One More Mountain

891

In this post-Sweet Revenge story, Starsky and Hutch go to New York to attend the wedding of one of Hutch’s friends. But Starsky’s brother, Nick — who supposedly has an honest job in Las Vegas — calls from LA and asks for their help. Despite Hutch’s misgivings and his concern for Starsky’s health, they head for home. What’s really going on with Nick now? And what is he not telling them?

 

One More Mountain, a gen novel that can be read and enjoyed entirely on its own, is the first part of The Red Light Trilogy. The next two novels of the trilogy, One More River and No Easy Answers, are slash. The Epilogue, The Last Full Measure, is slash.

Special thanks to M H E Priest for help with transferring stories to this archive.

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ONE MORE MOUNTAIN

By Chris Power & Terri Beckett

An Adult S&H Novella

 

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Acknowledgements are due to more people than we can name for their support and encouragement. If we were to list them all, this novella would turn into a Who’s Who in S & H Fandom, with a story stuck on the end. You know who you are  —  we couldn’t have done this without you.

Our grateful thanks go especially to:

Tabby, for advice and unfailing belief.

Frodsham McCloud, for allowing us the privilege of being the first to present her artwork to S & H fandom.

And finally, to Jan L., for de-Britishising and commenting on the draft, and for her ruthless eradication of One Particular Word. (Reckon we got it right, Jan?)

* * * * * * *

CREDITS

Typos, grammatical and other errors — Chris Power, who also proof-read, and Zephod, who didn’t.

Printing — Marvin

Collating and the usual neuroses — Terri Beckett

Art —  Frodsham McCloud

Front Cover — T’Vas

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…There’s always one more mountain to climb,
One more river to cross…
–Sedaka-Greenfield

 

Chapter I

Retsina is deadly stuff. It’s partly the innocuous look of it, and the healthy pine scent, and the way the experienced drinkers pour it back like lemonade. The first taste is surprising — the second, mellow — the third, addictive. After that, you don’t actually taste it at all. It has the dubious benefit of obscuring the world in a rosy haze, dislocating all inhibitions by sneaking up from behind, and when it hits, it hits like a freight-train. No one in his right mind drinks the stuff. But at a Greek wedding, everyone drinks retsina.

“L’chaim,“ said David Starsky, raising his glass. It might have been his second, or his seventh. He wasn’t counting.

“And yours,” his partner responded automatically, and with ritualistic formality they threw the drinks back, hardly even tasting it now, and Ken Hutchinson refilled the glasses. “To the bride,” he announced.

“Lucky man,” said Starsky.

“Who is?”

“Nick the Greek. Nico Spirandap — Spirondip — oh hell, he’s your buddy. Whatsisname.”

“Ah,” said Hutch, blinking. “Spiroudoupolis.”

“Yeah. She’s beautiful.”

“Who is?”

“Arian — Ariad — Jesus, Hutch, why do all your friends have such weird names?”

Hutch gazed at him thoughtfully.

“Yeah. You may have a point there, good buddy. David Michael is okay, but Starsky isn’t exactly all-American.”

Starsky gave him a pained look.

“Do I make comments about your ancestry?”

“Frequently and obscenely. Skol.“

“Slainte. What’s this stuff again?”

“Retsina.”

“Yeah. Beats hell out of Dr. Pepper.”

* * * * * * *

It had been quite a wedding. Nico had summoned his old college buddy from Los Angeles to New York to be his Best Man, and had gained an usher as well. Starsky, with a visit to his mother long overdue, had taken the opportunity to come along for the ride now that he was almost fully recovered from the injuries inflicted by Gunther’s hitmen. Until now he had not felt able to pass muster under his mother’s close scrutiny, since she had not been told the full extent of his wounds. But now he felt fighting-fit — most of the time — and had ended up in New York with a job to do, courtesy of the Best Man. In spite of that, everything had gone off exceptionally well. The reception was still in full swing at ten in the evening, the bride and groom having long departed in a hail of rice, confetti, and ribald comments and good wishes for the delights of the nuptial couch, and with no further duties to perform, both Starsky and Hutch had settled down to enjoy themselves.

Thus the retsina.

Retsina is deadly stuff.

” — Demis Roussos,” Starsky was saying. “Y’know the guy I mean. Looks like he’s wearin’ a tent, and sings like somebody gave him a vasectomy an’ the knife slipped — ” The sound of smashing crockery interrupted him. “Now what the hell — ” he began, startled.

“S’okay, Starsk. It’s a Greek custom. Like applause.”

“Oh. Remind me not to invite ’em round to my place.” Then, “Hutch, what are they doin’?”

It was a plaintive question, and the subject of it was a small group of men out on the dance floor. They had begun a gracefully angular kind of stalking dance, arms linked across one another’s shoulders in a chain, accompanied by the music of the bazoukis.

“It’s a sirtaki,” Hutch said. “You saw the movie, didn’t you?”

“Oh, yeah. ‘Zorba the Greek’…” He fell silent, watching, eyes narrowed in thoughtful observation. “Looks like a breeze,” he announced suddenly. “C’mon, Hutch. Even with two left feet, you should be able to handle this one — ”

Dancing, to the Greeks, is a form of self-expression, and probably pre-dates Homer. What it is to an American of Polish/Jewish ethnic origins may be more debatable, but when Starsky hit the dance floor, John Travolta could hang up his tap-shoes. That kind of exhibitionism, allied to the aforementioned properties of the retsina, produced a flamboyant and quite spectacular performance that outclassed even the natives. And because the retsina had dislocated Hutch’s common sense too, he didn’t find it at all odd to be dancing the sirtaki with Starsky and a bunch of strangers, completely stag. In fact, he enjoyed it. He was not certain when the sirtaki evolved into a zebekikos — but suddenly the chain had split into pairs, and Starsky’s eyes were brilliant with intoxicated laughter as he grinned at his partner, and the spectators were clapping and stamping accompaniment to the music as each pair sought to outdo the others.

“Hey, Hutch!”

“Yeah.”

“What the hell are we doin’?”

“It’s called a zebekikos,” Hutch said breathlessly, idiot-grin unfaltering.

“Yeah?” The Starsky exhibition of ethnic terpsichore paused in mid-sequence. “How ’bout that — ? C’mon, boy, let’s kick up a few more zebras, huh?”

And Hutch, with no self-consciousness left to him, sniggered and did just that.

* * * * * * *

He had very little clear recollection of anything that happened after that. At least, until the moment when the thick waves of sleep receded and left him stranded on the shores of awareness. His first realization was that his legs were paralyzed from the knees down. His next that his teeth felt somehow soft, and his mouth tasted like the bottom of a gorilla’s cage. Furthermore, he couldn’t close his fingers into a fist.

It all added up to one thing. A hangover of monumental proportions. And if he made the slightest movement, the pain would be beyond belief. That was one hell of a drunk they’d tied on — retsina, ouzo, whatever — the first for months, since the shooting. You can’t take a convalescent out on a bender, no matter how much you need a stiff drink, and getting smashed on your own is a lonely business — he’d found that out the hard way. But last night had made up for it, and Starsky had enjoyed it, and —

Where was Starsky, anyhow? The way he felt, he might need help getting himself back into approximate working order, and what were partners for?

“Starsk,” he said — or tried to say. It came out a croak. There was no answer. “Starsky?” He made the effort and cracked open one eye, ready to shut it quickly if the light hurt. But the room was dim. He opened the other eye.

Surprise. A ceiling. How ’bout that?

It didn’t seem a very good idea to move his head. He wasn’t sure how firmly it was attached, and his brain seemed to have the consistency of mushy oatmeal. But eventually he attempted it, and before the tsunami of nauseating pain nailed him back onto the pillow, he managed to register that his legs were paralyzed because 150 pounds of Starsky was draped across them.

It’s nice to discover that the situation isn’t as dire as you first thought. His teeth still felt soft, but his fingers were answering better now, and since Starsky did not appear to be conscious, Hutch had no compunction about freeing himself without regard to what repercussions it might have on a system at least as frail as his — if not more so — he just kicked himself loose of the dead weight, rolled from the bed with a groan and lurched for the bathroom.

When he returned, his teeth solid again and his mouth tasting reassuringly of mint toothpaste, aspirin beginning to cope with the anarchy in his head, he found that Starsky had changed position. He was now curled into a suffering fetal ball at the foot of the bed, like some hibernating creature disturbed at mid-winter. He was making small whimpering noises at intervals, and his eyes were screwed shut.

“How’s your head?” Hutch asked with sympathy.

“My head’s fine.” It was a sepulchral mutter. “But San Andreas just opened up across my liver. Hutch — what was that stuff?”

“I don’t want to think about it,” Hutch said firmly. “Sit up, and take these.”

Starsky uncurled enough to accept the aspirin and the glass of water — dosed himself and lay back down again with a shuddering sigh. Then suddenly he went rigid, and groaned aloud.

“Oh, God — ”

“Starsk?” Alarmed, Hutch came to his side. “Starsk? What is it? You okay?”

“Oh, God.” Starsky’s throat worked convulsively. “Hutch. This is Sunday, right?”

“Right.”

“Sunday’s the day we’re visiting Mom.” He was looking paler by the minute. “Hutch — you know what she’s like. As soon as you step over the threshold, she feeds you…”

“Oh my God.” Hutch sat down, his own insides contracting at the mere thought of food of any description. And Mrs. Starsky’s idea of food in particular — lavish, rich, superbly cooked, so perfect that it was an insult to refuse a second helping, let alone a first. “Oh my God. We can’t not go.”

“Right.” Starsky’s face was a grimace of agony.

“Oh my God,” Hutch moaned again. Slowly and with great delicacy, Starsky pushed upright and combed his fingers through his hair, dislodging flakes of confetti that had gotten trapped in the dark curls.

“What time y’got?”

Hutch got hold of Starsky’s wrist and focused on his watch.

”Quarter after ten.”

“We got two hours.” They looked at each other. “Let’s get to it.”

* * * * * * *

A New York spring is a wild, barely-controllable trollop, skirling with teasing laughter. A yo-yo season of bright sunshine and cutting winds. The day of the wedding had had both — sun gilding Ariadne’s hair under the disheveled veiling, tossing the confetti in gusts like driven hail. But the day following had reverted to winter — there was no sun, and the wind was savagely cold. The cab delivered them to the door of the three-story brownstone in Brooklyn, disgorged them into the chill. Collar turned up, Starsky crept up the steps and hit the doorbell. Hutch paid the fare, and as he joined Starsky at the door, Anna Starsky opened it.

“Davey — !”

Beside her son, she was slight, almost diminutive — a trim woman in her late fifties, dark hair graying, bright blue eyes, the bone structure softened by her femininity. The resemblance between mother and son was still startling. Starsky hugged her, grinning.

“Hi, Mom. How’re things?”

She pulled his head down to kiss him.

“Are we going to talk on the doorstep? Come on in…”

The second floor apartment was unchanged from the last time either of them had seen it, and Hutch felt the warmth and welcome fold around him as Anna’s arms had done. He averted his eyes from the bountiful hospitality spread on the table waiting for them, and allowed Anna to greet him as she had her son before she stepped back to regard them both. “Ah, it’s so good to see you!” Keen blue eyes raked them from head to foot and back, sharpened to shame the sighting powers of a hawk by concern. “Davey, you don’t look well.”

“I’m fine, Mom,” he assured her quickly. “Just suffering from a Greek wedding. The next one had better be plain American.”

“The next what?” she demanded. “Ken, you’ve lost weight.”

“Wedding,” Starsky said lugubriously, lowering himself with care into on armchair.

“Better still, make it Jewish,” she said hopefully.

“Nah. Hutch don’t qualify.” And he grinned at her bemusement as it changed to comprehension.

“What — ? Ken !” Like a fish snapping up a fly, she turned on him, her face alight. “You’re going to get married? Who is she? A nice girl? What’s her name? Where — ”

“Whoa, take it easy!” Hutch laughed. “He’s putting you on. I’m not getting hitched.”

“Why not?” She seemed to take it as a personal affront.

“Well, Jaqi’s a special lady, but — ” he shrugged. “Once bitten, twice shy. Like me.”

“Nonsense.” She dismissed that.

“G’wan,” his partner drawled infuriatingly. “Show Mom the photos. He’s got it bad, y’know? Carries her picture around with him — ”

“Will you cut it out?”

“So show me,” Anna Starsky ordered, and without too much reluctance Hutch reached into his pocket, a sheepish smile beginning to form as the wallet was opened.

“That’s Emma,” he explained. “She’s just turned two. And this is Jaqi.”

Anna took the photographs from him. The child’s face was framed by blonde hair and dominated by wide-spaced gray eyes — the same eyes gazed out from the second picture, this time set in classic features topped by Titian-red hair coiled into severe perfection. But the woman’s lips were curved into a warm smile.

“Somethin’ else, ain’t she?” Starsky said complacently, as if he had designed her to specification. “He won’t let me meet her. I figure he’s scared of the competition.”

“She’s out of town a lot.” Hutch denied the accusation. “The opportunity just hasn’t come up. I told you — ”

“So how long have you known her?”

“Three — nearly four months.”

“And she’s special?” Anna handed the pictures back, watched him replace them.

“Yes,” he said simply.

“Then marry her, Ken. Before somebody with more sense does. That child needs a father, and her mother needs a good man to take care of her.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve got to convince Jaqi of that,” he grinned. “Right now she’s got home and career neatly organized.”

“Yeah,” his partner cut in. “I’m makin’ book that she’s gonna start in organizing him any time now.”

“Good,” said Anna. “Then maybe she’ll organize you when she’s done with Ken. Lord knows it’s about time someone did.”

“Mom, I’ve been fending for myself for the last fourteen years — ”

“Yes, that’s what I mean,” she told him unanswerably. “Open the wine, will you, Davey, while I put the finishing touches to the dinner?” And she disappeared into the small neat kitchen.

Starsky closed his eyes, drew a deep breath — Hutch looked at him.

“You going to make it?”

“Sure. Keep up the camouflage, buddy — you’re doin’ great.”

“Jaqi isn’t camouflage.”

“Diversionary tactics, then. Whatever. Thanks — ”

* * * * * * *

The meal was something of a trial for both men. Hutch, doing all he could to draw Anna’s attention from her suffering son, caught himself wondering how soon it would be before they could cut the visit decently short, and he’d never felt that way before in Anna’s company. But right now, Starsky didn’t bear close inspection, and she wasn’t going to buy the excuse of a Greek wedding to explain his condition. She had never been told the extent of the injuries Starsky had suffered ten months ago — ten months, Christ! — when Gunther’s mechanics had gunned him down that fine May morning in the police parking lot. Starsky had been adamant that she shouldn’t be told, and for ten months a conspiracy of silence had kept that knowledge from her.

It was beginning to look as if she was soon to find out.

Grimly, Hutch set his teeth and encouraged Anna’s inquisition into his personal life, answering questions about Jaqi and Emma — how he had met her, how Emma liked him, how he liked Emma —  But he didn’t tell her all of it, couldn’t. Too much of it was tied up with what she wasn’t supposed to know. But he could, and did, manage to convey just how special Jaqi was. What he owed her, and why, was another matter, and not even Starsky knew the whole of it.

“Marshmallow — ” Starsky cut in. “Betcha she winds him round her little finger.”

“Be quiet, dear,” Anna said absently. “Ken, tell me, who looks after the child if her momma’s away so often?”

Twenty Questions got them through dessert, which almost defeated Hutch, and he wondered how the hell Starsky could cope with it — and then, while Anna was making the coffee, the phone rang in the hall.

“I’ll get it,” Starsky called to forestall his mother. And as she brought the cups in, he summoned his partner. “Hey, Hutch, c’mere. It’s okay, Mom, it’s for me. From LA.”

“LA?” queried Hutch, closing the door and crossing to stand beside him, puzzled. “Huggy? Dobey?”

“…Yeah,” Starsky said into the phone. “Stay there, okay? …Yeah. Just as soon as we can…listen, kiddo, stay cool, keep your head down. No one knows where you are, right? So whatcha got to sweat about? …Sure. Sure I will. See ya.” He put the phone down, his expression abstracted. “That was Nick.”

“Nick?” Hutch repeated. “What the hell does he want?”

“He couldn’t be specific. Said he needs our help.”

“What?” Patent disbelief. “Needs our help? To do what, for Chrissakes? Ari too much for him?”

“Who?”

“Nick,” said Hutch, exasperated. “Where is he?”

“My place. Kinda pissed off because I wasn’t there — then remembered this caper and called home to see if Mom knew where I — ”

“Hold it!” Hutch broke in, more confused by the minute. “Nick’s at your place? He’s supposed to be in Hawaii!”

“Huh?” Starsky stared at him. Then: “Oh. Oh, no, not your Nick. Mine. Nicky. My brother.”

“Oh. That Nick.” A pause. “But isn’t he in Vegas?”

“He was in Vegas. Now he’s in LA. And in some kinda trouble.”

“Trouble?”

“You’re startin’ to sound like a friggin’ mynah bird,” Starsky snapped. “Christ, now what do we tell Mom? If she knows it’s Nick, she’ll worry.”

“You can’t lie to her.”

“You know I can’t, she sees straight through me.”

“‘Kay. Leave it to me. You call Kennedy, find out what’s the first flight we can get seats on. Better give us an hour to pick up at the hotel.”

Starsky was dialing as Hutch left him to explain to Anna why they had to leave right now — something urgent had come up, he was needed back in LA —

She heard him out, nodding.

“Of course, Ken,” she said serenely. “But next time don’t tell them where you are?”

“You got a deal,” he grinned, and gave her a relieved hug. “We’ll get back here first opportunity we get, I promise.”

“Both of us,” Starsky added, coming in to the room. “Let’s move, Blintz, we got ninety minutes. Sorry about this, Mom. Duty calls.”

She gave him a kiss.

“Take care, Davey. Ken, you too.”

“We take care of each other,” Starsky assured her, smiling. “Look after yourself. I’ll call Friday, okay?”

The flurry of hurried farewells over, there was a race back to the hotel to pack and check out, and to Kennedy to make the flight. The six hours hiatus provided no respite, though —  Hutch could sense the tension of anxiety in Starsky, and worried about it himself.

 

Chapter II

When he’d first met Nick Starsky, Hutch’s initial impression had been good. He liked the kid; he had the same wacky sense of humor as his brother, the same bouncy exuberance, the ability to charm the birds out of the trees if he took a mind to it. Hutch had also seen and sympathized with the younger man’s need for his brother’s love, care, approval — while at the same time flaunting his disregard of any claim of blood. But the sympathy did not last long. The first time he’d seen the pain and shame and guilt in Starsky’s eyes, all feeling for Nick was cancelled out. When they’d discovered exactly what kind of lifestyle Nick had gotten himself into back in New York, who he ran with, there was no chance of its ever returning.

