sneered. “Let’s go find a phone and call in before Dobey has a heart attack.”

The first phone they found was, to Starsky’s delight, in the middle of a block full of all-night restaurants.

The connection to Los Angeles was scratchy, but Captain Dobey’s bellow could be heard clearly through the static. “You’re WHERE???” he roared.

“I said, we’re in New York. We followed LaCosta on the plane,” Starsky explained for the third time that night.

“On whose expense account?” Dobey raged.

“Cap, I thought you’d be pleased! He’s gonna have to get in touch with the big boys who’re running the operation.”

“I want you back here tomorrow!”

“Cap, just get us the extradition papers,” Starsky pleaded.

“And send them where?”

Hutch waved toward the yellow-and-green lights on the decrepit building just visible down the street.

Starsky barked into the phone: “Twenty-Third Precinct, Captain Rinaldi. Or Officers Cagney and Lacey. They’re our New York contacts. And we’ll get back to you later!” He hung up the phone on Dobey’s inarticulate wrath.

Hutch smiled mirthlessly. “Nothing like a little interdepartmental co-operation,” he said. “May I suggest we find some food and a place to park for the night? My stomach is still running on Coast time.”

Starsky looked at the smorgasbord set out before them. “Take your choice. Chinese? Italian? Kosher? Indonesian? Or the All-American Hot Dog?”

“It’s bad enough we have to breathe here; we don’t have to poison our insides any more than necessary,” Hutch pronounced, leading the way to The Nature Hut—a small sidewalk cafe with a large blackboard in front that proclaimed that the “plat du jour” was Avocado Surprise.

Starsky balked. “You come all the way to New York to eat California avocados?”

“Avocados are good for you,” Hutch insisted, sitting at one of the small tables. “They’re loaded with potassium, calcium, and Vitamin C. And,” he added as Starsky opened his mouth to protest, “The Diners’ Club card is in my name.

The waiter, a pasty-faced youth in a soiled white shirt and string tie, took their order as if it were their obituary.

“Why do the people in health-food places look as if they have one foot in the grave?” Starsky complained.

Hutch tasted the water and grimaced. “Where do we go from here?” he asked rhetorically. “We can’t snag LaCosta until the warrants come through, and we don’t know his contacts.”

“We start asking questions,” said Starsky. “I bet if we’d gone to a pizza place they’d know LaCosta.”

“Ask who? All our snitches are back in L.A.,” Hutch reminded him. “And we’d better check in with Captain whatsisname…”

“Rinaldi,” Starsky said. His mind was still on the fugitive. “Hutch, he let himself in with a key, right? So something was set up for him, right? So—”

“So there’s a New York connection. This we knew,” Hutch finished for him. “Starsk, I think we’ve been had.”

“Uh-uh! I gotta feeling about this one…”

“Avocado Surprise.” The waiter dumped two plates of food in front of them.

Starsky poked at it apprehensively. “What’s the surprise? For that matter, where’s the avocado?”

“Eat it. It’s not bad.” Hutch dug in enthusiastically.

“I don’t eat anything that looks alive.” Starsky took a tentative bite. “What’s in this, anyway? Eye of newt?” He held an unidentifiable something on his fork, dripping mayonnaise.

“Something wrong, mister?” The waiter was back, but he was not alone. Behind him stood a woman built along the lines of a Sumo wrestler, draped in several hundred yards of muu-muu, adorned with glass beads.

“You gotta beef?” The woman glowered at Starsky.

“If I had beef there’d be no problem,” Starsky said nastily. “We’re paying through the nose for this…”

“Starsk,” Hutch said wearily.

“…And if this is an avocado…”

Hutch wished he could disappear or retroactively disown his partner. The avocado had seen better days, but they weren’t at home, they couldn’t roust these people, and the woman was bigger than both of them.

That didn’t stop Starsky. “Maybe you can kid the other New Yorkers with this stuff, but I come from where they grow avocados. I know what a fresh avocado is supposed ta look like. A fresh avocado is bright green, and it doesn’t turn into guacamole by itself.”

“Mister,” the enormous proprietress rumbled as ominously as Mauna Loa, “Our avocados are flown in fresh every day from California.”

“Lady, I just flew in from California, and this monster-mash sure wasn’t on the plane with me!”