That was two years ago. Nick had gone straight since then — made a new start in Las Vegas, cutting all his old ties. Starsky had loaned (given) him cash he could ill-afford to make that start. So what was coming down now?

Wary, suspicious and angry, Hutch stood at Starsky’s shoulder as he hesitated fractionally at the door of his apartment, felt rather than saw him brace himself. Then —

“Hey, Nick,” opening the door. “We’re back. Where are ya, kiddo?”

Nick appeared from the kitchen as if propelled by springs.

“Where the hell have you been?” he demanded. “I’ve been waitin’ on you guys for hours.”

“We got the first flight out that had spare seats,” Hutch said. The apartment was untidy, with a stale, shut-in smell heavy with cigarette smoke. Clearly the air conditioning had packed it in again, but Nick hadn’t opened any windows.

“We couldn’t get here any sooner,” Starsky went on, tiredness putting an edge of irritability in the words. “Hutch, you went to fix us some decent coffee? Then we’ll talk, Nicky,” he added, as a protest started.

“Okay. I’ll play it your way. Again.”

“Huh? Whaddya mean — ”

“Ah, forget it!”

“There’s no milk,” Hutch said from the kitchen, deflecting sparks of tension.

“Black’ll do. Just make it hot and sweet. Look, kid, I know you’re uptight, but ease off, huh? Nothin’s gonna get solved by you goin’ off half-cocked an’ shootin’ your mouth off.”

“Davey, you don’t — ”

Starsky looked at him, and the sentence died.

* * * * * * *

With his second cup of coffee half drunk, Starsky met his brother’s eyes and nodded.

“Okay, Nicky, start at the beginning.”

“Uh, yeah. Okay.” Nick cleared his throat and frowned at the carpet. “Well, I guess it started when I got to Vegas two years back, after the Stryker caper.”

“Yeah? — Hey, why Vegas, kiddo?”

“Because you said start again. A new life, right? Couldn’t do that back home. Too many old — uh — associates around. So I hit on Vegas. Anyhow, with the dough you gave me, and some more I got together, I bought in on a real potential. This dame had opened a boutique, but it wasn’t doing so well. She’d got the design flair, but no head for business, which I provided, an’ we started to get Andromeda a name. Y’know, exclusive, quality, real classy merchandise. Lotsa folk in Vegas want individuality, know what I mean? An’ they’re happy to pay for it. Like I said, we were makin’ a profit, then the big guys moved in. The old protection racket, with a few new twists. Y’see, there’re two main outfits leanin’, and I’m kind of stuck in the middle. They’re lookin’ for an excuse to lock horns with each other, an’ I’m it! Davey, I’ve played it straight! Gone along with your rules ! An’ look where it got me ! Maybe I should have bought protection, pulled the odd job for them like they wanted. I’d be a damn sight safer if I had!”

“The police — ” Hutch began.

“Forget it. The local cops are in their pockets — hell, I thought New York lived on graft, but Vegas — man, you wouldn’t believe! Davey, they’re lookin’ for me. I busted one of their heavies in the chops when he gave the place the treatment, he hit his head when he went down, an’ he’s in Intensive Care. What the hell can I do — you gotta help me!”

“What about your partner?” Hutch asked into the sudden silence. Starsky didn’t speak, his face was white and strained. Whatever he’d been expecting, it wasn’t this.

“Who? Oh, Sophie. She’s okay. They won’t hurt her, they want her talent.”

“Nick,” said Hutch. “We don’t have any jurisdiction in Vegas. No strings we can pull.” He was stared at, blankly.

“What the hell has that got to do with it? Davey, for Chrissakes go out there an’ blast those friggin’ mothers off my back!” It wasn’t a request, but a demand.

“We don’t work that way,” Starsky said quietly. “We’ll do what we can, but first off we’ll need a whole lot more information. Hutch, put some life in this coffee, will you?”

He went to the drinks cabinet, found it almost dry, and poured the last finger of Jack Daniels into the coffee.

“We need names, addresses, descriptions,” he said, dropping the empty bottle into the wastebasket. “Methods, angles, contacts. Who’s straight, who’s crooked, who’s — ”

“Hell, I don’t know! I’m half a boutique, not the local godfather!”

“Sure, but you must have picked up some street-inform — ”

“No! I didn’t! So get off my back, Hutchinson!” Nick yelled, voice high and harsh, panic and aggression mixed to near explosion-point.

“Quit it !” Starsky bellowed. “Cool off, Nicky — we can’t go in blind, can we? Give me what names you do know, and we’ll take it from there.”

“I’ll take it from there,” Hutch cut in. “You’re bushed. Get yourself all the rest and sleep you can, buddy, I’ll chase Huggy down.”

“Okay,” Starsky gave him a weary, lopsided smile.

“How long is this gonna take?” Nick said abruptly. “Could be I don’t have much time — ”

“Not long, if Huggy still has the Vegas connections.” Starsky closed his eyes, swamped by a more-than-physical tiredness.

“Look, all you gotta do is go in an’ tell a few guys not to tangle with a cop’s brother — ”

“Which is what we are gonna do. What else d’you expect? St. Valentine’s Day Massacre? Ease off, little brother. Just ante up the names.”

* * * * * * *

Feeling as if two-thirds of his brain and most of his energy were still in New York, Hutch shouldered his way into the Pits. Huggy performed an elaborate double-take as the familiar figure emerged from the afternoon crowd and leaned on the bar, and he automatically supplied an ice-cold beer.

“Don’t take it personal,” he said, placing the glass exactly between Hutch’s hands, “but shouldn’t you not be here? Like out of state, fuzz-friend? And where is the other half? Did I ever tell you how unnatural it is?”

“What?” Hutch blinked at him.

“Seein’ you around looking kind of unfinished most of the time. Still can’t get used to it, even after all these months.”

“Neither can I.” His smile was rueful. “Here’s to the Review Board, and the team.”

“Yeah. I’ll drink to that. So, why ain’t you not here?”

“Family problems. Not mine, Starsk’s. Huggy, you got contacts in Las Vegas?”

“Vegas? Hm, now, let me think. Well, maybe I have, an’ maybe I haven’t. What’s comin’ down?”

“You remember Nick?”

“Nick who?”

“Starsky’s kid brother.”

“Uh-huh. Him, I remember. What kind of shit has he stirred up now?”

“Protection and intimidation, with him on the receiving end. And he’s dropped the shit in our laps.”

“Gee, am I surprised. What’s he done?”

“Nothing. He’s legit this time. When he left LA after Stryker was put away, he went to Vegas, bought up one-half of a boutique belonging to a Sophie Meredith, a place called Andromeda. They made it pay, and two sets of goons started to lean. One is headed by an Alexander Lazero, the other by Mac Henderson. One of Lazero’s heavies, Pinto Chadd, worked the place over and Nick put him in the hospital. Intensive Care. The angle is protection money and cooperation. Now Nick maybe has a contract out on him.”

Huggy gazed at the tall blond man, the whites of his eyes showing in a wild-eyed amazement.

“Tell you somethin’, Hutch. Those Starskys don’t do nothin’ by halves,” he said, with the air of one announcing a universal truth. “I got one or two favors I can call in. Leave it to me, for a minute or three, an’ all will be glee.”

“Don’t bank on it. Thanks, Hug — but, uh, make it fast, huh? Nick is twitchin’ like a strung-out junkie, and I don’t want him on Starsky’s back. He’s not a hundred per cent yet.”

“Yeah, I know. I’ll get back to you just as soon as I can. Your place or his?”

“Try mine first. He needs all the sleep he can get if we’re going over to Vegas.”

“You gonna take the Whizz-Kid from the Big Apple with you?”

“No. Can you find a safe house for him? If they track him to LA, his brother’s pad is the first place they’ll look, cop or no cop. Yeah, and when you’re callin’ in the Vegas favors, find out where the local law stands, will you? Nick thinks they’re bought and paid for.”

“Surely.”

Hutch drained the beer, left coins on the bartop and went back to the car. He had two weeks of his vacation left, with another two weeks booked immediately prior to Starsky’s appointment with the Medical Review Board. They had been earmarked a while back as an intensive training and tuning-up session aimed at getting his partner as fit as possible before facing the Board, and the schedule had been drawn up with the aid of the hospital’s therapist, dietician, and Vinnie. He also aimed to get himself back up to his own fitness standard of a few years ago. He didn’t need Vinnie’s acid remarks to tell him he’d let things slide. But that was beside the point. Right now, was Starsky fit enough to jump the gun and take on what amounted to a trial run of policework? He wished there was a way to go to Vegas by himself, leaving Starsky behind to hold Nick’s hand, but knew it was impossible. All he could do was pray to every God he could lay a name to that Starsky would not overreach himself, or do anything that would jeopardize his chances with the Board. Like damaging weakened muscles beyond hope of repair. Or getting beaten up. Or shot.

Giving himself a mental kick in the tail for worrying like an old maid without real cause, Hutch headed back to his Venice apartment, ignoring the nag in the back of his head that said overconfidence was as stupid and dangerous as under-confidence. Whatever came down in Vegas, he would have to do his damnedest to take the brunt of it, if it couldn’t be deflected altogether. And he attempted to squash the surge of celebration at the thought that the team would be back on the streets, if only for a short while and in Las Vegas rather than LA. He’d missed that more than all else, and the months of working without Starsky beside him had not made it any easier. The longer it went on, the harder it was to take, in fact, and was aggravated by the way Dobey used him to break in the rookies to the streets. All along he’d made it clear that he already had a partner, but that had not stopped his captain teaming him with a series of youngsters fresh out of uniform and full of ideas about undercover street-work that had little bearing on reality. He knew what Dobey was doing; cushioning him, easing him into a different channel — a police career that did not have a Starsky in it — Sergeant Hutchinson would become Lieutenant Hutchinson, then Captain Hutchinson — a solo ride, every stage of the way. Except that it wasn’t going to be like that. If the Board ruled Starsky unfit for active duty, then the team would find another direction.

With a burst of false vitality, Hutch went up the stairs three at a time, let himself into the apartment, and checked out the plants. They’d all been watered, were looking fit and glossy, so he detoured to the phone, called Jaqi to explain that he wasn’t where he should be, and would be heading out to Vegas shortly. Then took a shower and fell into bed still damp to sleep off hangover, Mrs. Starsky’s cooking, the transcontinental flight, and Nick.

* * * * * * *

Nick lit the fresh cigarette from the stub of the old one, ground it out in the overflowing ashtray. “Davey. What’re you gonna do?”

“Huh? ‘Bout Vegas? Don’t know yet. Haveta wait until we get all the word in from Huggy. Then we can plan the campaign, kiddo.” He tried for a grin, but it did not quite come off.

Uncertain, Nick stared at him. It suddenly occurred to him that his brother was looking rough, far more so than could be explained by an unexpected plane trip from New York to LA. Maybe that was why he wasn’t reacting the way Nick had anticipated. He’d thought to get the same response he’d had when he was a child back home; then it had only needed for him to come pelting up, bruised and breathless, yelling that some other kids had beat up on him, stolen his money, candy, comic books, whatever, and Big Brother .had gone straight out and busted a few noses, no questions asked. So much so that Nick’s childhood had been a very safe haven — no one messed around with Nick Starsky because his brother fought harder, dirtier, than everybody else for blocks around. He hadn’t expected this pussy-footing. Though when he came to think of it, it had been Hutchinson who had voiced the caution, Hutchinson who looked like he aimed to play it by the police book. Nick took a long drag on the cigarette, and told himself he was a fool not to have spent more time with them when he was in LA before, and a bigger fool not to have paid more attention to his brother’s partner. At first the only impression the man had made was one of happy easy-going carelessness behind blond good looks — your typical laid-back Californian. Then he’d got a glimpse of something else under the façade, something cold and deadly and familiar had looked out from those pale blue eyes, pinning him in a corner, then it was gone when Starsky walked in, gone so quickly he’d thought he’d imagined it. Until now. What else was hidden? Davey he knew inside out, but all of a sudden Ken Hutchinson was too much the unknown quantity. Was there a possibility he’d talk his brother out of doing anything? Or worse, going out and digging too deep, taking too long?

“Davey, can Huggy find out if there is a contract on me?”

“Probably. Don’t sweat it. Contracts can be cancelled.”

“Listen, I never meant it to turn out like this !” Nick said, desperation in his voice. “I-I wanted it to be smooth an’ good an’ straight down the middle — ”

“Easy, kid,” Starsky reached out and got a hard grip on his forearm. “It’s gonna be okay. Me’n Hutch’ll sort it out, maybe even get you some compensation. What’ll you do? Go back home, or what?”

“Don’t know. Like to stay on in Vegas, but I guess that wouldn’t be too wise. Maybe me’n Sophie could head up to ‘Frisco with Andromeda, if we can get the capital together. We had somethin’ pretty good goin’ for us.”

“Yeah?” Starsky looked at him, a genuine and unforced grin growing on his pale face. “You an’ Sophie, huh?”

“Yeah, maybe.” Nick’s answering grin was more of a smirk.

“Then why did you leave her behind?”

“I-I didn’t have a chance to get her away,” he stammered, taken off-balance but putting his confusion to good use. “D’you think I haven’t been hittin’ myself with that ever since I left? They won’t hurt her — I know they won’t — they want her talent, Davey. She’s a real great designer — I’m the one who’s in danger, I’m only her business partner — they don’t need the brains if they’ve got the inspiration — Oh, God, they can’t hurt her!” and covered his face with his hands.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Starsky said quickly. “C’mon, kiddo, it’s okay.”

Nick leaned his head on his shoulder, and suddenly twenty years fell away and he was ten again, safe and protected. He grabbed a handful of the plaid shirt and let the shakes take him.

“I never meant it to be like this,” he whispered brokenly. “Davey, please — ”

“S’okay. You’ll get your chance again, and your girl. Right now you’re at the end of your rope — anyone ever tell you you can’t live on your nerves for days on end and not pay the price? Damn fool kid.”

Love and indulgence wrapped around him, the way they always had, and Nick forgot his doubts. Davey would put things right, and if Lazero or Henderson started spreading dirt he wouldn’t believe them, not over his, Nick’s, sworn word.

“Get some sleep, huh?” Starsky murmured, ruffling his hair the way he used to, an age of the world away in New York’s back streets. “I’m pretty well wiped myself.”

“Yeah, I’m sorry.”

“An’ you can cut that out for a start.” The ruffle became an affectionate cuff round the ear. “Go fix me some coffee, huh?”

“Sure — I’ll go get some milk. Where’s the nearest place?”

“Just down the block. Get some food, too, will you? People-food. Hutch’s idea of a suitable meal isn’t mine.”

“‘Kay,” catching the billfold tossed to him. “Won’t be long.”

He wasn’t, and baked pizza while Starsky drank coffee, and after the meal was eaten they launched into a groove of ‘do you remember whens’ centered entirely on their childhood back East. Old ties were reaffirmed, old bonds resealed, without either of them being aware of it, both needing, for different reasons, the closeness they’d had then.

* * * * * * *

But it cost Starsky sleep he could not afford to do without, and he was still under when Hutch let himself into the apartment the next morning.

“Hi,” said Nick from the kitchen, constructing himself a sandwich of epic proportion and content. “Any word from Huggy?”

“Not yet. Where’s Starsk?”

“Still in bed. Want coffee?”

“Yeah, thanks,”

Hutch wandered over to the bedroom, looked in. briefly, and looked again. Then went in and checked pulse, respiration, cursed under his breath, and followed the trail of clothes back until he unearthed the jacket. He took a prescription jar out of the pocket and counted the capsules.

The steaming mug of coffee was taken out of Nick’s hand, put down on the worktop, and he was thrust back into the kitchen, speared by cold-angry eyes.

“Okay, smart-ass. What time did he hit the sack last night?” Hutch bit out the words, and Nick continued to back away until the freezer goosed him.

“Hell, I don’t know — midnight, I guess. Why? What’s the hassle, for Chrissake? He’s a big boy now.” But there was an edge of fear under the brash confidence.

“This is the hassle,” Hutch spat, shoving the jar under his nose. “He’s supposed to take these every four hours — he’s missed two, gotten over-tired, so now he’s running a fever and his ribs are tightening up. If he pulls this kind of stunt too often he is not going to make that Review Board. So how come it was midnight before he crashed out? When I left he looked ready to go out like a light.”

“R-Review Board?” Nick stuttered. “What the hell are you talkin’ about? Davey’s okay, isn’t he? Hell, I know he got shot, but that was six months an’ more ago.”

“Ten months. What were you doing? Talking over old times, huh? Couldn’t it wait until today? Don’t you know how close he was to not making it?”

“N-no,” said Nick, as white, now, as his sleeping brother. “Hutch, what — ?”

Hutch turned away, fumbling with the cap of the jar, shaking out one capsule.

“He took three bullets at close range in the upper chest and abdomen,” he said, voice stony and cold. “They had him hooked up to machines for days — went into cardiac arrest once.”

” — oh my God — ” Nick clutched at his arm. “Hutch, I-I didn’t know — ”

“Yeah, well, you do now. He’s not been back at work since, and it depends on the Review Board whether or not he ever gets back on the street as a cop.”

“Oh, shit! Why didn’t he tell me? An’ I had to come and drop my troubles on him! Why in hell didn’t you tell me to get lost? Look, forget Vegas — I’ll get out of here — clear out of the country, let alone the state — Acapulco — I’ll slip over the border — ”

“Will you quit the stupidity?” Hutch snapped. “D’you think he’d let you pull that kind of move?” But there was an unwilling smile on his mouth. “You know what he’s like when his mind’s made up. He’s set on Vegas, Nick, and nothing you or I can do or say will change that.”

“Okay, but you better ride herd on him — he’s the only brother I got.”

“He’s the only partner I got. Give me a glass of water, Nick, and I’ll get this down him. Oh, and one more thing. You ever let his Mom know how close he came to buying it, and I’ll break every bone in your body. Got it?”

“Got it, big boy.” Nick’s jaunty grin was back in place, covering the shock and distress. “Don’t sweat. I ain’t about to lay that on Momma. You go play ‘Doctors,’ an’ I’ll fix breakfast. You want some too?”

“No, thanks, I’ve had mine. Make his an omelet, and go easy on the spices.”

“You bet. Hey, Hutch. It won’t happen again, y’know. I’ll watch him like a hawk when you’re not around, make sure he toes the line.”

Hutch nodded, and Nick watched him disappear into the bedroom.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he whispered, the mental hurt putting a choking ache in his throat. “You coulda told me, Davey — ” But it answered his questions of last night. No wonder he looked so rough, and Hutch playing it real cool. And he was aiming on sending him into Vegas to take on some characters who made up their own rules. No way. Not now.