The altercation had drawn the attention of a passing crowd, and two uniformed cops came pushing through the multitudes. Hutch took one look and realized that his cup of humiliation had just run over.

“These characters giving you trouble, Gert?” asked the tall blonde. It was Officer Cagney, all right. Again.

“Nah, just a couple of out-of-towners,” Gert said.

“It figures,” Lacey sighed. “Hey, you two: Starsky and Hutchinson. Pay up and come with us. Captain Rinaldi wants to meet ya. Seems you two just gave our names as your New York contacts.”

Not for the first time, Hutch wondered if he could plead Justifiable Homicide for strangling his partner.

“And we’re supposed to be plain old cops,” Cagney said with a trace of bitterness, as Hutch shuffled credit cards and Starsky sneered at the defeated Avocado Surprise.

***

Captain Rinaldi was large, Italian and explosive. He was not particularly happy to see the two visitors from the City of the Angels. “I just got off the phone with your Captain Dobey,” he growled at them. “What’s all this about a stolen-car operation—and why didn’t you call us in on it?”

Hutch looked accusingly at Starsky. One more time Starsky went into his spiel. It sounded even less convincing the fourth time around. “…And we were trying to locate the suspect when these two ladies—”

“Officers Cagney and Lacey,” Hutch put in.

“…Found us,” Starsky finished lamely.

“And what are we supposed to do?” Rinaldi bellowed. “Pick up this Tony LaCosta on suspicion of flying from Los Angeles to New York? You gotta have more to go on than that!”

“I gave Charley a call,” Cagney cut in. “According to him, there were a couple of LaCostas mixed up with grand-theft-auto about ten years ago. Punks, he said, from Chicago. They got picked up, and the word was they were sent to ‘Nam. One came back, one didn’t. End of story.”

Hutch stared at her, eyes widening with appreciation.

Rinaldi’s frown eased a millimeter. “I respect your father, Cagney. If he says there was a connection…”

“At least you could put a man on the place,” Lacey suggested.

“By this time LaCosta could be anywhere,” Starsky groused. “Maybe he went to sleep, and maybe he didn’t. He could’ve gone out any time after we left the apartment building.”

“Not until he gets some more cash,” Hutch said suddenly.

“How so?” That was Cagney, the eager blonde.

“Starsky and I tailed him all over L.A., onto the plane, into a cab, and right to that apartment house. When he paid off the cab, he fished around for nickels and dimes. The creep’s broke, and he’s not gonna get anywhere tonight unless the money comes to him… and we don’t think that can happen right away, either, because he didn’t call anyone from the airport, and we didn’t hear anyone on the first floor of that apartment make any phone calls.”

“He could have set it up beforehand,” Lacey objected.

“No way.” Starsky was grimly certain. “We’ve had our eye on this bird for weeks, and he hasn’t made a move that we didn’t see. He didn’t call any one, he didn’t get any long-distance calls, and the only mail he got was post cards and junk-mail. My guess now is he’ll have to wait ’til morning, then walk to his meet for more dough.”

“So we put a stakeout on the place,” Rinaldi scoffed. “Then what?”

“Don’t bother.” Cagney smiled that dazzling smile. “Charley’s watching it. He says it’s been ten years, but he remembers the LaCosta kids like it was yesterday.”

Rinaldi looked baffled. “One of these days, Cagney, your father will learn the meaning of the word ‘retired’! in the meantime, have you boys got a place to bed down for the night?”

The silence stretched long.

Starsky shrugged. Hutch managed a grin. “I guess there are enough ho tels in New York…” he began.

Cagney and Lacey had been having their own brief conference in a corner of the squadroom. “Uh, you could come over to my place.” That was Lacey, the short dark one. “We go off at one, and Harvey’s still up.”

“Harvey?” Starsky’s eyebrows rose.

“My husband…” Lacey was already on the phone. “Hey, Harve? We got room for a coupla guests? …Nah, grown-ups this time. Out-of-town cops, stranded. Yeah. …Look, I didn’t want you to get the wrong idea! And hey, have we got anything in the house? I can pick up deli… Gee, that’s be great! Thanks, Harve. See ya!”

Cagney and Hutch were smiling into each others’ eyes when Lacey turned back to the visitors. “Harvey’s picking up deli,” she announced.