He took a deep breath, wondering how he was going to convince him that he wanted to fight this battle himself, then heard an unmistakable chuckle. Starsky was staggering out of the bedroom, his arm across Hutch’s shoulder, the laughter for his own state of weak-kneed dependence, the affection for the grumbled diatribe and the man bending his ear with it.

“You okay?” Nick blurted.

“Yeah, I’m fine. S’okay, kiddo, I’ll get my legs back in a minute. It’s my own fault for breakin’ the treatment course; the doc said it don’t matter none, though, as long as I don’t do it too often, and this is the first time. There’s no damage done, Nicky,” he added, “an’ there’s only a few more days of those fancy capsules left anyhow, then I can leave ’em out altogether.”

“What the hell else are you on?” he demanded suspiciously.

“A few others, but they’re not vital. Now for Godssake quit fussin’ at me. I’m starved — what’s for breakfast?”

“Omelet,” said Hutch. “In bed. You’re supposed to be going to the john, not the kitchen,” steering him through the bathroom door.

“Omelet? Christ, Hutch, you tryin’ to make me egg-bound? Any more hen-fruit and I’m gonna be sproutin’ feathers, not hair.”

“Quit grouching,” he grinned, coming out and shutting the door behind him. “Give a yell when you’re ready to go back to your perch — sorry — bed.”

“Damn you to hell. May you be haunted by beef burritos an’ tacos with mole sauce — ” Starsky yelled, ” — by chilies an’ Thousand Island dressing, by — ” The sound of a flushing toilet drowned the rest of the speech, ” — okay, Blintz, come an’ get me. I’m all yours.”

“With or without mole sauce?” Hutch snickered. “Nick, will you fix him up with a tray?”

“Yeah, sure. One omelet comin’ up, just like the big blond ordered.” But behind the bounce Nick was feeling sick. All Starsky was wearing was the pants of his pajamas, and the new patches of scarring were livid against the tan and dark body-hair of his chest. Nick tried to speculate how much damage had been done, but he knew little about human anatomy as far as medical matters were concerned, and could only guess at lungs, liver, major veins and arteries, stomach, and splintered bones; all, or any combination of. He did know guns, though, and was well aware that bad as the entry holes looked, his back would be a worse mess.

“Here ya go,” he announced, bumping the bedroom door open with his hip. “One Starsky Special, on the house.”

“Thanks for nothin’,” his brother grouched. “Whatever happened to ‘us Starskys gotta stick together,’ huh?”

“I ain’t stickin’ to no pine box,” Nick snorted. “No future in that. It’s only live Starskys that stick together. Shut up an’ eat it before it turns to leather.”

“Yech.”

“Or maybe you’d sooner go back to having tubes stuck down your throat and up your ass?” Hutch inquired, saccharin-mild.

“Never in a million years. Here, gimme that an’ I’ll pretend it’s edible.”

Nick’s answering obscenity was cut off by the phone, and Hutch scooped it up, sitting on the bed and sliding down a way to let Starsky get his ear to the other side of the receiver.

“Yeah?” he said. “Hi, Huggy.”

“And how is the invalid today?” crooned a mellifluous voice.

“Bloody-minded and foul-mouthed,” Hutch grinned. “Same as always.”

“I’m fine,” Starsky snapped. “What you got for us?”

“This ‘n’ that.”

“From Vegas?”

“Yeah.”

“Nick,” Starsky glanced up at him, “go grab the phone on the coffee table, okay?”

“Sure.”

“Fire away, Hug,” Hutch said, waiting for the click that said Nick was listening too.

“Ain’t too much to tell right now, fellahs,” Huggy said. “This is just the brief rundown my contact could give me, seein’ as how it was such short notice. First off, Pinto Chadd is still in the hospital, but his condition is stabilized, an’ he should be out into a regular private room any time. ‘Parently he fell down a flight of steps — what the hell did li’l brother hit him with? Mount Rushmore?”

“Never mind that. What else?” Hutch said impatiently.

“Lazero’s a real mean guy to cross, also, he’s got a pretty good position in legitimate society — on the boards of a few companies — chairman of the P.T.A. as well, would you believe? Owns a real estate business. The cops would love to pin somethin’ on him, but he is so clean he squeaks. Mac Henderson ain’t such a Mr. Nice Guy. He’s got control of a choice slice of territory in Vegas, coverin’ everythin’ from regular hotels an’ motels, to brothels, illegal gamblin’, an’ personally arranged accidents. My contact assumes that his territory meets up with Lazero’s patch somewhere along the line, but since it is only rumor that Lazero has a territory, we could be wrong. If we ain’t, his front-man is one Stacey Jones. Who is also not nice to know. On Andromeda, we ain’t got much. It’s a straight, legit business, doin’ very nicely since a Mr. Nicholas Marvin Sinclair bought in. Sophie has had her rough times, but it was startin’ to look like she’d finally got the breaks. Now Mr. Sinclair has disappeared, an’ so has Sophie.”

“What?” Nick interrupted. “Huggy, what’s happened to her — she was fine when I left — who — ?”

“Take it easy, kiddo,” Starsky waved an imperative hand at him.

“Go on, Huggy,” Hutch said. “What else have you got on Sophie?”

“Don’t sweat, word has it she’s gone into hidin’ until the heat’s off. Far as I can make out, nobody’s got a quarrel with her, she just up and panicked. Not that I blame her none. Oh, an’ there ain’t no contract out on Nick. They’re lookin’ for him, all right, but not with their guns out.”

“How about the law, Hug?”

“We-ell, it kind of depends on the department, accordin’ to my contact. Vice you can deal with, as long as you ain’t into the under-age stuff. Narco, well, you pick the right guy, and anything goes; the wrong guy an’ you get busted for carryin’ two packs of cigarettes. Robbery an’ Homicide — again, pick the right guys an’ they’ll overlook anythin’ kind of run-of-the-mill if you can give ’em the-big-time crooks. There are a few real hot teams who don’t play it by the book an’ don’t take graft, but most of ’em don’t aim on floggin’ themselves into early graves, you get me?”

“Yeah. Loud and clear,” Hutch said. “Thanks, Huggy. We owe you.”

“Any time, friends. Let me know if you want anythin’ else.”

“Yeah.”

Hutch put the phone down, and Nick came slowly back to the bedside. The two men did not look at him. They were staring off into space, Hutch apparently contemplating the upper door hinge, while Starsky seemed mesmerized by the lump his feet made under the coverlet.

“Looks like we’re back in business, good buddy,” he said after a while.

“Yes,” said Hutch. “How do we go?”

“Stupid question!”

“Okay, yours, but I’m driving.”

“That we can fight about.”

“No contest. If I don’t drive, you don’t go.”

“Hah! You wanna make book on that?”

“Who’d take you up? Look at you — like a six weeks corpse, warmed over. We’ll need Huggy’s contact.”

“Yeah. An’ a lot more on Henderson an’ Lazero.”

“Huggy can keep ’em working on that while we’re getting there. It’s going to be a couple of days before we can leave, as it is.”

“Guess so.”

“Now hold on a minute,” Nick interrupted, incredulous and angry. “Am I readin’ you guys right? You’re aimin’ to go in to Vegas an’ take those creeps on?”

“Yes,” said Hutch, quietly.

“‘Course we are. Ain’t that the whole point of the exercise?” Starsky scowled at him. “Whassamatter, kiddo? Gettin’ cold feet?”

“No, but maybe I’m gettin’ some sense!” Nick snapped. “When I came hightailin’ out of Vegas I didn’t know you’d got yourself shot up like some crummy target in a shootin’ gallery! There ain’t no way I’m gonna let you go back in there like this — no way! An’ how you can sit there an’ let him even think about it, I don’t know!” He rounded on Hutch, suddenly hating the calm, blond mask, and needing a direction for his anger and his fear. “Call yourself his buddy? Partner? Crap! You should be tyin’ him down until he’s fit to do his work here in LA, not encouraging him to go chasin’ off to Vegas where he’s likely to get himself slammed back into the hospital, if not killed !”

“You about done?” Starsky said, voice ominously level.

“No!” Nick threw caution to the winds, and took a deep breath. “I can fight my own battles, now. I’m going back to Vegas, an’ I’ll get them off my back myself.”

“What kind of flowers do you want?” Hutch asked mildly.

“Huh?”

“For Chrissake, Nicky, use your brain,” Starsky sighed. “Vegas or LA, what does it matter — this is our kind of work. You wouldn’t know where to begin, let alone protect yourself. Runnin’ with a few small-time hoods in New York is no apprenticeship for the league these guys are in. Leave it to us. And don’t worry about my skin. Hutch does that well enough for all three of us. I’m fit enough to cope — and if it does get too hard for me to manage, then I’ve got enough sense to either back out or let Hutch take over and finish things off.”

“But — ”

“Since this is developing into a family quarrel,” Hutch said, getting to his feet and stretching, “I’ll leave you two at it. See you lunchtime, Starsk.”

“‘Kay.”

“Be good, kids.”

“Up yours, Hutchinson!” Starsky yelled at the closing door. But his grin disappeared as the catch snicked shut, and he leaned forward, taking Nick’s wrist in a grip that had lost nothing of its strength. “Don’t you ever lay that on Hutch again,” he said coldly. “You hear me, Nick? My scars you can see, but his are the kind that don’t show on the skin, and they don’t heal up so easy. It takes a very special kind of strength and friendship to let him do what he’s doing, backing me in this. If the positions were reversed, I don’t know that I could do it for him again,” remembering the helpless terror and anger that had possessed him when it had seemed he would lose his partner to the plague-virus, and there was nothing he could do — and the euphoric relief that followed, when he wanted nothing so much as to wrap Hutch in a blanket of protectiveness, knowing equally that he couldn’t —

“I don’t know what you mean.” Nick licked his lips, nervous and hurt. “All I know is — you’re the only brother I got and I don’t want to lose that.”

“I’m the only partner he’s got, but he knows and respects me well enough to let me walk my own road. He doesn’t want to lose that any more than I do, but if we changed our pattern just to keep one of us safe, then we wouldn’t be a team any more, and we’ve lost something so special that — I guess you don’t understand, do you, kiddo?”

“No,” he muttered. “Meanin’ I don’t know you or respect you? I’m your brother and I love you. Ain’t that enough?”

“Sure it’s enough.” Starsky smiled and ruffled his hair. “Forget it, Nicky, guess it’s one thing we’re on different wavelengths about. How ’bout some coffee, huh? This omelet’s great, but I need some liquid to wash it down.”

“Yeah, sorry. I’ll. got it.”

* * * * * * *

It was an unsatisfactory morning for Nick. He pottered about the place, wielding duster, vacuum cleaner, generally tidying up and making himself useful. Starsky slept almost as soon as Hutch left, awaking stiff and sore some three hours later. Nick had already found the large jar of liniment in the bathroom, its instructions clearly written on the Rx label, but his offer of a massage was turned down.

“S’okay, kiddo. Hutch’ll see to it when he gets here. They gave him a crash-course at the hospital.”

“Listen, I know about massage, too.”

“Yeah, sure. But I’ll wait for Hutch. See, he’s got this sadistic streak, an’ he gets a hell of a kick out of takin’ my muscles apart.”

“Huh,” Nick grunted, face sour.

Hutch, when he arrived, showed no sign of sadism, or barehanded vivisection, but worked on Starsky’s upper body with impersonal gentleness, giving a running report of his morning activities as he did so.

“Snuck into R & I without being spotted,” he said, “at least, not by Dobey. Pulled a few files. Pinto isn’t on our records, or Lazero either, but Henderson has quite a past. Seems he tried to move in on LA about ten years ago, and the local bad guys objected. Reading between the lines, there must have been the makings of a real interesting gang-war brewing, but a hit man took out his two lieutenants and he retired to Vegas, licking his wounds.”

“You tellin’ me he didn’t hit back?” Starsky drawled, half-asleep under the clever hands.

“Nope. He hit back, okay. A couple of top men got burned, but he didn’t try another takeover bid. That sort of thing has to be done through the proper channels, even on the wrong side of the law.”

“Yeah. Law of the jungle,” Starsky yawned. “You should take this up professionally. Think we could market him, Nick? The Blond Blintz — Masseur Extraordinary! — ”

“Nah, he’s too old,” Nick growled.

“Yeah, maybe. But you should have seen him six, seven years ago. Man, he was awful pretty — ouch! That hurt! ‘Course, if you take off that albino caterpillar on his upper lip, an’ he’d still be — ow! D’you haveta play rough?”

“Gee, did I hurt you? I’m sorry.”

“You’re still set on goin’ in?” Nick said abruptly.

“Yeah,” his brother answered.

“Didn’t you get that settled this morning?” asked Hutch.

“Yes,” said Starsky.

“No,” said Nick.

“I see. Greek meets Greek, I guess.”

The long, mobile mouth was hidden by the moustache, but the blue eyes were alight with laughter. Mocking him, Nick decided, and belligerence flared suddenly.

“What the hell does that mean?” he demanded.

“That’s I-Went-To-College Hutchinson,” Starsky chuckled. “It means it’s not easy for one to out-maneuver another one. Cool off, Nick. You want to start a fight, wait until my back’s done.”

Nick glanced involuntarily at the back in question, and wished he hadn’t. Nor could he understand how Hutchinson could calmly work on it as if those ridged, torn-flesh scars did not exist. Maybe familiarity breeds apathy, he decided. Then remembered the cold-eyed rage of the morning, and changed his mind.

“Oh, shit !” he spat, and slammed out of the room.

* * * * * * *

“I suppose you had to tell him,” Starsky said into the silence.

“Yes. Though he’d’ve guessed soon enough as soon as he saw you stripped,” Hutch replied quietly. “They aren’t exactly acne scars, you know.”

“Yeah. Guess it was better to be warned before the great unveiling.” He rolled over and squinted down at his chest. “Maybe they should call me Pinto.”

“Why? There are plenty of other adjectives for you,” Hutch said, and departed for the bathroom to wash the liniment from his hands. Starsky contemplated sending a missile after him, but was too comfortable to move.

 

Chapter III

What if, said the persistent niggle, Starsky isn’t up to it? What if he can’t cope with police-work — at least, not the kind they did, out in the street, taking the knocks and giving them back? Hutch swore and choked on toothpaste. This was no time to be getting cold feet. They were due to leave Los Angeles in just under two hours. But, went on the niggle, he isn’t up to par; for example the state he was in two days ago, and all he’d done was skip a few pills.

Hutch glared at his reflection in the mirror.

“You are a dope,” he snapped. Starsky’s condition then was the direct result of too much retsina, ouzo, Jewish/Polish cooking, and too little sleep. The blond face scowled back at him, uncertain, malevolent, mouth a compressed line under the toothpaste-coated moustache. Maybe Nick was right. Besides, it wasn’t just a matter of physical fitness, there was also the question of nerve. His as well as Starsky’s.

The euphoria of the last day or so, born with the renewed team-work, curled up in a corner and died. Could he, when it came down to it, let Starsky take all the old risks again? And could Starsky face up to the old risks, having gone through the kind of agonies devised by the Spanish Inquisition ever since he took those bullets in the body?

Slowly Hutch wiped his face clean, rinsed out his mouth, and pulled on his bathrobe. Then trailed out to the kitchen and the coffee percolator. The answer to both questions was yes. It wouldn’t be easy, for either of them, but that didn’t change things. But what if Starsky didn’t make the grade, now or in front of the Board? Dully surprised, Hutch poured himself coffee. He had thought he had that possibility settled in his head. If Starsky quit the Force, so did he. And the only problem facing them then would be what work they did. After all, the main reason why he had taken his badge back all those months ago, was because Starsky wanted to be back in so badly it hurt. He hadn’t wanted it for himself. Only Starsky. That, and to finish the job they’d started. They’d done that, okay. But he was still left with a badge he did not want, in a way of life that brought disillusionment and pain.

Looking back, he could not even pin-point when ambition and enthusiasm had begun to die, but they had, changing him as they did so. In the early years it had been Starsky who was the rebel, while he — on the surface, at least — was the epitome of convention. Then slowly the shift began. He dropped the work-outs, the health food, took a perverse pride in wearing clothes that over-reached Starsky’s in the Welfare Stakes, and grew the moustache. Changing his image, because he couldn’t change the world? Kicking against authority, the system, because they didn’t even see him when they trod him down? Kicking against life because life had hurt him too much? Throwing his badge into the sea, a little more pollution in an ocean already sour with it? And Starsky, standing right alongside him, mirror-image of himself, offering up to the uncaring Gods the badge he still believed in. Now, in a weird kind of way, they’d come full-circle, back to that point on the sea’s edge. Only now he didn’t want to throw the badge away. He’d grown a little wiser, a little older, and with the maturity had come acceptance. There wasn’t anything else he could do, or wanted to do, except be a cop. Even so, he would set the terms.

“Me ‘n’ thee,” he said to the coffee cup, went back into the bathroom, and shaved off the moustache.

* * * * * * *

“You’re late,” Starsky snapped as Hutch opened the door, morning flooding in behind him.

“Yeah, sorry,” he smiled. “We’ll make it up on the freeway. Hi, Nick.”

“Uh, hi,” he answered cautiously. “Are you always this full of bounce at dawn?”

“Isn’t dawn. It’s — um — 8:32,” consulting his pocket-watch, “and I’m thirty-two minutes late. No sweat.”

“Yes,” said Starsky. “He usually is this full of bounce.”

“Well, it’s indecent. I’d divorce him if I were you.”

“So aren’t you gonna ask me why I’m late?” Hutch demanded, plainly indignant. No one had mentioned the missing facial hair, either.

“Nope,” said his partner. “Want coffee?”

“Okay, I’ll buy it.” Nick’s curiosity got the better of him; this clean-shaven apparition in dark slacks and turtleneck needed some explanation.

“I’m changing my car.”

“Judas Priest!” Starsky groaned. “Not again! What is it this time? A clock-work Mickey Mouse buggy complete with noddin’ Pluto in the back window?”

“No,” said Hutch, face reddening.. “It’s a four year old Dodge station-wagon. Figured I’d have more room for skis and fishing gear, and stuff.”

“Oh, God. The LTD rides again.”

“No, it doesn’t! Okay, the fenders have had a bump or two and the headlights don’t match, but the bodywork’s good, and the engine’s sound as a bell.”

“Who says?”

“Merle says. The only gripe he’s got is that I won’t let him loose on her. She’s staying the color she is.”

“How much rust has it got?”

“None. And there’s only forty thousand on her. In four years. One owner. He gave me a better price for Belle than I figured,” he added. “She’s not a bad car, Starsk. I’ll be picking her up when we get back from Vegas — you’ll see; she’s better than my old Ford ever was.”

“That was said in front of a witness — can I have it in writing?”

“Go to hell. You ready to start out?”

“Guess so.”

“Hey,” said Nick. “Why get another ear in the first place?”

“Uh, well, Belle was kind of small — I got cramps in my legs,” Hutch muttered.

“Nothin’ wrong with her size — for a kiddie-car,” Starsky snickered. “So now the Blond Blintz gets himself a set of wheels that’ll take the old one in the trunk without even touchin’ the sides. Has to be a meanin’ in there somewhere.”

“Yes,” said Hutch. “There is. Besides which, she’s got acceleration that’d leave that little car standing, and make your souped-up coke can eat dust. Where’s your case?”

“Look, fellas, won’t you change your minds, huh?” Nick tried one more time. “I’d kind of like to handle it by myself — all the dope Huggy’s dug up will make it easier — and it is my battle — ”

“Our battle,” Starsky interrupted. “No, Nick. It’s best we handle it. In this kind of situation two are safer than one. We can watch each other’s backs, and get the leg-work done twice as fast. Besides, we work better as a team, huh, Hutch?” and looked across at him, the smile speaking of trust, confidence and an almost fierce anticipation.

Nick didn’t need to see the answering smile to know himself shut out. ‘But I’m your brother!’ he wanted to shout. ‘You should listen to me!’ But he said nothing, picked up the case and carried it down to the Torino, shoving it on to the back seat. Hutch’s was already in there, and there was no sign of another car parked nearby.

“So where is this famous Belle?” he asked, leaning on the doorjamb.

“Merle’s got her. He dropped me off.”

“He must have some kind of angle you don’t know about. Sucker,” Starsky grinned. Then grew abruptly serious. “Listen, Nicky, you stay put until Huggy gets here. He’ll take you to a safe house, and don’t you move from it until you hear from us, okay?”

“Yeah, but — ”

“We’ll keep you informed through Hug on how things are comin’ down, and as soon as we find out how Sophie is, we’ll pass it on. Don’t go out. Huggy’ll bring you all the things you need. How much dough you got? Here, this’ll help. Take care of yourself, an’ don’t do anythin’ stupid, or I’ll break your neck. Okay?”

“Yeah. That goes double for me.” Nick returned his bearhug. “For Godssake don’t get hurt again. How in hell would I explain it to Momma?”

“Won’t have to. See ya, kiddo.”

* * * * * * *

The Torino took off with a squeal of rubber, and Nick watched it out of sight. Then went back inside the apartment and kicked the door shut behind him. The place was oddly quiet, empty, and he switched on the radio, turning up the volume.

A safe house. What was safer, than a cop’s pad? After all, Huggy had said there wasn’t a contract out on him, and anyhow, no one was going to link Nick Sinclair with Dave Starsky’s kid brother. Safe houses were pokey, drab, and usually stank. Here there was everything he needed — including, if he could find his brother’s phonebook, lovely ladies to keep him company.

“Besides,” he said to the grape-ivy on the coffee table, “he’s my brother.”

* * * * * * *

Starsky studied the denuded profile out of the corner of his eye.

“New car, huh?” he grinned.

“Yeah. A bit more suited to police work than Belle was,” Hutch said non-committally.

“Could anythin’ be less suited? Even the late lamented LTD?” Then he relented, stretched his legs and slumped back in the seat, relaxed and comfortable. “Okay, partner, how do we play it? Undercover?”

“Suppose we’d better,” he said with a spurious reluctance. “If I can remember not to call you Starsk.”

“What’s the pitch? Better keep me ‘n’ Nick as brothers, I guess.”

“Or cousins. That would explain the family resemblance. But only if somebody queries it. Think we’d better keep the connection, and our line of work, under the mat. It could have repercussions.”

“Yeah. I don’t aim to give IA a birthday present if it turns sour on us and we have to lean a little heavy.” There was a short, companionable silence. Then, “Hey,” Starsky chuckled. “Know somethin’? I feel like a kid out of school. Damn near drove me crazy, moochin’ around all day, knowing you’re out where the action is and I wasn’t. Those happy little ‘day-in-the-life-of-a-cop’ pep talks you used to give me helped like a hole in the head.”

“I know. Sorry.”

“Forget it. Had to keep in touch somehow — it would have been worse without ’em. Tell you another thing. Didn’t know how crowded that pad could get until Nick moved in. Seemed like he was always underfoot, know what I mean? Everywhere I turned, he was right with me — practically livin’ in my hip-pocket — elbowin’ into the middle — wassamatter with the dumb kid?”

“He isn’t a kid, Starsk. He must be close to thirty.”

“Yeah.” He sounded surprised. “He is. Don’t look it, though. How the shit does he manage it? Don’t look a day over twenty-three-four. No justice in this world.”

“Have you given up pulling out the gray hairs, then?”

“Ain’t got any. Yet. But I keep on lookin’.” There was another pause. “Guess I should feel guilty.”

“What about, for Chrissake?”

“He’s back there and we’re out here, and it’s one hell of a relief. He is my brother, Okay, he went through a bad patch, but he’s straight now, and it’s awful late in the day for him to start bein’ possessive all over again.”

“Was he, as a kid?”

“Yeah. Guess we both were. Still are. Like, when do I get to drive my own car? Or are you aimin’ to take on all two hundred and eighty plus miles yourself?”

“No way. We’ll take it in spells. Could be he’s still looking for something, Starsk. Same as he was last time he came out west. He’s lonely, I think.” And resentful, he nearly added. Jealous.

“Yeah,” Starsky said quietly. “Lonely is hell to live with. I’ll do something about that when we get back, if I can. Or maybe I won’t have to. Sophie could cure all his problems.”

“Maybe she could at that. Uncle Starsk.”

“Huh. First off, smart-ass, we gotta find her.” Then could resist temptation no longer. “Guess you forgot to check in the mirror this mornin’.”

“Huh? What? Why?” Face mulishly blank.

“Maybe it just crawled away to die — ain’t you been taking care of it? Or did it turn into a butterfly overnight?”

” — Starsky — !”

“Thought you were gonna make up lost time on the highway? Put your foot down, willya?”

Hutch glared at the wide, affectionate grin, and struggled to maintain his scowl.

“And get a ticket? Wouldn’t dare show our faces back in the squadroom if we let CHiP collar us.” But the needle on the speedometer crept round past the 55, and the Torino streaked for the distant state line.

* * * * * * *

Huggy had told them to book into a motel called the Dorado Sunrise, and it took some finding. When they did locate it, they discovered that Huggy had made a good choice. Not that it was a salubrious establishment by anyone’s standards, but it was only a matter of a few blocks and back alleys away from the Andromeda boutique.

Starsky showed no sign of tiredness, and seemed no stiffer than his partner after the long hours in the car, so Hutch ordered himself to stop watching the man like he was made of eggshell porcelain, and left him to carry the cases into the motel while he signed them in. Dave Travis and Ken Brandt. At the same time, his performance as the Minnesota Hick won him the amused condescension of the receptionist and a list of places he just had to visit, complete with route map.

Having established themselves as good old boys, they left the motel to give the bright lights of Vegas the once-over, heading by a tortuous, meandering path for the Ponderosa Saloon. The place bore a faint resemblance to the Pits back in LA, a run-down, sleazy clone that Huggy would not have soiled his patent leather boots by walking into — but he had said the contact would pick them up there.

From their homework, they knew that the Ponderosa was in a kind of neutral territory, owned by neither Henderson nor Jones/Lazero. Also in this buffer zone was Andromeda, but in an area where the borders came close. They had passed it on their way to the bar; a stylish storefront in a stylish street, the ‘closed’ sign hanging askew, the window display faintly dusty in the glare of neon.

“Vegas doesn’t seem to have changed much since we were here last,” Hutch said quietly, watching his partner assault a one-armed bandit with grim determination.

“Me, I’m surprised to find it here at all,” Starsky grunted, and crowed with pleased delight as the machine coughed out four bits. “Y’know, one of these days a humdinger of a desert storm is gonna blow over and when it’s done, Vegas is nowhere. Spotted Primrose yet?”

“No. At least, I don’t think so. There’s a girl over by the pay phone giving us the once-over.”

“Yeah? A looker?”

“You better believe it. A real high-priced lady.”

Starsky glanced round, located the girl and whistled under his breath.

“Oh, wow! Hope she’s got a friend, Hutch, or you’re out of luck.”

“Sorry to disappoint you, but you’re in no condition yet to take on — ” He was interrupted by a tap on the shoulder, and he jerked round to meet the flat stare of a black who topped his six foot plus by a good eight inches. Hutch put on a winning smile. “Evenin’,” he said. The basilisk gaze raked him from head to foot.

“You Starsky or Hutch?” a rumbling whisper from an impossibly thin chest.

“Uh, Hutch,” he said. “Ken Brandt.”

“You gonna take us to Primrose?” Starsky demanded, losing interest in girl and slot-machine. The man’s wide mouth split into a broken-toothed grin.

“Little man, I am Primrose,” he drawled. “So watch your lip about the name because I ain’t got no sense of humor.”

“I don’t doubt that at all, Mr. McGregor,” Hutch said. “Have you found Sophie Meredith?”

“Not yet. You don’t have to be formal — Huggy said you’re okay, so you c’n call me Primrose.”

“Uh, thanks,” Starsky mumbled, trying to keep his face straight. “See, he didn’t give us a description, so we were lookin’ — uh — ”

“For a broad,” McGregor finished for him. “S’okay. Huggy does have a sense of humor. Or somethin’ that passes for one. Come on out back. We can talk there.”

He led them to a small room beyond the kitchen, its walls lined with stacked shelves of bar supplies.

“Ain’t got a lot more than you’d had from Cousin Hug,” he said. “There’s some weird undercurrents I ain’t worked out yet — things ain’t as simple as they looked first off. Henderson and Lazero sure want your boy bad, an’ the word has gone out he ain’t to be hurt. Not a hair on his head. But not to be fussy who they gotta burn to get hold of him.”

“What’s so odd about that?” Starsky snapped.

“Man, is you or ain’t you a cop? The way it was told to me, it was merely a question of pay up or else, maybe do a little job or else. Right? So since when did guys like these pussyfoot around with a backslider? Or do they do things different in LA? Out here, they get wasted. Seems like your boy’s got somethin’ on one of ’em an’ they both want it.”

“Nick is clean!” he protested.

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

“Primrose,” said Hutch over Starsky’s furious denial, “What about Sophie?”

“Whatever it is, I don’t think she’s in on it. Leastways, no one’s botherin’ much lookin’ for her. Could be, though, she knows somethin’ about what’s goin’ on. I got some good brothers trackin’ her down. We’ll flush her out for you.”

“We’re not investigating her,” Hutch said irritably. “We want to get her safely out of here.”

“And get these goons off Nicky’s back,” Starsky added. “That’s all. Huggy told you we’re cops — well, all this is purely unofficial.”

“Yeah, he told me that, too. S’okay. No sweat. You stayin’ at the Dorado like I suggested?”

“Yeah. Number seven.”

“Could be your lucky number.” McGregor’s grin was entirely without mirth. “Why don’t you guys take a stroll down to the Riverboat? Henderson’s usually there this time of night. If anythin’ new comes up, I’ll come a-callin’.”

“‘Kay. Thanks, Primrose.” Starsky managed a more or less genuine smile; and the gaunt death’s head nodded like a malevolent Buddha.

* * * * * * *

The two men walked in silence, gawking blank-eyed at the blazing lights like all the other tourists, trying to ignore the unease that was growing in them both.

“I got it,” Starsky said suddenly, relief laughing in his voice. “Hutch, I’ll bet somebody — Henderson or the other guy, maybe both of ’em — found out his real name and traced him back to New York, learned who he ran with then, and started to put the pressure on him to come onto their payroll. After all, he said they wanted him to do a job or two — ”

“Then why didn’t he say he’d been made?” Hutch growled.

“Because he’s tryin’ to forget the past — start a new life — ” he broke off. It sounded lame in his own ears.

“Could be you’re right,” Hutch said, considering. “Nick seems to have a remarkable ability to copy the ostrich. He hasn’t said anything about the Stryker affair, or any other of his shady deals. It’s like they don’t exist for him anymore.”

“He deserves the chance to start out all over,” Starsky said. “With a clean slate. Doesn’t he? We all make mistakes, Hutch.”

“Hey, I’m not saying anything different,” he pointed out quietly.

“Yeah. I know.”

“And it’s no use shying away from what-ifs and maybes, either, We don’t know a thing for sure — it’s all supposition and uncorroborated information.”

“Okay, okay,” he smiled. “You sound like a Public Defender. C’mon, let’s get this creep checked over, I’m bushed,”

* * * * * * *

Henderson was a big man, with the kind of build and looks that could have been chunked out of granite. Brutal authority and cold intelligence were stamped on the heavy-boned face, and for all his solid weight he moved with the ease of an athlete.

“One tough cookie,” Starsky hissed in Hutch’s ear. “You wanna go over an’ tell him to leave my li’l brother alone?”

“Nope. Tell him yourself.”

“Think we better take a raincheck. He’s got goons around, but not that many.”

“Nothing intrusive, certainly,” Hutch agreed. “Looks an ambitious man, Starsk.”

“Yeah, that’s what I was thinking. The kind of guy who’d grab himself a little more territory if he had half a chance.”

“Using Nick as an excuse. ‘Is Lazero leaning, Mr. Sinclair? I’ll look after you, for a price.”‘

“Could well be it,” Starsky nodded. “It’s a cryin’ shame all Nicky could say was ‘I don’t know nothin’.’ That ain’t no kind of help.”

“We’ve managed on less. Seen enough? If we wander round much longer it’s going to be obvious we’re casing the joint.”

“Okay, schweetheart,” he Bogarted. “Let’s get outa here — your place or mine?”

“Forget it, I’m not that kind of girl,” Hutch grinned. “Come on, clown.”

They left, via the inevitable bank of slot-machines, where Starsky lost six dollars winning three, and went back to the Dorado Sunrise.

* * * * * * *

Primrose McGregor arrived at ten thirty the next morning, carrying breakfast in a selection of brown bags.

Still bleary-eyed and tousled from sleep, Hutch let him in, and gazed revolted at the bagels the black man upended on a plate.

“Where’s your partner?” McGregor asked, and Hutch gestured vaguely towards the further bed where a large mound groaned and heaved upright.

“Wassamarrer?” Starsky demanded.

“Food,” said McGregor.

“What else have you got there?” Hutch averted his eyes from the plate.

“Coffee, french-fries, bilberry flavored yogurt, orange juice an’ flapjacks. What should be hot is hot, what’s cold is cold.”

“Oh, God.”

“You got maple syrup?” Starsky hitched up his pajamas and homed in on the table.

“Yeah.”

“Primrose, you’re a beautiful person.”

“Better take a double dose of pills if you’re going to tackle that lot,” Hutch said, retreating to the bathroom. “Leave some for me.”

“Sure. You also have some info, Primrose?”

“Some. Wanna wait until Blondie gets back? Don’t care to repeat myself.”

“‘Kay. Have a flapjack.”

“You guys are for real cops?”

“Yes.” Starsky fixed him with a cold blue eye. “Wanna see my badge?”

“Nope. I’ll take your word for it. This your first time in Vegas?”

“Uh-uh. We did an undercover spell here a while back. How are things lookin’ for us?”

“They ain’t gettin’ less complicated.”

“Thanks a bunch. Hey, Hutch! Hurry it up, willya?”

“All right, cool down.” Hutch emerged from the bathroom, groomed if only half-dressed, hooked a shirt out of his case and shrugged into it. “What you got, Primrose?”

“Your boy has to be a smooth operator.”

“What does that mean?” Starsky frowned.

“What it says. I got two lots of words back. One says he had something real big on Henderson an’ Lazero wants it for a lever. The other says it’s on Lazero an’ Henderson’s aimin’ to buy.”

“Huh?” said Hutch. “That doesn’t make sense.”

“Sure it does. Kid brother was tryin’ to play both ends against the middle, an’ had his bluff called.”

Starsky’s hand shot out fast as a striking snake, fingers dug into McGregor’s shirt-front, bit deep and jerked.

“You want to rephrase that some?” ha snarled. “My brother is straight. Think again.”

“Easy, Starsk.” Hutch put his hand on the taut shoulder. McGregor met the angry glare with his chill, impersonal stare.

“Nope. I ain’t rephrasin’ it any. You don’t like what you hear, you better light out back home to LA. Cop.”

“That’s enough,” Hutch snapped, an edge to his voice that got the attention of both men. “Starsky, sit down and shut up. McGregor, if you’ve got any more than that you’d better trot it out, because that statement just is not enough. You read me? You got proof, you give it, and make it fast.”

“Maybe Sophie’s got the proof. Only she ain’t talkin’,” he said.

“Why not? She’s not dead?”

“No. But she don’t want to speak to Nicky Sinclair’s brother. Don’t want anythin’ to do with the family.”

“But — ” Off-balance, Starsky slumped back in the chair. “That’s crazy. Nick said they had somethin’ special — ”

“Hell, I don’t know, man,” McGregor shrugged. “Maybe he shoulda told her that, as well. The way she sees it, he lit out and left her to carry the can.”

“I gotta talk to her, Primrose.”

“I’ll do what I can, but guarantees I don’t give.”

“What is this hold Nick’s supposed to have?” Hutch said. “He used to be in with some tough outfits back in New York. Is it contacts he’s got that they want?”

“Could be.” But the lanky black sounded doubtful. “I got a gut feelin’ it’s heavier than that.”

“Yeah,” Starsky whispered. “Nicky was small-fry in New York. Oh, shit! What the hell is he into now?”

“We don’t know for sure that he’s into anything,” Hutch said. “Primrose, if Sophie won’t talk to Starsk, will she talk to me? She needn’t know I’m connected, if it’ll make it easier.”

“It’s worth a try.”

“Are you sure there’s no contract out on him?” Starsky cut in.

“Yeah. That hasn’t changed.”

“I don’t get this. It has to be something he knows, or has, that’s too valuable to get him killed, and that Sophie isn’t in on. So that means Andromeda isn’t involved, either. Doesn’t it?”

“Perhaps,” Hutch frowned. “Who owns Andromeda? Who signed the lease on the place?”

“Don’t know, but I can find out.”

“What you got? That it’s the place they want, and if Nicky’s the signee, he’s the only one who can transfer it over?” Starsky straightened, snatching at the new angle with a kind of desperation that Hutch found painful to see.