“Mary-Beth, that apartment of yours is awfully small,” Cagney said slowly, “And the kids have school tomorrow…”

“Oh, that’s no problem,” Lacey said brightly. Then she took in the vibes being projected by the two blond cops. “Oh. Yes. Well…it is a small apartment…”

“Detective-Sergeant Hutchinson won’t mind coming home with me, will you?” That electric smile did things to Hutch’s hormones that even offset his New York paranoia. He shook his head slowly, still smiling.

Starsky regarded his partner with some concern. “Hey, Hutch, you sure? I mean…”

“Luck of the draw,” Hutch purred. “You get to meet Harvey and eat deli. You did say you were hungry, didn’t you?”

Starsky realized that there were some times when a partner had to go it alone. “Have a good time,” he said, grinning.

So they all piled into Lacey’s car, and dropped Hutch and Cagney off in front of the run-down brownstone in the mid-70s.

***

Mary-Beth Lacey drove to a battered-but-unbowed apartment in the Washing ton Heights section, north of Harlem, in the shadow of the George Washington Bridge. “Hey, Harve? Company!” she yelled, as she led the way to a ground-floor apartment.

Harvey turned out to be a stocky, almost-fat, 40-ish man in T-shirt and chinos. “Hya, honey,” he greeted his wife. “I just got back from the deli.” He turned to the guest. “I hope you like pastrami.”

“Are you kidding?” Starsky’s eyes gleamed at the rich spread before him: salami, pastrami, sliced tongue, roast beef, rye bread, sour pickles, mustard… “I haven’t had decent cold cuts since I left New York!”

“When was that?” Harvey indicated a seat at the kitchen table.

“A while back,” Starsky admitted, pulling out the vintage chair, “When I was a kid, but I still remember the taste. Y’know, you can get deli in L.A., but it somehow doesn’t taste the same.”

“It’s the atmosphere,” Harvey said knowingly.

Starsky joyously piled up a classic Dagwood sandwich. “I remember once, when I was in camp, I was the Champion Hot Dog Eater. My partner, Hutch, he says I’m poisoning myself. He can eat his avocados; gimme a good hot dog any time.” He took a huge bite. A look of pure ecstasy spread over his face.

“Champion Eater, huh?” Harvey grinned at the lean cop.

“I once ate 37 and a half hot dogs,” Starsky said through the pastrami. “It was up in camp, and they put me against some fat kid from another camp…”

Harvey stared at his dinner guest. “What did you say your name was?”

“Starsky. Dave Starsky.” *Munch*

“And you were in Camp Gitchee-Goumie?”

Recognition dawned. “Fat Harvey? From Camp Mohawk?!”

Mary-Beth Lacey guffawed. “I guess it’s a small world, isn’t it?”

Starsky shook his head. “I don’t believe it. Fat Harvey from Camp Mohawk!”

“You took away my title,” Harvey said. “You beat me by half a hot dog!”

Starsky swallowed a mouthful of sandwich and asked, “So what do you do now—when you’re not eating hot dogs?”

Harvey shifted uneasily in his chair. “Well… I used to work in construction, but then I got this inner-ear thing. So now I’m the super here. We get the apartment for free, and there’s the salary, and with what Mary-Beth makes, we get by. Anyway, with me home, the kids can have a place to be after school and I can take care of Mary-Beth’s stray cats.”

“Like me,” Starsky said with a grin. To himself he thought: I hope Hutch is having as good a time as I am.

***

Hutch poked around his hostess’ tiny apartment while she rummaged in her equally-tiny refrigerator.

“I’m not much of a cook,” she confessed, “So I don’t keep much in the house. And I know this isn’t much of a place. I just use it to eat and sleep and change clothes. My life is out there.” She waved toward the street, whose noises filtered in over the hum of the fan.

Hutch picked up a photo in a cheap metal frame. A stern-looking middle-aged man in the NYPD uniform stared back at him. “Charley?” he asked.

“Yeah. My father. He always wanted a son to follow him onto the Force, instead, he got me—’Officer Daughter’.” Chris Cagney emerged from the corner that served as a kitchen with a bottle of wine and two glasses.

“Not much of a supper,” Hutch observed, grinning.

Chris smiled back. “I told you, I don’t cook.”