“It’s possible,” he said. “After all, he was keen on coming back to sort it out himself, and he wouldn’t have been if there was an execution squad waiting for him, in spite of — ”

” — havin’ to ask was there a contract out,” Starsky finished. “That could have been panic, I guess. So what’s at Andromeda, apart from a pile of fancy threads at exorbitant prices?”

“If it was the clothes, fashion originals or whatever they are, then they’d want the designer, presumably. So perhaps we better take a look at the shop. How ’bout it, Primrose?”

“Yeah, I guess a little bit of judicious breakin’ an’ enterin’ wouldn’t come amiss,” he said. “I’ll check that it’s not bein’ watched, an’ let you know.”

“‘Kay. We’ll split it between us. Hutch can go an’ be the White Knight for Sophie, an’ you ‘n’ me can deal with Andromeda.”

“Starsk, it’ll be better if we stick together.”

“No, this way we kill two birds with one stone.”

Hutch looked at him, found his eyes met by a steady, understanding gaze, and touched him lightly on the shoulder.

“Okay, have it your way,” he said, voice easy and relaxed, and McGregor never knew how much it cost him to say it.

“I’ll get back to you,” he announced, rising to his feet, a human stick insect in clothes that would amaze a Hell’s Angel, and ambled to the door. “Don’t go ‘way.”

“We better phone Huggy, give him a progress report to pass on to Nick,” Starsky said. “Throw a few questions we want answers on, as well.”

“I’ll do it,” Hutch said. “You’re not through with breakfast yet.” He escorted McGregor to the door, and scooped up the phone.

* * * * * * *

The Pits’ number was engaged. And it stayed that way throughout the rest of the morning. Hutch spent most of the time haunting the phone, but got the busy line at every attempt. He checked with reception to find out if any calls had come through for them, but none had, and then McGregor came back with a girl at his side and it was time for another war-council.

“This is Jolie,” he said briefly, “she’s gonna take Blondie to Sophie. You’n me has a date with Andromeda.”

“Seven is his lucky number, not mine,” Starsky sighed, gazing wide-eyed at her. Despite garish halter-top and shorts and too much junk jewelry, she had the figure of a dancer, and the face of a black Nefertiti. She accepted his frank admiration with cool composure, but did not speak.

“The keys, Starsk,” Hutch said crisply, holding out his hand, and Starsky handed them over without thinking.

“Hey, what — ”

“We’ll use my car,” McGregor said. “Ain’t no way I’m gonna fold myself up into that weird buggy of yours.”

“You’re a man of discernment,” Hutch grinned, offering his arm to Jolie. “Shall we go, honey?”

But at the payphone in the forecourt, he paused, and tried one more time. The call rang through and was answered almost immediately.

“Hug? It’s Hutch. How’re things?”

“Quiet. Listen, good buddy — ”

“Haven’t got long. Tell Nicky we’re going to see Sophie, and that we’re making some progress. Ask him who has the lease on the shop, will you? And if anyone has offered to buy them out? He’s okay, isn’t he?”

“Oh, yeah. He’s fine. Real cool, laid-back dude, is Nicholas Marvin.”

“Good. Tell him to stay put, to keep his head down — ”

“Hutch — ”

“Hey,” said Jolie, “we keep her waitin’ an she’s gonna lose her nerve an’ skip.”

“Yeah, I’m right with you —  Huggy, I have to go — we’ll call in again — ”

“Wait on, Hutch! I gotta tell — ” but the money ran out and Hutch put the phone down.

* * * * * * *

They drove across town, to an area of clapboard buildings behind bright, over-painted facades, used-car lots, small bars and strip joints. Jolie didn’t speak, except to give directions, and Hutch’s attempts at conversation were met with a slight, wise smile. She would not be drawn on any subject, and after a while he gave up trying.

“Park behind that truck,” she said eventually, and he obeyed. “Reckon we were followed, Blondie?”

“No,” he said, mildly aggrieved by that name on her lips. She’d made it sound almost an insult.

“‘Kay, let’s go. Over there, through the Hidalgo Grande. Sophie’s in the pad at the top of the stairs to the right. I’ll be waitin’ in the one on the left. Don’t be too long, an’ don’t you spook her none, or you won’t leave Vegas as pretty as you are.”

“That’s a threat, I take it?”

“Uh-uh. Just a friendly warnin’. See, Primrose don’t like folks upsettin’ his ladies, an’ Sophie is still one of the fam’ly even if she ain’t worked for him for a while.”

“He knew where she was all the time?”

“Could say that. C’mon, Blue-Eyes, haul yo’ ass.”

Hutch climbed out of the Torino, held the door for her, and followed her swaying hips into the bar. A hooker and her john, another trick to be turned in the upstairs room.

* * * * * * *

Starsky showered, shaved and dressed in record time, firing a string of questions at McGregor’s impassive sprawl of limbs in the one armchair. But the answers were not satisfactory; no, he hadn’t found out who held the lease. The only guys watching the place were his, Primrose’s, neither Henderson nor Jones had shown any interest, it was exactly as Sophie had left it when she’d run for it. No, she hadn’t said why she wouldn’t see any of Nick’s family, barrin’ that he’d ditched her when the going got hot. And no, he didn’t have any more information on what Nick was up to with Henderson and Lazero. What did he, Starsky, think he was? Some kind of medicine man? It was only an hour since he’d given him his last report, for Chrissakes.

“Okay, okay,”‘ Starsky sighed. “Guess I got used to Huggy producin’ miracles, an’ kind of expected the whole family to be able to do the same.”

“Big deal,” McGregor growled. “You ’bout ready now?”

“Yeah.” He settled the S & W into his shoulder holster, straightened his denim jacket, and nodded. “Lead on, MacDuff.”

As a precaution, the black man tooled the dusty Chevrolet through a maze of streets, circling, back-tracking, weaving a course that would show up and then lose any tail they might have collected. When he was satisfied they were clean, he parked in a back alley fifty yards from the rear entrance, and got out. A skinny urchin slouched in a doorway gave him the thumbs up, and the two men moved swiftly into the mid-morning shadows of the alley.

McGregor opened the door with a skeleton key and stood back.

“Go ahead,” he said. “I’ll keep watch. You hear me whistle Dixie, come out careful.”

“Okay.” He took a last glance around, and went in.

He was in a storeroom; racks of garments covered over with polyethylene sheets lined up in neat rows, a fine film of dust dulling the sheen of the stuff, and showing clearly on the floor that he was the first to come in for days. His own footprints stood out like beacons.

Stifling a sense of unease, Starsky went through to an office, and disturbed more dust searching through the drawer and filing cabinet. This was Nick’s domain. His handwriting was in order books, ledger, on receipts, and in the diary. Starsky slipped that into his pocket. But all seemed above board, nothing was there that jarred on his instincts, and all the bookwork was neat and businesslike.

Avoiding the store itself, with the big display window that gave too good a view from the street, Starsky found the stairs that led to the apartment above. It was small, but furnished with a surprising degree of expensive elegance, a kitchen-dinette, living room, and bedroom with the bathroom opening off. Not entirely a bachelor pad, he discovered with a wry grin. Sophie had left makeup on the dressing table, filmy lace nightgowns of pink, flame, black, hanging in the wardrobe beside Nick’s suits and shirts. He gave them only a cursory glance. After all, he wasn’t here to dig into his brother’s love-life, but to find something in the place that might be useful to a couple of gangland bosses.

Its location, maybe?

From the bedroom window he could see the upper story of a bank, and his eyebrows climbed. Interesting. But the other windows offered nothing else of use. On a purely business level, the boutique was well-positioned for catching customers with plenty of money to spend — but that wasn’t enough to explain all the hassle, he had to admit.

Starsky started a systematic search, acting more on professional instinct, the need to be doing something — anything — rather than have to stand still and speculate on unpleasant possibilities. The kitchen yielded nothing. The freezer was well-stocked, cupboards as well, all of it good quality. Nick had obviously developed expensive tastes. The bathroom was also a blank, until he opened the linen closet, moved a pile of towels and found himself looking into the bedroom. Past a small 16 mm movie camera.

“Oh, God,” he whispered. “What — ?”

He ran through to the bedroom, stared at his own reflection in the two-way mirror in sick horror. Then went through the room in a savage frenzy until he found the switch behind the headboard that started the camera, went back into the bathroom and sat on the edge of the bath. The mechanism gave off the faintest whirr — it would be inaudible in the bedroom — and he did not need to check that the lens was focused on the big king-sized bed. The film cartridge was empty.

After a minute, Starsky started another search. For film. He found nothing, not even blank reels, but he did find something else, and it triggered a painful nausea in his stomach. At the back of the top shelf in the linen closet he discovered a large cardboard carton, and inside it were garments of black leather, bright silver handcuffs, chains, and a slender, vicious whip.

“Nicky — ” he whispered, a break in his voice. “Dear God — ”

Shrill and mocking, the strains of Dixie threaded up from below, and he shoved the carton back where he’d found it, and ran outside, feeling soiled, unclean, desperately in need of a scouring shower.

“C’mon, man!” McGregor hissed, “the goons are movin’ in — Jones’ men — ”

Starsky didn’t answer, aware that if he opened his mouth to speak he would throw up, and ran at McGregor’s heels to the alley’s mouth.

Figures came out of the shadows, six big men with guns in their hands, and he snatched for his S & W, a killing rage boiling in his skull. But they did not intend to use their weapons, and by sheer weight of numbers, he was brought down.

McGregor fought free, and they did not make a real effort to keep hold of him. Starsky was their main target, and the tall black was not about to play hero. He was a firm believer in discretion being the finer part of valor, and he took off. Later, maybe, he could pull a rescue stunt, or let Blondie loose on it. But he was in no hurry to get himself burned.

 

Chapter IV

The Hidalgo Grande was crowded, and no one paid attention to the pair that passed through to the door at the rear. Jolie was a regular visitor.

Hutch walked at her heels, fitting the new information into the pattern, and wondering what else McGregor knew that he was not letting on.

“In here,” the girl said, tapped once on the door. “Honey, it’s me,” she hissed through the cracked boards. “I’ll be across the hall if you need me. Just holler.” Hutch didn’t hear a reply, but as Jolie disappeared the door slowly opened, and a child peered round. Huge gray eyes studied him, something near to panic in their depths.

“Primrose sent you?” she whispered.

“Uh, yes,” he said. “Sophie?” disbelief in his voice. She nodded.

“Come on in,” and stood aside to let him enter.

Remembering the kind of girl Nick had fancied in Los Angeles, Hutch had been expecting a long-legged beauty with a certain glossy sexuality. Sophie was none of these. She was not beautiful, but lovely, with a childlike, frail-boned perfection that stopped the breath. She could not have been more than five feet tall, and without makeup, wearing a Victorian smock dress, she looked about twelve years old. Long tousled ringlets of sun-streaked honey-blonde rippled down her back, and in her pointed, fragile flower-face, small full lips quivered with fear.

Hutch took a deep lungful of air, reminding himself that this personification of innocence had been — maybe still was — a hooker, and that her very appearance was her stock in trade. But it could not change his initial reaction to her because that was bone-deep, an integral part of him. Besides, what did it matter how she earned her keep? She was lost and afraid.

“Hey, it’s okay,” he said gently. “I’m not gonna hurt you. I’m a friend, Sophie. Didn’t Primrose tell you that?”

She blinked up at him. “Yes,” she said doubtfully. “Told me you wanted to talk about Nicky.”

“Yes.”

“I don’t know anything. Where he is, whatever.”

“I know,” he smiled. “I know where he is. He’s in Los Angeles, and we’ll take you back with us, if you want. He’s worried sick about you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes. He left because he thought he’d be a danger to you,” he improvised, and she shrugged, a small smile taking away some of the uncertainty and fear from her mouth.

“That’s a pretty lie, cowboy, and I guess you’d like it to be true,” she said. “You in his line of business?”

“No,” he answered. “We’re here to help him, and you, out of this mess with as little fuss and pain as possible.”

She gave an almost silent giggle, all fear gone. “You’re wasting your time. You with his brother?”

“Yes.”

“Is he like Nicky?”

“They look alike, yes. Sophie, what do Henderson and Lazero have to do with Nick? Do you know?”

“No, and I don’t want to. You don’t — he didn’t tell you?”

“No. If he had it’d be that much less complicated.”

The fear was back in her face. “If he hasn’t told you, I sure as hell won’t,” she snapped. “Even if I knew for sure, which I don’t.”

“So tell me what you suspect,” he said evenly. There was a harder core to her than he’d let himself realize. “Is it to do with Andromeda? Who holds the lease?”

“Nicky does,” she whispered. “Who’re you with? Henderson? Or Lazaro? I don’t know anything! Tell them, I don’t know anything!”

“Hush, it’s okay,” he said. “Sophie, I’m not with either of them. I’ve come in from LA with Nick’s brother because he came to us and asked for help. Please, let us help.”

“Guess he’s said he’ll cut you in on the action?” she said suddenly, child-eyes narrowing, “but he hasn’t let you in on that angle. Hell, he won’t even let me in on it — said it was too big, too risky for me!” She moved jerkily to the couch, took a pack of cigarettes out of the clutch-purse lying there, put one of the white tubes in her mouth. “Got a light?”

He lit the cigarette for her, squashing the urge to tell her that on her lips it looked obscene — a child aping grownups —

“What angles are you in on?” he asked. This interview was not going the way he’d expected.

“What d’you think, knowing our Nicky?” she drawled, blowing pale smoke towards him.

Anger hit him, suddenly, and he took one swift stride towards her, snatched the cigarette out of her fingers and threw it down, treading it into the carpet.

“Sophie, don’t play games with me. I know Nick from way back, and while I don’t know what he’s gotten into out here, I can make a rough guess.” He heard himself say the words, but still could not accept a truth he felt instinctively. “What is it? Blackmail? Extortion?”

“B-blackmail,” she stammered, “at least, that’s the racket we got going behind Andromeda — the boutique’s for real, though — that’s how we started out — but it didn’t pay, enough — ”

“You brought Nick into a blackmail setup? How?”

“No! No! It was his idea — he got the camera — planned it out —  I’m not lying! P-please believe me?” She moved forward, raised small hands to his chest and looked up at him, eyes swimming in lakes of unshed tears. “Don’t be mad at me?” He could feel the trembling of her body as she crept closer, and automatically put his arms around her.

Sophie nestled her head on his shirt, arms sliding round his waist, and she let out a shuddering sigh. But he knew she was aware of the gun in its shoulder-holster hidden beneath the leather jacket, and would be wondering how far she dared play him along. “I-I didn’t want to do it — been trying to get out of this game — but he m-made me.”

Hutch looked down at the tousled curls, smelled the light flower perfume she was wearing, and mentally thanked her for over-playing her hand.

“Do you,” he said gently, a laugh in his voice, “take me for a sucker?” and caught held of her arms, holding her away from him, and tried to ignore the fragility of the bones under his hands. “Sophie, I’m a cop. I’ve been dealing with little ladies like you for years. So just give it to me straight; right from the beginning, like you were down at the station house. I guess you know the drill.”

“Oh, shit!” she wailed, but did not pull away.

“Yeah, honey,” he said. “And guess what — it’s about to hit the fan. Talk to me.”

“I don’t — ”

“Talk, Sophie!” The smile was still in place, but his eyes had gone cold and there was a bite in his voice that started a new trembling in her. “From the beginning.”

“Don’t hurt me?” she whispered, sliding her hands up his braced arms. “Please, I’ll be good — ”

“Yeah, I’ll bet you will,” he said dryly. Her tongue moved over her lips, moistening them, and her eyes widened, clear, translucent as spring water, “Is it a turn-on, Sophie? Tough luck. Hookers who cater to the under-age market aren’t my style. All I want from you is words. Talk to me. Now!” and he shook her, once, snapping her head back on the slender neck. “Or else you’ll find yourself on the receiving end of real pain. I’m not into S & M, but I guess you’re not that much of a masochist, either. Are you? Ever had a broken arm?”

“No!” A flash of genuine fear, and this time, she tried to pull away.

“Or how about a mark or two on that lovely face?”

Sophie stared up at him with something akin to horror, not seeing the self-disgust behind his ice-cold mask, and believed him.

“I-I met Nicky a while back — nearly two years,” she said, and he let her go, half-thrusting her to the couch. It struck her behind the knees and she sat down abruptly, an unintentional flounce of sprigged muslin and child-grace.

“Where?” he snapped, standing over her.

“On my turf, the other side of town. I’d tried to make it with Andromeda, when it was over on the Boulevard but — well, I got into debt, ran out of cash, and went back to turning tricks to pay it off, try to keep going with the shop.”

“Go on,” he said as she hesitated.

“Nicky was there, too. We — ”

“You picked him up?”

“A john? Hell, no. He was cruising, turning the tricks — ”

“What?” he gasped, unable to cover the shock. “Hold on, there. You better find another script, sweetness.”

“It’s true!” she cried, raising her hands to protect her face from an expected fist.

“Are you telling me Nick is gay?”

“I didn’t say that.” Cautiously she sat up. “Said he was cruising, hustling for trade.”

“Why?”

“Money.” She shrugged. “Why else?”

“He didn’t need it. His brother gave him cash when he left LA.”

“Yes, but he wanted more. Was going to get a stake behind him, and move in on the action. He did pretty well. He’s not the best-looking of guys, but the way he moves gets ’em going, and his eyes are something special, aren’t they?”

“Not in my book,” Hutch said grimly. “The only thing I’d like to do to his ass is kick it. Okay, get on with it.”

“That’s about it.” She shrugged again, helplessly. “We pooled our cash, Nicky got the lease, and we moved in. I told Primrose I didn’t want to work for him, and things began to go real well for us.”

“Where does the blackmail fit in?” he prompted.

“It sort of — just came,” Sophie said, raising wide candid eyes to his face. “We both like the good things of life, and they cost money. More money than the boutique made. So Nicky set up the camera, and I brought in the johns. Family men. Business men. We never made them pay too much, always gave them the films, and didn’t hit them again for more payment — ”

“Hearts of gold,” Hutch said, voice sibilant with control. “That’s how he planned to make Lazero and Henderson sweat?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know. Maybe. But it wasn’t with me. Could be it was him and a wife or daughter, I guess. The camera’s got an automatic control, it doesn’t need an operator.”

“They’ve got family?” Hutch ignored the technical details, and she blinked, startled.

“Uh, yes. Lazero’s got a wife, two boys and three girls, all teenage. Henderson’s wife is dead, he’s got a son and a daughter. The girl’s sixteen, I think.”

“And you know absolutely nothing more about it?”

Her eyes did not waver, rather they widened. “Nothing,” she whispered.

“Sophie. You are lying.”

“I’m not!” Her lips quivered, and the facile tears spilled over.