There was a long, meaningful silence as the two sized each other up like adversaries before a fight. Hutch saw a tall strong-faced woman in her mid-30s, with a humorous mouth and very blue eyes: no-nonsense manners, Irish as Paddy’s Pig, New York to the core. Chris saw a man about her own height, slightly heavier, with fair silky hair starting to thin at the edges and haunted blue eyes: sun-bronzed, street-tough, pure California.

A siren in the near distance broke the spell. Chris started to reach for her pistol, still strapped to her belt. Hutch grabbed for his, tucked under his armpit. They stopped in mid-grab, stared at each other, and started to laugh.

“I guess we’re two of a kind,” Chris said. “Cops. Charley used to say they were born, not made.”

“That doesn’t figure,” Hutch replied. “My folks were from Minnesota, and there wasn’t a cop in the lot.”

“Vikings, huh?”

“You bet. Farmers, preachers, and a few oddballs like me.”

“I hope you’re not one of those classy types who knows about wine,” Chris said, reaching for the bottle. “I just keep this stuff around for emergencies.”

“Like me?” Hutch asked.

Chris stopped pouring for a minute. “Look, don’t get the wrong idea. I’m not like Mary-Beth, I couldn’t tie myself down that long, but I’m not exactly Miss Round-Heels either.”

“I didn’t think you were.” Hutch tasted the wine. “Not bad.”

“New York Taylor Chablis,” Chris said. “Shlainté!”

“Skoal!”

They looked at each other over the wine glasses. There was another of those uncomfortable pauses. This time it was Hutch who broke the silence: “Uh, where am I supposed to…” He looked around. There didn’t seem to be much furniture in the place: a narrow couch, an ottoman, a table with two chairs. Through the open door he could see a bedroom.

“The ottoman folds out,” Chris said quietly, “if you want it that way.”

“You asked me up,” Hutch reminded her.

Chris frowned. “This is stupid,” she said. “Look, what’s your first name? I mean, we can’t call each other Detective-Sergeant Hutchinson and Officer Cagney all night.”

“Most people call me Hutch.”

“You can do better than that.”

“My first name’s Ken…”

She smiled that smile that lit up her whole face. “Christine Cagney—call me Chris.”

“Pleased to meet you, Chris.”

“Likewise, Ken.”

After that there was suddenly no more need for words. Actions were far more important. Chris Cagney’s bed was much more comfortable than the pull-out ottoman would have been.

The last coherent thought Hutch had was: I wonder how Starsky’s making out…

***

Starsky and Harvey were deep into one of those ‘do-you-remember’ conversations when Starsky grew aware of two pairs of dark eyes burning into the back of his head. He turned to see two small boys regarding him with detached interest.

“Hey, you kids: go to bed!” Mary-Beth yelled, not too loudly.

“Are you a cop or a crook?” the older boy asked.

“I’m a good guy,” Starsky said, very seriously.

“He’s from Los Angeles,” Mary-Beth told her children. “He’s had a long trip, and he’s tired.”

“Isn’t that where movie stars come from?” The older boy was just as dogged as his mother.

“Yeah, a few.”

“Do you know any movie stars?”

Harvey, returning with his arms full of bedding, shooed the kids away. “Get back to bed! Mr. Starsky’s a cop, like your mother. Where would a cop get to meet movie stars?”

“I worked crowd-control on a movie once,” Mary-Beth said dreamily. “Dennis Weaver gave me his autograph.”

“Actually,” Starsky admitted sheepishly, “I was in a movie. As a stunt man. Hutch and I were working undercover…”

“All Chris and I ever get to do is pound the pavement and maybe work the John Detail,” Mary-Beth griped. “She’s the one who wants to get us into plain-clothes. As soon as the promotions exams come up…”

“It’s not always such a hot deal,” Starsky warned her. “They give you five bucks and they take ten back. And the work gets dirtier.”

Mary-Beth sat down on the nearest chair. “It’s not just the money—although we could use that, too. Chris wants to be the first woman to make Captain. And she’ll do it.”

“If you two are going to talk ‘cop’, I’m going to bed,” Harvey stated. “Mary-Beth, you still got the day shift tomorrow—and you kids: get ta bed!”

“He’s right,” Lacey smiled apologetically. “We can’t talk shop all night.” She got up, handed Starsky a pajama set, and trailed after her husband.

Starsky, lost in Harvey’s pajamas, settled down on the lumpy couch. His last conscious thought was: I wonder how Hutch made out…

***

Morning at the Laceys’ was hectic, with Mary-Beth making lunches for the kids, Harvey answering complaints from the tenants, and everyone crowding the bathroom. In the middle of the hubbub, the telephone rang.