“Okay, if that’s the way you want it. I’ll tell them at the station house you fell, trying to get away. Broke your arm. Maybe cut your face on glass you knocked over — ” tipping a slender vase from the mantelpiece, watching it fall and shatter so that he wouldn’t have to watch the fear grow in her child-face, and risk losing his resolution.

“I-I don’t know anything more for sure,” she said quickly, “but — ”

“But?”

“I-I’ve got a key.”

“Go on.”

“I — guess it’s a deposit box somewhere, but I don’t know. It came in the mail the day after Nicky skipped. Didn’t know he’d gone until it arrived. Recognized his writing on the envelope, but all it had in it was the key.”

“Let’s have it,” he said grimly, holding out his hand. She fumbled in her purse, took out a key ring, and with shaking fingers removed one.

“Don’t know where it fits,” she said, laying it on his palm. “Is Nicky under arrest?”

“No. What happened to Pinto Chadd?” he asked. And if you say I don’t know one more time —

“He was searching the pad above Andromeda for the films, Primrose said. That’s where Nicky lived, and where we had the camera set up. I think he tripped him down the stairs — then he cut out, I guess, and sent me the key.”

“Whose man is Chadd?”

“Henderson’s. That’s an awful bad man to cross.”

“Then why so reluctant to hand over the dope on him?”

“Nicky’ll go crazy,” she confessed. “Besides, it’s one hell of a meal ticket if he can pull it off, whatever it is. Wow, to have both those guys jumping when he whistles — ”

“Yes,” Hutch said sardonically. “Jumping straight on his back so that he has to go running to his big brother for help.”

“Huh.  — Hey, you haven’t read me my rights, or anything.” Suspicion was suddenly in her voice.

“No, and I’m not going to. I told you. We’re here to help. If we can,” he added.

“You’re not even a cop?” outraged.

“Not in Vegas. Sophie, Nick’s a louse; worse, he’s a loser. Why don’t you find somewhere else to start Andromeda?”

“Me ‘n’ Nicky get along,” she shrugged.

“You’re sticking with him?”

“Guess so. You see, cowboy,” she went on, deliberately provocative, “he kind of goes for what I can do for him, and I like the way he hands it out. He likes power over people — likes to run the show. Know what I mean?”

“He ran out on you,” Hutch reminded her.

“Sure. But — ” and shrugged again.

“When he snaps his fingers you’ll come running,” he said.

“That’s the way it is.” She sounded almost complacent.

“Okay, Sophie.” Hutch dropped the key into a pocket, stood back from her. “You better sit tight, wherever Primrose puts you. We’ll be in touch.”

“You’re going?” Surprise and disappointment pouted her mouth. “Hey, don’t leave yet. Want some coffee?”

“No.”

She came to him, slid her arms about his waist again, leaning close, her small fragile body trembling against him.

“Sure?” she murmured. “Please, stay a while? We could have a lot of fun, you ‘n’ me.”

“No,” he repeated. “Sophie, I don’t get off on ladies who look like twelve year old school kids. No way is that my scene.” He put her away with brusque care, and left.

A tap on the door brought Jolie out to join him.

“Got what you wanted?” she drawled. He didn’t answer, but a glance at his face was enough. “Yeah, I guess you did, an’ I guess you don’t like it none, huh?”

“You could say that,” he snapped coldly, took held of her elbow and hustled her back into the room.

“Hey,” she protested. “Cool it, Blue-Eyes, I — ”

“Shuttup,” he barked. “Until I tell you to speak. What do you know about Nick and his racket?”

“Me? Nothin’.” And she laughed up in his face.

“Jolie,” he said softly. “Don’t push me too far.” Her amusement died. “What do you know?”

“Only that him an’ Sophie had some cute tricks with the home movies,” she said, losing none of her poise. “You gonna beat up on me, big boy? It’ll cost ya. Primrose don’t — ”

“If I beat up on you, Jolie, there won’t be a thing Primrose can do about it, because I’ll be moving in on him next, if I have to, and he is likely to end up in the bed next to Pinto Chadd. You read me?”

Jolie understood, and hid her nervousness. But he knew it was there, alongside her increasing wariness.

* * * * * * *

Hutch drove to the Ponderosa, pulled up outside and leaned across the girl to open her door.

“Get McGregor,” he ordered. “He’ll be at Andromeda. Tell him I want to see him, and if he keeps me waiting he’ll regret it.”

“I’ll tell him,” she said lightly, climbing out with much display of long, elegant ebony legs. “But he don’t hop none when a honky hollers.”

“I’m not hollerin’. I’m promisin’,” he countered. “Scoot.”

She slammed the car door, pursed sculptured lips in a long-range kiss and flipped the finger at him. He did not notice.

* * * * * * *

The key was burning a hole in his pocket, and he needed a little time to think things through before he faced Starsky with what he knew. Anger and disgust grew to a slow furnace heat, and if he could have stretched out a long arm to haul Nicholas Marvin back to Vegas for a reckoning, he would have done so. And the Whizz-Kid’s feet wouldn’t have touched the ground.

Hutch bit out a single obscenity and slammed his fist on the steering wheel. This was going to hurt Starsky, far more than he would ever let on, and Hutch did not relish the prospect of telling him. If he hadn’t already found out.

In need of a drink, he pulled into the first parking lot he saw, left the car and walked to the nearest bar. He ordered a beer, then saw the pay-phone, and put through a call to the motel. But there was no answer from their room.

There had been several incoming calls, reception told him, all by the same person, but he had left neither name nor message.

Hutch collected his beer and retreated to a corner booth, trying to remember if Nick had said how he got to Los Angeles. Starsky would probably know, but Starsky was still at Andromeda, and a phone ringing in the boutique would not get answered. He wished he’d questioned Nick more closely, at the same time acknowledging that it was only retrospection being wise. There had been no need, beforehand, to investigate small details like that.

He fished out the key, and looked at it. Apart from a stamped number, it was unmarked, nothing to show where it came from. Okay, so put yourself in Nick’s place, he told himself. You’ve just dumped a guy down the stairs and maybe killed him. Because of what you know, Henderson isn’t going to let the cops in. So what do you do? Light out. The fastest way you know.

Nick hadn’t taken his car — at least, he’d shown up in LA without it, so that left the airport at the top of Hutch’s list. A place where left luggage lockers would provide safe storage, and a mailbox would take the key in its envelope, while he climbed aboard the first plane to LA.

* * * * * * *

He did not drive directly to the airport. Instead he took a circuitous route that left him reasonably certain he was without a tail. Then it was an easy matter to locate the ranks of lockers, find the number that matched the key, and try it in the lock. It opened, revealing a bulky package. He took it out, slipped it inside his jacket and headed for the nearest men’s room. There he locked himself in a cubicle and investigated Nick’s meal ticket.

Two reels of film in separate envelopes, one marked with Henderson’s name, one Lazero’s. Plus two large flat manila envelopes. He opened one labeled ‘Henderson. Print sent Feb. 10th.’ and found himself looking at an eight by ten still, probably blown up from a frame on the reel. Nick he knew at once; a slim, arrogant figure, half-naked in tight black leather, a whip coiled in his hands. Henderson he did not immediately recognize. The strong, rugged features were blurred under a layer of cosmetics, his mouth a dark red gash. The lipstick had left crimson traces on Nick’s chest and belly, visible even against his body-hair. The fly of the leather pants was open, and lipstick stained his rigid penis, the circumcised glans darkened the same red. Henderson knelt at his feet, head thrown back, hands clutching leather-clad buttocks, and over his massive, coarse-haired body was a pink lace shortie nightgown, his erection swinging grotesquely beneath flounces that did not cover his hips.

Incredulous, disbelieving his own eyes, Hutch stared at the photograph. He had thought himself unshockable, inured through years of police-work that dealt with, among others, vice and porn-peddlers, putting a stop to some of the more vicious and sick aspects of the trade. The picture was tame compared to most; he’d seen far worse, but — this was Nick. Starsky’s brother.

He shoved the thing back into its envelope, and with gritted teeth opened the other. Lazero, this time, and the positions were reversed. Pallid and slightly paunchy in the black leather, the man stood over a kneeling Nick. He, face innocent of the make-up that had made a travesty of Henderson’s hard features, was naked but for silver chains and cuffs bright at his wrists, throat, looped across his chest and thighs.

Anger cancelled out transient nausea, a rage that if it could be expended on the distant Nick would leave him a hospital case. If the man had been gay, somehow he felt that would have made the offence less. But he wasn’t. Selling himself for the money, and not caring what he had to do to get it. Worse; expecting his brother to come barreling in and clear up the mess, and not giving a damn that he would find out the whole sordid story. Well, he wouldn’t learn of it from Hutch. But on the other hand, who better to hear it from? Who else would he, Hutch, trust to tell Starsky exactly what was coming down, using love and trust and compassion to cushion the shock, to be there as a storm-anchor for the inevitable reaction? No one. There was something else he could do, as well. Do the clearing up himself.

But for that he would need the help of Mr. McGregor, whether that elusive gentleman would give it willingly or not. Should he prove difficult, he’d find a way to persuade him.

Grim-faced and cold eyed, Hutch left the airport, drove to the Ponderosa, but saw no lanky, skeletal figure in the smoky, noise-packed room, and returned to the motel. Neither Starsky nor the black was there. So he put a call through to Los Angeles.

Huggy took a while to answer, and when he finally did, Hutch gave him little chance to talk.

“Tell Nick we’re making good progress,” he said. “Don’t let him skip, he’s to sit tight, Hug. There could be some heavy repercussions if he does anything hasty. Make sure he knows that, huh?”

“Yeah, sure — Hutch, hold on, let me get a word in, willya? I’ve been tryin’ to tell you — ”

“He’s still there, isn’t he?”

“Yeah, but — ”

“Good. Keep him there. See you around, Hug. I’ve got to have words with your cousin.” And put the phone down on the impatient ” — Hey — !”

* * * * * * *

Hutch fidgeted around the motel room for nearly an hour, a growing sense of unease triggering a need for action that could not be released. Not yet. Surely it didn’t take Starsky this long to check out a store and an apartment? So what else was coming down? Had he found —  Bleakly he realized there was nothing he could do about anything at the moment. Not until Starsky showed up, or got a message through to him. Nor did he dare leave the motel room, in case he came back and they missed each other —

“I should have my head examined!” he said, the harshness of his own voice in the quiet room startling him. I should never have let him go on his own — McGregor is no substitute for a partner at your back, buddy.

Finally his impatience got the better of him, and he took the risk of setting up his own meet with one of Nick’s clients. Henderson he knew could be reached, sooner or later, at the Riverboat, though this phone call at first seemed fruitless.

“If you’d care to leave your name and message?” said the polite voice. “Mr. Henderson or his secretary will get back to you.”

“No,” said Hutch. “Henderson or no one. And the name’s Sinclair. Nick Sinclair.”

“Oh. Hold the line, Mr. Sinclair, I’ll check again. Mr. Henderson may have returned through his private entrance.”

“You do that.”

There was a long silence, then the phone clicked, and a crisp, emotionless voice said, “Well?”

“Henderson?”

“You’re not Sinclair. Who is this?”

“Doesn’t matter. Listen to me, and don’t interrupt. And if you’ve got anybody listening in on this line, get rid of them.”

“Why?”

“In case I have to convince you I’ve got what I say I’ve got.”

“I see. The line is clear. Just you and me. So what’s your angle?”

“I’ve got me a film and a print blown up from it, and they’ve both got your name on them. I sure as hell don’t want them, so you can have them with pleasure. But it will cost you.”

“Naturally. How much?”

“Nick Sinclair’s skin. I want him left alone, unhurt, safe. You read me?”

“Yes.” There was a sibilance in the otherwise calm tones that put Hutch’s hackles up. “You’ve seen the film?”

“No. Nor do I intend to. The print is more than enough. Unfortunately, I’m going to have to hold on to that for a while, security for Sinclair, you understand, but there’s no way he is going to get his hands on it — and neither is anybody else. Unless you don’t cooperate.”

“That’s all? I find it hard to believe.”

“That’s all, and I don’t give a damn what you believe. Sinclair is a poisonous little rat, but he isn’t going to get his comeuppance from you.”

“Where is he?”

“Don’t be stupid. Well, Henderson? Do we meet?”

“Yes. Do you have the other film?”

“What other?”

“He has Lazero on the hook as well, hasn’t he? Bring them both along, and I’ll pay — ”

“No deal,” Hutch snapped. “I’m not in this business for health or profit. You get your own property back, mister, no one else’s.”

“What surety do I have that this’ll be the last I’ll hear of it?”

“Only my word that I wouldn’t touch this kind of trade with a ten foot pole,” he said, letting all the loathing and contempt he had for Nick Starsky show in his voice. “And I’m not hauling Sinclair out of trouble as a favor to him. This is strictly a one-off.”

“Guess Lazero and me aren’t the only ones on Nicky’s hook,” Henderson said, cynically amused.

“Wrong again.” A whisper of control. But at the same time, part of him acknowledged that the man was right. Whether he knew it or not, Nick had him as firmly gaffed as he had the two gang-bosses. “My motives aren’t up for discussion. The Ponderosa, seven-thirty tonight.”

“All right.”

“No tricks, Henderson. The print won’t be with me, but the film will.”

“No tricks. How will I know you?”

“I know you.” And he put the phone down. It rang again almost immediately.

“Hi, big boy,” came Jolie’s purr. “Primrose wants t’know what’s the sweat.”

“Where is he, and I’ll tell him myself.”

“Hey, cool it. You c’n tell me — ”

“Jolie, have you gone deaf? Do I want a messenger, I’ll send a pigeon. Where is he? And don’t pussyfoot around.”

“The Ponderosa,” she said, predictably.

“Yeah. Where else,” said Hutch. “Okay. I’m on my way, and he had better be there.”

“He will, but, honey, he don’t like — ”

“Sure, sure. You already said that,” slamming the phone down.

* * * * * * *

Early though it was, the Ponderosa was beginning to jump, but McGregor’s attenuated height was easy to pick out. Hutch headed for him with the single-minded determination of a quarter back making a touchdown, and McGregor decided that in this case, attack was the best defense.

“Hey, listen, man,” he snapped. “I gotta tell you I don’t get off on your attitude. Like I ain’t your lackey. This nigger don’t hop when Massa snaps his fingers.”

Hutch did not appear to have heard him. “Where’s Starsky?” he demanded.

“Ain’t you hearin’ me? I — ”

“You’re the one who’s switched off his ears. Where is my partner, McGregor?” The steely control in the quiet voice, combined with eyes like chips of ice, gave McGregor pause.

“Likely he’ll be back at th’ motel any time now,” he said easily, relaxing back against the bar. “Said he’d found a lead in Andromeda an’ he wanted to follow it up on his lonesome. Hell, I wasn’t about to argue.”

Remembering what he’d found in the locker, Hutch nodded, clenching his teeth on the backlash of anger and disgust.

“Okay,” he snapped. “I got one more thing you can do for me, then this whole stinking affair is done with. Set up a meet between me and Lazero for tomorrow. Here, in neutral territory. Nick Sinclair and X-rated film should be all you’d need to mention to get his cooperation. Tell him I’ll be keeping a print as a safeguard.”

“Yeah?” McGregor’s flat eyes lit up with a gleam of avarice. “You got ’em for real?”

“I’ve got them, hidden in a safe place,” he said coldly. “You’re not getting your paws on them, either. They go back to Henderson and Lazero, and with any luck, I’ve bought Nick a whole hide. So get that meet set up. At ten, tomorrow morning.”

“I don’t know if that’s convenient, friend.”

“Did I ask? Do it.”

“An’ what’s my cut?”

“Cut?” Hutch repeated. “The way I heard it back in LA, Huggy was calling in debts.”

“Sure, but this goes way above the call of duty, an’ all that.”

“Then look at it this way. You now have a debt to call on Huggy.”

“Or on you.”

“No,” Hutch said softly. “Because you’re kind of attached to your skin, aren’t you? Friend.”

“Okay, okay,” McGregor sighed. “I can take a hint. I’ll set up the meet.”

“And while you’re here, check this place over for Henderson’s goons. I’m meeting him at seven-thirty. Don’t think he’ll risk pulling any stunts, but I’d sooner be safe than sorry.”

McGregor studied him with a certain amount of wall-eyed respect.

“Yas-Boss,” he drawled. “You’re quite a roller-coaster when you get goin’, ain’t you?”

“You better believe it.” He turned to leave, but stopped. “As soon as I’ve dealt with Lazero, we’re pulling out, heading back to LA, and then it’ll be up to Nick what he does and where he goes. But he’ll be crazy if he stays around in this town. Keep Sophie safe, he’ll probably come and pick her up, go on back to New York.”

“‘Kay,” said McGregor. “I take care of my ladies, anyhow. Even when they retire from business for a while.”

“Yeah. Tell her things are working out,” Hutch said over his shoulder.

“I’ll do that,” the black said, but Hutch was already plowing through the crowd towards the door.

* * * * * * *

The red light almost took him unawares, and he slammed on the brakes, cursing. A lead, McGregor had said, found in Andromeda. Which meant that Starsky had got — what? The camera? More film? Enough to tell him what his brother was in to, so that he wanted to go it alone, keeping outsiders out. All outsiders. Including Hutch himself. Because it came to him now that this couldn’t be a completely new thing. That no way could Starsky not know what Nick was, what he was doing, even if he wasn’t clear on detail. So why hadn’t he said anything?

“For Christ’s sake, Starsk.” He hit the steering wheel with the flat of his hand in frustration. “Why didn’t you say something? Are we partners or not?” And provided the answer himself, unwillingly. For the past ten months — not. Maybe trust is a thing that must be constantly reaffirmed and renewed. Maybe he’d expected too much in thinking they could recover their working relationship just like that. And it wasn’t just an ordinary case, either. Starskys stick together. Maybe that was it. Starsky shielding his little brother’s indiscretions from the world. Once it had been ‘me and thee against the world.’ He had thought it still was. Now it looked as if he was mistaken and that knowledge somehow hurt more than anything else. Pain brought anger. What had he done, or failed to do, that Starsky couldn’t trust him now?

 

Chapter V

They were professional heavies, he acknowledged that. So much for McGregor’s ability to get a place checked out as clean. They hadn’t been followed there, that was sure.

Cramped into the trunk of the car, hooded blind, wrists tied behind him, Starsky did the only thing he could do — he considered the situation, and came to the conclusion that he was stuck with it. There was too much he didn’t know. Like who had snatched him, for starters. And what they planned to do with him. And what — if anything — Primrose would do. Could be Primrose had set him up. Hutch would take Primrose apart. Always supposing Hutch found out what had come down. Always supposing Hutch hadn’t been set up as well.

It was a fruitless exercise, but it passed the time. It didn’t help in any other way. The position he was in was proving more than uncomfortable, and when the car rocked to a halt and he heard the trunk opened, he was for the moment too relieved to be scared. Until they pulled him out and dragged the hood off.

Wherever it was, it was dark — too dark to see much of his surroundings, even if the nauseous dizziness had left him. There were men closed round him in a tight group — the gorillas who’d taken him out behind Andromeda, and one other, a squat, bulky man whose features were lost in the darkness. Starsky drew a careful breath, feeling the tight twist of pain in his midriff, knowing what it meant. The bullets he’d taken ten months back hadn’t done anything cripplingly irreparable, so the doctors had told him — but the damage done had been extensive, and some nerve or other was going to take time healing, along with torn muscles and splintered bone. So, every now and then, for no particular reason, this knot of tension would tangle itself under his ribs. No particular reason, that is, other than him being uptight and physically strained. Like now. A couple of codeine would kill it, or a quiet period of relaxation. But this kind of situation, with the surge of adrenaline pumping into his bloodstream — well, it sure as hell wasn’t going to get any better. Shit.

“You better start talkin’, punk.”

“What about?” Starsky tried to steady himself, and stared down the speaker with an arrogance he didn’t feel. Perhaps that was why it didn’t work.

“Begin with what you’re doing in Andromeda.”

“Lookin’ around. Thought I might pick up something for my girl — ”

“Cut the funnies.” The command was accompanied by a blow that made him stagger. Someone laughed. “You were lookin’ for somethin’, right?”

“Don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”

“What’s on him?” The short, thickset man was doing all the talking; “Jones’ men,” Primrose had said back in the alley — maybe this was Jones?

“Driver’s license, credit cards,” the heavy said, holding up his billfold. “The name’s Starsky, and he’s from LA.”

“Uh-huh.” There was a thoughtful silence. “Know somethin’, punk? You remind me of somebody.”

“Listen, I was just there on the off-chance I’d find — ” Starsky began, aiming to distract him.

“Find what?” the man cut in.

“Stuff I could lift and sell,” he said. “I ran out of dough a few days back, an’ got me some that way — figured I’d try for some more.”

“Yeah?” A sneer of disbelief. “You’re Sinclair’s family, ain’tcha?”

“No, I don’t know any Sinclair — ” A fist slammed into his stomach like a pile-driver, exploding the pain into a million searing fragments, stopping his breath. He doubled forward, retching, and someone caught him, hauling him upright.

“Don’t play games,” he was told. “There’s a lot of guys lookin’ for Sinclair, an’ it’s too much of a coincidence for a near lookalike to show up an’ not be connected. That mother-fucker sure as hell wouldn’t cut anybody in on the deal, so I figure you heard he was on to somethin’ an’ came sniffin’ around. Well, you just lost out, sucker.”

“No, you got it wr — ” The next punch hit direct on cramped muscles already screaming from abuse, and they were holding him up because his knees had turned to jelly, and the effort it took to breath was almost beyond him.

“Wrong, huh? I don’t think so. You’re the one that’s made the mistake, an’ Vegas just ain’t healthy for you any more. So you’re gonna go back to LA an’ forget about Sinclair an’ Andromeda. With a little help from us.”

Again a fist drove into him, and he choked on the pain. Again, and again, and he could not think nor feel anything but the erupting agony and the need to breathe —

* * * * * * *

One side of his face felt tight, skin stretched taut. Pain was dulled to a steady, unrelenting ache. No sound but a soft, continuous sighing, rustling, barely audible.

Starsky lay quite still, trying to gather numb senses together enough to form a coherent pattern, slowly putting his world together. He was lying belly-down on a hard, uneven surface; sand or gritty dust. Hot. Sweat prickling his skin where clothing protected it, baked dry where it was exposed. Mouth parched, tasting salt and metallic — the aftertaste of blood and bile.

He got one eye open a slit and heard himself groan as brightness flooded in like acid. Searing blue sky above. Featureless expanse of white around him, blurring as his eye teared over. Desert. He closed the eye, blinking away the moisture that ran out between his lashes.

Musta dumped me out here while I was unconscious…didn’t kill me, anyhow. Why bother. The desert could do the job for them. Can’t stay here —

 

It took several centuries to gather enough coordination to push himself to his knees, and once there, head down, teeth locked, it took several more to gain enough strength to climb to his feet. It was a very precarious world, swaying and swimming, but so long as he didn’t risk his balance it began to steady down.

Walking proved another problem — every stride jarred clear up to his skull, his legs wouldn’t answer properly — but it was progress of a kind, and he got better at it. He had no trouble locating the highway; they hadn’t dropped him more than half a mile from it, and he could see the moving glint of traffic to guide him.

But that half-mile took well over an hour — and by the time he managed to hitch a ride with a sympathetic driver, he was very close to the end of his resources. He shrugged off the curious questions, had the man drop him near the Dorado, walked the last few yards and let himself into the room.

As the door clicked shut he sagged against it for a moment, eyes closed. Made it… The sheer relief took almost the last strength from his legs — it had been will-power alone that had got him there, and with the impetus gone, so were his reserves.

No. Not yet. Gotta clean up.

He set his sights on the bathroom door, aiming himself at it, and pushed off. Once inside he got rid of his ruined clothes and staggered into the shower stall. Too tired to soap up, he simply stood there and let the cleansing rain beat onto him, resolutely blanking his mind as he had shut his eyes. It even worked for a while — until the images slipped under his defenses. The camera focused on the big bed. The carton with its kinky contents. Freight of make-up on the dressing table. The wispy, exotic nightgowns…

“Nicky…” he groaned. “Oh, kiddo, why?”

The bathroom did a sickening dip and roll, and he clung to the grab bar, leaning against the water-slick tiles, his face pressed to the coolness, shuddering. The memories he had hidden from himself emerged in ugly detail. Three times in the years since he’d left New York, he had gone to his brother’s aid. Hutch had thought them family visits, and Starsky hadn’t disillusioned him — the third time his partner didn’t even know he’d gone east, being out of state himself on a long weekend vacation with a lady. What Starsky had found out that time had made him too ashamed, branded him too deeply.

He had known the score, even at fourteen — innocence dies young in the backstreets. He had steered clear of it. Nicky — had not been able to. With his father dead, and his brother gone away, Nicky had been forced to look elsewhere for protection — and had gravitated to the strongest protectors. The kid had only one way to buy their help, and even at that age, had had no compunction about the price. He had been a pretty child, more so than his older brother. There was no shortage of takers for his offer.

It is not easy to discover that your kid brother is hustling, if only to keep his skin intact. Three times… That last time, you promised me — there’s just no need, kiddo — and now this —

His stomach heaved, and he had to let go to lurch out of the shower and fall on his knees beside the toilet bowl, retching. Sour fluid flooded his throat, burning, and his eyes were scorched with bitter tears.

Nicky. Why?

The spasms faded — the bathroom dissolved in a nauseous swirl of thickening gray…

* * * * * * *

He came to curled limply on the cork tiling, nose to nose with his faint reflection in the pale blue porcelain pedestal of the washbasin. He didn’t feel like he could move, but he made the effort, and after three tries managed to drag himself to his feet, fumbling for a towel and wrapping it around himself with one hand while holding on to the washstand with the other. He ran the cold water, washed his face, rinsed out his mouth. Thank God Hutch didn’t find me like that. He’d’ve raised hell…

Fresh shirt and jeans came out of the bag, and he stuffed the discarded clothes under everything else. Deal with them later. Sitting down on the bed, he started to pull on his socks, grunting as the stiffened bruises tautened his abdomen when he tried to bend.

So now what? He knew what kind of action Nick was into, and what the set-up was. Blackmail. The only question was where did Lazero and Henderson fit in? Did they want Nick and his bargaining stock for deals of their own, or were they the victims for once in their lives.

“I can’t fix this for you, kiddo,” he said aloud. “This is one thing I can’t make right.”

Like an echo, he heard Nick’s angry voice from two years ago — “You were never there for me.” And the hurt he had felt then, twisting in his gut now, undiminished by time. I’m sorry, Nick. I’m really sorry. I’ve tried. Poppa said to look after you… I tried…

He was sitting there, eyes screwed shut on painful memories, when the door opened, the sound jolting him so that he looked up to see Hutch enter. And the relief that Hutch was all right, unhurt, was alloyed with apprehension. Because his partner was mad. It hung around him like an aura; it was in the way he moved, in the stony expression, controlled — in the ice-blue of his eyes, the set of his mouth.

Oh, God. He knows.

“So what did you get?” he forced his voice to remain even, schooling his face to a mask of non-emotion. “You saw Sophie?”

“Yeah. I talked to her. You know what your brother’s into, Starsky?” It came out in a rush, as if he hadn’t intended to say it and it was out before he could bite it back. “Blackmail. Sophie is part of it. A new life, didn’t he tell you? Playing it straight? Jesus!”

Starsky wouldn’t look at him.

“Yeah,” he said slowly, concentrating on his feet. “I picked up the same idea.”

“And he had the nerve to come to you for help! Dear God — doesn’t he have any brains? Did he think you’d just barrel in and smear the bad guys? What did he expect you to do, go in blind? Not give a damn about how he got himself into this mess?”

“I don’t know.”

“He’s no good, Starsk,” Hutch said intensely. “God knows you bent over backwards to defend him with the Stryker case, but this time you have got to admit it. He’s no good. You can’t help him.”

“He’s my brother.” Softly, desperately.

“We wouldn’t be here if he wasn’t, dammit!” Hutch exploded. He slammed one fist down on the dresser, hard. “It’s about time he grew up, stood on his own two feet, and take all the consequences.”

“He’s tried to go it alone,” Starsky cut in, flinching inwardly as a cramp hit. He took a shallow breath, waiting until it passed. “You don’t know how hard he tried, Hutch!”

“Will you quit defending him?” Hutch snapped. “He’s not worth your worry and pain, or our time and effort. He’s into a blackmail racket that makes me want to puke, he’s a liar and a weakling and the kid he’s shacked up with — this precious Sophie — is a high-priced hooker who looks like a — ”

Starsky was in no mood to deal with the raw bitterness in Hutch. He was exhausted, and hurting, and having his partner throw those kind of hard words at him, truth though they were, was more than he could take. In sick anger he reacted to pain by inflicting pain, hitting out because he had to hit out at somebody.

“Well, she’s somethin’ you got no cause to be so bloody high-minded about! For God’s sake, leave Nicky alone, willya?”

“No.” Hutch’s face had that carven, set look of fury barely held in check. “No, dammit, I won’t let him alone. He’s using you, Starsky, just like he uses everybody else he comes across. He’s only got time for you when he’s in trouble — the rest of the time, you don’t exist for him! And don’t give me that crap about blood being thicker than water, either — what’s he ever done for you?”

“He’s family.” Starsky bit the words out. “He’s just about all the family I got. Like I’m all he’s got. But you can’t understand. You never had a brother, so what can you know about it, huh?”

He had aimed to wound, and he succeeded. The naked hurt in Hutch’s eyes made him flinch, but he couldn’t unsay what had been said.

“He’s my brother, Hutch.” He repeated it, almost in a plea for understanding — and Hutch turned on his heel and slammed out of the room.

Starsky let out a long, shaken breath, catching it as the cramp stabbed again. He massaged his stomach gingerly, wincing. The tension of the last few minutes hadn’t helped. He got up, awkward and clumsy, and made for the bathroom. He found the codeine and swallowed three with a mouthful of water, stubbornly attempting to concentrate on the small unimportant actions instead of the ache of lacerated feelings. It made no difference.

Nick is my brother. Nothing changes that. What he was — what he’s become — oh, Nicky, Nicky…

He stretched out on his bed, one arm shielding his eyes, trying to block out the memories. The visit Hutch knew nothing about — seeing his brother’s good-looks distorted by cosmetics, the slim body clothed in the height of gay fashion…

“Why, Nicky? You’re not gay.”

“Hell, no, Davey. But this is the way to rack up the loot, babe — “

And now, blackmail.

So what do I do? What can I do? No easy answers. He’s my brother, Hutch. Oh, Christ, I’m sorry I said that to you. You’re more then a brother, partner. But Nick — flesh of my flesh, blood of my blood, bone of my bone — Nick.

“You’ll look after your little brother, David. You hear me?”

“Yes, Poppa. I hear you.”

Nick.

* * * * * * *

Henderson was in a pool of isolation amid the crescendo of bustle that filled the bar. It was as if an invisible line had been drawn on the floor, and no one crossed it.

Hutch paused just inside the door, and McGregor joined him briefly.

“He’s got one guy watchin’ the back, one the front,” he said. “That’s all. He ain’t huntin’ trouble.”

“Didn’t think he would,” Hutch said, and headed for the man sitting alone at the small table. Two hoods appeared at his side as he left the crowd, hands on his shoulders to detain him.

“Back off,” he spat.

“That depends,” said one, “on what merchandise you got.”

“Back off,” Hutch repeated. “Or I walk right out that door, and Lazero gets the lot.”

“Let him through,” said Henderson quietly. “A drink, Mr. — ”

“Brandt. No.” Hutch pulled out the only other chair at the table and sat down. “You’re quite clear on the terms, Henderson?”

“Yes, if they haven’t changed over the last few hours.”

“They haven’t. Leave Nick Sinclair alone, and you’ll hear no more from me.”

“And that is all? You surprise me, Mr. Brandt. Nicky wanted a whole lot more.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Hutch said. “But he is no longer involved in this, and won’t be. Well?”

Henderson spread his hands and shrugged, a mirthless smile on his hard face. “It would seem that I don’t have much of a choice. Did you bring the other film?”

“No.”

“Pity. Would fifty thousand change your mind?”

“No.”

“More? Or do you really expect me to believe you’re an honest blackmailer?”

“I don’t give a shit what you believe. And fifty million wouldn’t buy it.”

“All right. I’ll agree to your terms. If you have the film you claim to have.”

“I haven’t checked it. Your name’s on the package. That was enough for me once I’d seen the still,” Hutch snapped, and took the wrapped film out of his jacket-front. “Check it all you want.”

Henderson carefully removed the paper, eased out a short length of film and held it up to the light. His expression showed nothing.

“It appears to be the correct one,” he said, voice even. “I keep my bargains, Mr. Brandt. I hope, for your sake, you keep yours.”

“I keep ’em.” Hutch stood up. “Don’t forget about the still-print, will you?”

“No. You’re free to go.”

“Thanks a bunch. Don’t try to get hold of the Lazero film, either, or it’ll have the same result as a hit on Nick.”

“Naturally. It’s a pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Brandt.”

Hutch did not answer. His mind’s eye was not seeing the dangerous granite mask of the gang-boss, but the grotesquely made-up face from Henderson’s-fantasies-made-reality by courtesy of Nick Starsky’s camera. He turned and walked away.

McGregor fell into step beside him as he left the bar.

“The Lazero meet is on,” the black man said. “Here, at ten in th’ mornin’. That’s a hell of a time, Blondie.”

“Yeah,” said Hutch. “Could make it earlier if it’ll suit you better.”

“Sarcasm don’t become you none. Your buddy showed up okay?”

“Yes.” And didn’t notice the flicker of relief that passed over the gaunt death’s-head. It was not relief for Starsky’s return as such, rather that he, McGregor, would not have a yellow-haired Nemesis on his tail, Obviously, Starsky had come to no harm, and hadn’t seen him cutout, which was probably just as well. There was also the matter of Starsky’s gun, picked up in the alley and now weighing down his coat pocket. A neat piece, the 59 9mm, but he’d find a way to get it back to its owner without the WASP knowing the whys and wherefores. It would maybe be safer to be circumspect.

“By the way, Cousin Hug is kind of anxious to get hold of you,” McGregor said abruptly. “Had an agitated phone call from him — ”

“I’ll get back to him. Is Sophie still in the room above the Hidalgo Grande?”

“Yeah. You aimin’ to go a-callin’?” McGregor grinned. “She’s one sweet chick. Give you a real good time.”

“She’s not my type, McGregor,” Hutch snapped. “I prefer my ladies to at least look as if they’re over the age of consent.”

“‘Kay.” He shrugged. “No skin off my nose. See you. t’morrow.”

“Yeah. Thanks, Primrose,” surprising himself as well as the black.

“No sweat.”

* * * * * * *

Hutch didn’t stay long with Sophie, just took enough time to assure himself that the girl was only too eager to have her Nicky back, and was willing to go with him to any place he decided they should go. Her devotion did not stop her putting the moves on Hutch, however, and he extricated himself from her arms and her room with firmness and speed. But he did not go back to the motel straight away, feeling unable to face Starsky and his bitterness.

Instead he wandered along the main thoroughfare, in and out of bars, but drinking little, watching the people in their frenetic hunger for enjoyment; a kaleidoscope of faces, gestures, strident voices and brilliant lights, music of many kinds blending with traffic noises to produce almost a unified whole. The Strip in a higher key, a faster pace, that was all. Nothing new under the neon sun.

Feeling cold and oddly isolated, Hutch went back to the motel.

Starsky was asleep, and he did not wake him. Nor did he phone Huggy. There seemed no point. They’d be back in LA by nightfall tomorrow

* * * * * * *

Starsky wasn’t aware that he had slept until he woke to pain. Woozy from the codeine and sleep, he could not at first figure out where he was — the one sure thing was that he hurt. Slowly other things registered — the motel room, dark. Night. He was fully dressed, and lying on top of the covers, shivering — the air-conditioning must have freaked out, he was drenched with sweat but he was cold. And hurting.

Twice, during his stay in the hospital, it had got this bad before they’d given him his shot. And they had prescribed a supply of powerful painkillers to supplement the codeine when he was discharged, but he hadn’t really needed them after the first couple of weeks. Twice — no, three times — he’d been in enough agony to resort to them, but the last time was months ago, and he hadn’t bothered to pack them. He hated popping pills anyway, and the codeine was all he usually needed.

It wasn’t going to get any better by him lying thinking about it, he knew that. The cramps didn’t ease, tightening around his body like an iron belt. Pain that had been a dull ache was grown now to a gnawing fire. He tried to control his breathing, short shallow breaths that barely lifted the ribcage — but that didn’t work either. Maybe a couple more codeine —

But his attempt to sit up forced an involuntary grunt of pain from him, and he fell back, eyes screwed shut.

“Starsk?” a quiet voice said.

It hurts, Hutch — Christ, it hurts —

“Didn’t mean to wake you.” He got the words out with difficulty, between set teeth.

“I wasn’t asleep.” Sound of movement. “What’s the trouble?” And the bedside lamp clicked on. “Starsk — ?”

“S’okay. Don’t fuss.”

Fingers on his wrist, a hand on his brow.