“It’s Chris,” Mary-Beth announced. “Yeah… Okay. Tell Charley thanks, and we’ll be right on it.”

“LaCosta’s moving?” Starsky asked eagerly.

“According to Charley, he’s looking out the 2nd-floor window in the front. Same face, ten years older. Charley never forgets a face, especially one he’s run in. Harve, get the kids to school, will ya? Starsky, let’s move! We’ll pick up Chris and your partner on the way.”

***

Hutch and Cagney were heavy-eyed but ready for action when the foursome reached Third Street. Charley, the aging image of the man in Chris Cagney’s photograph, was waiting for them.

“What’ve we got?” Starsky asked, glancing at the building.

“It’s LaCosta all right,” said the aged cop, “But I couldn’t say if it was Vinnie or Tony from this distance, and through the screens.”

“Charley, I owe you one,” Cagney said fondly.

“Make a good collar; that’s all I ask,” was her father’s gruff reply.

Starsky wordlessly raised his eyebrows at his partner. Hutch grinned back. Lacey made a cynical face.

“Watch it!” Cagney hissed. “Here he comes!”

A thin, long-nosed man emerged from the building, nattily clad in white summer trousers, blue blazer, pink shirt, and white ascot instead of a tie. He passed the four cops in the alley without a backward look, and set out for Seventh Avenue. Starsky and Hutch strolled behind him.

Within two blocks, LaCosta knew he was being followed. He quickened his pace. The Californians did the same. It became a kind of race: up Seventh Avenue, around Sheridan Square, across town on Bleeker Street—where the chase ended. Cagney and Lacey had cut across the maze of alleys and were waiting in front of the subway station to catch the fleeing LaCosta as he tried to duck into it.

***

“I don’t know what all this is about,” LaCosta whined as they marched him into the squadroom at the 23rd Precinct.

“Why’d you run?” Lacey asked sweetly.

“Wouldn’t you, with those two goons after you?” LaCosta glared at Starsky and Hutch.

“Look carefully, LaCosta.” Hutch faced him. “You mean you never saw us before?”

The dapper little man stared at the two. “I never saw you before in my life, and I don’t want to look at you now.”

Captain Rinaldi was on the telephone. “Hey, you two! Hutchinson and Starsky? I’ve got your Captain on the line, and he’s not happy with you. It seems you’ve got the wrong guy.”

“Like hell we do,” Starsky muttered. He took the receiver from Rinaldi. “Captain…”

“What have you two morons done now?” Dobey’s displeasure was audible clear across the room.

“We’ve got LaCosta!” Starsky said.

“Hell, so have we!”

Starsky looked blank. “That’s impossible, Captain. He’s sitting right here in front of us. I’ve been following this creep around for a month, and I know what he looks like.”

“Take another look. LaCosta’s been identified right here. Get on the next plane and come home!”

“Captain…” Starsky looked at his prisoner. The man looked smug, as if he’d put something over on someone. “Hold the line a minute.”

“This call is costing us…” Dobey fussed.

Starsky beckoned Hutch over to the phone. “I don’t like the look of this creep,” he whispered. “There’s something going on.”

Lacey had rolled a long form into an ancient typewriter and was preparing the usual arrest sheet. “Name?” she asked.

“Vincent LaCosta.” The little man was practically smirking.

“Vinnie?” Cagney asked sharply.

“Yeah, Vinnie. Only no one’s called me that in years. Not since I got back from Vietnam.”

“Captain,” Hutch said into the phone, “I think we’ve got a LaCosta.”

“Identical twins!” groaned Starsky.

“Terrific! And which twin is the Tony?” Hutch cracked.

Captain Dobey was not amused. “You mean we have two men, both LaCostas, and one of them is innocent? That one can sue the city for false arrest!”

“Which city?” Starsky muttered.

“Place of business?” Lacey, dogged as ever, was still typing the form.

“I run an art-supply store on the Avenue of the Americas, just north of Houston Street. Have you got me mixed up with my brother again? I thought I finished with that when we got back from ‘Nam. He stayed on the coast, I came home, and I haven’t seen him since. My brother and I…” He stopped in mid-sentence. Then, more calmly, he said: “I don’t want to speak to him. If he’s in some kind of trouble, I don’t even want to know about it. He’s a bum!”

Lacey frowned thoughtfully at her typewriter. “Would you please repeat that last address?”

“Houston Street.” LaCosta sounded impatient. “Hew. Ston. H-O-U-S-T-O-N—like the guy from Texas!” He took a deep breath and calmed down again. “Look, I’m sorry I ran. It’s this town; it gets to you.”

Lacey leaned over her typewriter, radiating sympathy. “You oughtta get out of this neighborhood. Move uptown, or Brooklyn. Grand Concourse, maybe?”

“Too rich for my blood,” LaCosta said, with a self-deprecating shrug. “Can I go home now?”

“Yeah!” Lacey snapped out, tearing the paper from the typewriter. “And Starsky and Hutch will take you there—right back to Los Angeles, where you came from!”

Everyone turned to stare at her. LaCosta blanched.

“Captain, hold on!” Hutch whispered into the phone. “Lacey, how do you know?”

“No one in New York calls it ‘Avenue of the Americas’,” Lacey said, her smile showing teeth. “It’s Sixth Avenue, now and always! And it’s How-ston Street, not Hew-ston! And the Grand Concourse is the South Bronx; even the junkies don’t want to live there!”

Starsky grabbed the phone. “Cap, wait a minute! The one we got is—”

LaCosta lunged toward the open door of the squadroom.

Cagney caught him in the midsection with a well-placed kick. Hutch wrestled him back into his chair. The not-so-dapper little man sat gasping while Officer Lacey smiled triumphantly down at him.

“You and your brother came from Chicago, and right away you got nailed on Grand Theft, Auto. Then you went to ‘Nam, so you never found out much about New York. But I bet you and Vinnie get in touch a lot more than you let on. Postcards, maybe?”

LaCosta did nothing but swear.

“You must’ve made the switch at L.A. airport, in the mens’ room. Vinnie is now in Los Angeles… Hey, Starsky? Why don’t you pull the same stunt on him?”

Starsky nodded, grinning sweetly. “Cap, ask the guy you’ve got how to get to Disneyland on the Santa Monica Freeway. —Yeah, I know you can’t do that. Just ask him.”

There was a brief silence, then sounds of a scuffle came over the phone.

Starsky made a thumbs-up sign. “Get those extradition papers to us, Captain. We’ve got Tony and you’ve got Vinnie. And I’ll just bet that Vinnie is Tony’s New York Connection—with a little boost from some Big Boys in Chicago.”

***

Tony LaCosta sat glumly while various officials were contacted and the paperwork was completed. Starsky and Hutch treated Cagney and Lacey to a lavish Chinese lunch, courtesy of the Diners’ Club. By the time all the assorted documents were ready and the prisoner packed up to go, it was nearly 6 o’clock.

“…And that’s that.” Captain Rinaldi triumphantly put the final signature on the last scrap of paper.

“And this goes on record as our collar, right?” Cagney pressed.

Rinaldi regarded her sourly. “Still bucking for that shield, huh? Yeah, it’ll go in your records. Now get these characters over to La Guardia. They got a flight to California in an hour, and they’re supposed to be on it.”

Tony LaCosta, handcuffed between Starsky and Hutch, was squeezed into the back seat of Mary-Beth Lacey’s subcompact, for which he might conceivably have argued ‘police brutality’. The New York rush-hour traffic seemed more intense than usual, and they managed to skid into the airport, with the aid of the siren, with ten minutes to spare.

“Next time ya get in, give us a call,” Lacey told Starsky. “Harvey makes a great pot-roast.”

“And what do you make?” Hutch asked Cagney, his moustache twitching.

She beamed at him. “Let’s just call it New York’s Finest.”

“Hutch, the plane’s leaving!” Starsky dragged the prisoner and his partner down the ramp past the check-point.

***

Once settled on the plane, Starsky looked across the prisoner at his partner, noticing that he was unusually quiet. Hutch was staring out the window at a small patch of blue that could still be seen through the window of the observation tower.

“It’s no good,” Starsky said firmly. “She’s here, and you’re there.”

“So I’ll get her there,” Hutch replied.

The two women in blue turned and were gone. They were having the exact same conversation, in fact. Somewhere, somehow, there was going to be another time for two cops that met and passed like ships in the night.