“Take it easy,” Hutch was saying. “How bad is it? I’ll call the local hospital, drive you downtown — ”

“Uh-uh. No hospital.” He made it as emphatic as he could. “Please, Hutch. Listen. I know how it is. It’ll go pretty soon. Look kinda stupid draggin’ me down to the doc with nothin’ wrong, huh?”

Hesitation. He looked up into concerned blue eyes and tried a smile that didn’t quite come off.

“Sure?”

“Yeah. Just give me a few minutes, okay?”

“Okay. Can I get you anything?”

“Coupla codeine is all.”

Hutch brought the tablets, and an arm was slipped behind his shoulders to help him up. He knew his sweat-soaked shirt and spasmodic shivers would not exactly ease his partner’s concern, but there was nothing he could do about it.

“Take that shirt off and get under the quilt,” Hutch advised, after Starsky had swallowed the pills. “It’ll be warmer.” As he spoke he unfastened the buttons, began to peel off the shirt — and then saw the bruises under the sweat-matted pelt of dark body-hair. “Christ — Starsk, what — ?”

“Lazero’s goons.” Starsky was lying flat, head turned away, his voice unutterably weary. “Picked me up outside Andromeda. They didn’t make me for Nick’s brother, exactly. S’okay, Hutch, nothin’s broken. But I lost my gun.”

“I’ll get it back.” A quiet promise.

Lazero’s goons. Hutch swore under his breath. That reckoning would have to wait.

“You should see a doctor,” he said.

“S’only bruises. Nothin’ t’worry about.” Starsky’s voice was beginning to slur, and Hutch decided it might be better to let him rest until morning, re-evaluate the situation then. The beating-up looked to have been administered for pain rather than damage, and things always seemed worse at night. And Starsky had enough commonsense to opt for the hospital if he knew he needed it. “Be okay…inna minute…” underlining Hutch’s own thoughts. So he dropped the wet shirt to the floor, pulled back the covers and helped him into bed.

Starsky subsided onto the pillows, shivering, and as Hutch straightened the blankets he found his wrist caught in a hard, sweaty grip, and knew what it meant. He sat down, took his partner’s hand, and let him hold on, feeling the almost imperceptible tremor of muscles locked rigid in an attempt to fight the pain, seeing the snail-trails of sweat glistening on Starsky’s face, pale against the darkness of his hair. No two ways about it, he looked terrible. The pressure of the thin fingers increased a fraction as the suffering man bit down on a shuddering gasp.

“Try to relax…” Hutch whispered lamely.

Relax — when he’s racked by chills and cramp — big laugh. But if this goes on for much longer, I’m getting a doctor to him whether he likes it or not. Damn Nick to hell.

“…cold…” Starsky muttered, huddling under the covers. He didn’t seem quite so aware, maybe the codeine was finally helping. “Hutch…?”

“I’m here.” Shifting, he lifted the blankets and slid in beside him, pulling the shaking body close. “S’okay, I’m here, partner.”

God, if I could just take some of it for you —

Only half-conscious now, mercifully, Starsky nestled against Hutch’s warmth, guided more by instinct and need than any awareness, and his breath caught as movement wrenched at stiffened muscles. Hutch grabbed hold by reflex.

“Don’t fight it, Starsk. No need to play hero — no one here to see but me… Go with it, babe — ride it out. I’m here, I got you, it’s all right — ” His murmured litany cracked on his own distress, but the ragged breathing deepened, steadied, and the taut body relaxed little by little as pain and tension ebbed. The shivers were less frequent now. The unshaven cheek resting on his chest rasped his bare skin as Starsky moved slightly. “Better?” Hutch asked softly, got an inaudible mutter he took for assent, and:

“Don’ go…”

“I’m here, buddy, I’m here…”

His mind flew back over years — to a dirty back alley behind Janos Martines porn-studio — saying these same words in a helpless attempt to comfort Starsky’s anguish…holding him, then as now, and the tormented body slackening against him as the onslaught of pain won momentarily over the fight to stay conscious. Echoes of pain, roused in his memory, paraded before his inner eye.

Too many times — Starsky hurting; either physically, like this, or mentally. Emotionally. Helen’s death. Terry’s. Why? One simple, inescapable reason. Because he’s a cop.

He glanced down at the tousled head cradled on his shoulder.

Put it all down to that. All the pain and the hassles and the kicks life deals out — it’s because you’re what you are. This last time, you nearly died. Did die. Dear God, I don’t want to remember that. I got you back. But for how long, Starsk?

He realized Starsky had become a dead weight, half-curled against him, no longer shivering, the chills gone. Hutch eased his left arm free, gritting his teeth as the numbness thawed into excruciating tingles, and slid from the bed, tucking the blankets in place before heading for the bathroom. Feeling like he’d been through a mangle, he started automatically on his morning routine, failing to remember that he hadn’t got any sleep yet. Then discovered the time — nearly three — and swore. He went beck to his own bed, but sleep would not come. Instead he lay there and thought about the future. In specific terms, Starsky’s future. The question of his career — of his fitness to return to police work, colored by the events of the last few days.

Suppose the Board passed him fit. Suppose he did get back on the street. Could he cut it the way they had? Take all that stress? Or would the tension building up inside him trigger the kind of attack he’d suffered tonight? Could he, Hutch, even let him try?

No choice. It’s what he wants.

The wave of emotion that had ambushed him gave him a moment’s pause. The sight of the still-gaunt body, bruised and scarred and exhausted to the point of collapse, had reawakened all his latent instincts to protect and shield the friend he loved from any further pain or threat of it. From Nick, from anybody.

Well, come the morning, he’d have the meet with Lazero, and the other side of the filthy bargain would be settled. Nicholas Marvin Starsky’s precious hide would be safe. It didn’t help any. He felt vaguely unclean, as if some of the dirt had rubbed off on him. If there was another way —  But there wasn’t. He had done, and would do, what had to be done. But he felt soiled, his very involvement tainting him.

Oh, come on, Hutchinson. That White Knight image just isn’t it anymore. It never was, if you’re honest with yourself. You tried to pretend it was, that you could change the world — the shining knight, the paladin, righting wrongs — story-book stuff. Most kids grow out of that idea before they leave kindergarten. The world doesn’t want to be changed, so thanks for nothing, sucker. Tilting at windmills is no occupation for a grown man.

“That’s it,” he said aloud. “No more bullshit. Tomorrow, we go home. Nick can sort out the rest of the crap himself.”

 

Chapter VI

Hutch sat wearily on the edge of the bed and knuckled sleep from his eyes, feeling in need of at least six hours solid with his head on the pillow. Starsky, thankfully, was still asleep, his face pale and bruised with exhaustion.

Anger put vitality back into Hutch, a bitter, vindictive rage that was in part fear. What damage had been done internally? Could Starsky cope with the after-effects of the beating, because if he couldn’t — too many questions and doubts for a morning when he needed a clear head and total concentration.

Resolutely he put them all to one side, took a brisk shower and dressed, making as little sound as possible. By the look of him, it would take an earthquake way up the Richter Scale to wake Starsky, but he was not about to take the chance. This was one deal he did not want Nick’s brother in on. Besides, he intended to be at the Ponderosa earlier than planned — he had a few words to say to McGregor.

The opportunity to say all he would have wished was not given to Hutch. He had time enough to pin McGregor into a corner, to discover and take from him Starsky’s gun. Then he demanded an explanation of his sins of omission; failing to stick with Starsky, failing to follow and get him out of the mess, and failing to inform Hutch at any time of what was coming down.

McGregor’s only response was a shrug and a flat statement that he figured Starsky was a big boy now, and just for a second, death looked out of blue eyes and the tall black held his breath. Then Jolie appeared at Hutch’s elbow.

“Hey, man — Lazero’s just arrived — he’s early, ain’t he?” She gazed from one to the other. “Hey,” she said again.

“Okay.” Hutch stood back, and McGregor emptied his lungs in an unobtrusive sigh. “Check out the street, back and front.”

“‘Kay.”

* * * * * * *

Lazero settled himself much as Henderson had done, in isolation at the far end of the bar-room, his privacy maintained by three hired hands. Hutch made no move to approach him until he got the nod from McGregor.

He stepped between two heavies, and their initial move to grab him was halted by a short nod from Lazero.

“Come and join me, Mr. — uh — ?”

“Brandt.”

“Ah, yes. You are Mr. Sinclair’s representative, I take it?”

Hutch looked down at the smooth, smiling face, and decided he’d sooner be dealing with Henderson.

“No,” he said shortly. “I don’t represent anyone. Were you told what the deal is?”

“I was informed,” said Lazero, studying manicured nails, “that you had taken over Nicky’s negotiations. Therefore I assume the price has risen. What is it now? And I advise you not to be too greedy.”

“Keep your advice to yourself, mister,” Hutch snapped. “Sinclair is no longer involved with this show. The deal is simply this; I give you the film, and to ensure that Sinclair’s skin stays whole, I keep the still-photo. It will not be used in any way unless you make a move against him: Is that clear?”

“On the face of it, yes. But hardly predictable.”

“Well?”

“Do you have the film?”

“Yes.”

“And the photo is, of course, hidden?”

“Of course.”

“What guarantee do you give me that it will stay hidden?”

“Nick Sinclair,” Hutch said coolly. “If it shows up, waste him. But it won’t, because I don’t intend for him to become a hit target. But if he should, and the print is still undercover, then it’ll be handed around to any interested party I can dig up. Regardless of whether it’s you or Henderson who makes the hit.”.

“He must mean a lot to you,” Lazero smiled, watching his face with cold, blank eyes.

“Not so that you’d notice,” Hutch answered, contempt clear in his voice.

“But he does have a relative. Whose name is not Sinclair.”

“That’s right. He also has a mother, several aunts, uncles, cousins, nieces, nephews, and a girlfriend. You have a wife, two sons, three daughters. You’re the president of the PTA, sit on the boards of several Catholic charities, and, so I hear, are anxious to have some political standing. Do I need to go on?”

“Perhaps not.” Lazero’s smile did not waver, but there was a malicious hatred behind it, and his eyes were no longer blank.

“Do we have a deal?”

“The film for Nicky’s hide?” he chuckled, the sound reminiscent and lascivious. “Yes, we have a deal. It’ll be an — interesting — addition to my library. Have you seen it through?”

“No,” said Hutch. “I haven’t looked at it. The still was more than enough for my stomach.”

“Not your scene?” Lazero drawled. “What will you accept for the second film? Henderson’s.”

“It’s not for sale. Unless you want to make him an offer for it. You two might get along together real well.” He tossed the film onto the table. “Remember. Leave Sinclair alone.”

Without waiting for an answer, he turned on his heel and walked away. No one made a move to stop him, but he could feel Lazero’s eyes on him every step of the way until the street-door closed behind him.

Neither McGregor nor Jolie were in sight, the former probably not wishing a continuation of their earlier conversation, so Hutch went back to the motel. He was not tailed, as far as he could tell, and in any case, took a convoluted route as a matter of course.

* * * * * * *

Starsky was still asleep. Hutch hauled out their cases and packed, leaving Starsky’s open to put away any last-minute items, then gently shook him awake.

“C’mon, buddy, rise and shine,” he said, and clouded blue eyes blinked open.

“Wha’?”

“It’s time to pull out. Go get a shower, we’ll grab a late breakfast and head for home.”

“Uh,” Starsky grunted. “Christ, I’m stiff!”

“A hot shower’ll help, and a massage after,” and he extended a hand.

“Yeah.” Starsky grabbed hold and let himself be heaved upright. “Did I ever tell you you got these sadistic tendencies?”

Hutch felt his facial muscles lock on the half-begun smile.

“Frequently,” he said. “Aka the Marquis de Sade. Go get that shower.”

“Okay, okay.” But in the doorway of the bathroom, Starsky stopped abruptly. “Going home?” he demanded. “Pulling out? No dice, Hutch.”

“Yes,” he insisted. “There’s nothing left to do here.”

“Like hell there isn’t! Okay, so you can’t understand the way I feel about Nicky, so maybe you can’t understand why I ain’t gonna run out on him — ”

“Quit it, Starsk! You didn’t hear what I said!” Hutch cut in.

“I’m not expectin’ you to stick it out. Go on back to LA. I’ll catch a plane out when I’ve cleared up — ”

“Starsky — ”

“And don’t argue. It’s not your problem.”

“Yes, it is,” Hutch said numbly. “You’re my partner. That makes it mine as well as yours.”

“No! He’s not your brother!”

“Thank God. But — ”

“No buts. Just haul ass. Look, I appreciate what you’re tryin’ to say, but this is somethin’ I have to tackle on my own. Okay?”

Hutch’s pain was coming back, insidious doubt along with it. He took a deep breath, trying to find words that would bridge the gap that was slowly widening between them.

“Starsky,” he said. “Will you listen to me? It’s finished. All tied up. Primrose and me, we sorted it out last night and this morning. Nick is off the hook.”

Starsky stared at him, uncomprehending.

“You. And Primrose? You can’t have — ”

“Why not? We did, and its over with. Now for God’ssake, let’s get out of this dump, huh?”

“How?” Starsky yelled. “Damn it, Hutch! You got no right — ”

“Okay!” Hutch shouted back, cut to the quick. “So I’m not your brother, and I’m not any kind of family. I happen to be your friend and once I was your partner, and in my book that gives me the right to do what I can when you’re flat on your back and in no state to argue the time of day! As for how — it was no sweat. Sophie had a key to a locker that had two films in it. So I bargained. They agreed. So now we go home.”

” — Films,” Starsky whispered. “Yes, of course. Oh, God. Nicky — ”

Hutch bit back the comment that burned on his tongue.

“Now will you get that shower so we can eat and go?”

Starsky did not appear to have heard him.”

“You gave those creeps the films?” rage twisting his face. “They don’t need him if they got them —  What the hell are you tryin’ to do? Get Nicky wasted?” he exploded, reaching out for Hutch’s shirt-front.

Hutch knocked his hands away. “That’s one hell of a tempting thought!” he snarled. “Listen, buddy. I do have a little more sense than that. There were stills with the films — I’m keeping them as insurance for your brother’s hide. Does that ease your bleeding heart?”

The implications of that didn’t seem to sink in.

“You can’t play games with his life! Why in hell’s name couldn’t you have left it for me, without pullin’ the White Knight stunt all over the place — ”

“Okay!” Hutch spun on his heel, wrenched open the door onto the interior corridor, bent and ripped up a carpet tile, snatched up the envelopes. He slammed back into the room and shook out their contents, thrusting them under Starsky’s nose. “Okay. There’s the insurance. Do what you want with it,” he snapped. “Give ’em to Henderson, Lazero, Nick, who the hell you like. But whether you like it or not, the case is closed.”

Starsky did not move, nor show any sign of hearing him. Face drained white, he stared at the upper photo — Nick and Henderson —  Then with a curiously blind, fumbling gesture, pushed them back towards Hutch, shaking his head, and lurched into the bathroom. The door shut behind him, and the lock snicked.

Hutch put the photos back into their envelopes and buried them in the bottom of his suitcase. He felt lousy, and knew that Starsky had to be feeling worse. Those pictures were not the sort of thing anybody should have to see on an empty stomach, especially when their brother was featured in the action. But it was done. It could have been better done.

He finished the packing, loaded the car, and waited until Starsky came out of the bathroom. If anything, he looked worse than when he went in.

“You ready?” Hutch asked, keeping his voice neutral, and got a brief nod. Breakfast was not on the cards — he didn’t think he could face food right then, and was sure Starsky couldn’t. They’d stop to eat on the road home — all he wanted was to be out of Vegas, to be free of the invisible miasma of filth that seemed to film everything, that even the brilliant desert sunshine couldn’t burn away.

* * * * * * *

The Torino headed west, for LA and home, Hutch at the wheel, and Starsky slumped unspeaking in the passenger seat. He looked like hell in the pitiless morning light. Hutch had already decided that the first thing he was going to do when they reached Los Angeles, was get his partner to a doctor for a check-over.

“You okay?” he said, as the city receded behind them. Starsky gave him a glance.

“Sure.”

“Thought we’d stop to eat along the way.”

“Not hungry.”

“Don’t be stupid. You haven’t eaten in thirty-six hours, Starsk. And if you flake out on me, so help me you’ll be back in the hospital before you can say ‘Ben Casey.'”

“Nag, nag, nag.”

“I mean it,” Hutch told him — got another look, then a nod of acknowledgement, and had to be satisfied with that. He sighed. He felt dog-tired, but there was no hope of Starsky being able to spell him on the driving. The whole three hundred odd miles would be his. “Why don’t you try to get some sleep?” he suggested.

No response. Hutch sighed again. Well, it was all sewn up, anyway. Nick’s hide was safe, no one would dare lay a finger on him now, not with the security he, Hutch, held. Which was a pity. In his mind; the best thing that could happen to Nick was for him to disappear quietly off the face of the earth, somewhere he couldn’t bother his brother again. Trouble, that was Nick’s middle name. Trouble for whoever he came across. Sophie was a case in point. And, as always, Starsky. You deserve better, Starsk. You deserve the kind of brother you are. The kind who’d do what you do, without question or even thought, willing to lay down life, liberty, and sacred honor for you. Because you’re worth it, babe. Not because of a blood-link that’s pure accident, but because you are what you are. And I wish I could say that to you.

Starsky was hurt. He knew that, could feel the pain in himself. Not a physical thing, but a raw, gnawing ache that was soul-deep, and Hutch knew he should have broken that unpalatable truth more gently. But he had been hurting, too, had the subconscious need to hit out — and Starsky was the nearest available target — unforgivable — but when he had Nick within reach, there were quite a few things he intended to say — out of Starsky’s hearing.

After an hour and a half of silence, Hutch couldn’t stand it any longer.

“Starsk,” he said, “I’m sorry. I had to show you. I wish I hadn’t done it quite that way, but — you had to know — ”

“I knew,” Starsky cut in. His voice was flat, expressionless. “I’ve known for years, Hutch.”

Startled, Hutch took his eyes from the road long enough to glance at his partner. The profile was set into a stony mask, eyes front.

“When I left New York,” Starsky went on, “I was fourteen. Nick an’ me — we were close, Hutch. Really close. He depended on me a lot when we were kids.” There was a pause, and Hutch did not dare to prompt him. “‘Look after Nicky,’ Poppa’d say — and I’d grouch about havin’ a punk kid along all the time — but we had good times, Hutch. Real good times.” He paused again, eyes blank with reminiscence, something that almost might be a smile on his mouth. “One summer — God, it was so hot… Useta open up the sprinkler on the street corner, and there’d be a whole bunch of kids under it, horsin’ around. But Nick an’ me — we went skinny-dippin’ down in the East River after school. Mom would have had our hides if she’d known. Mine especially, me bein’ the one who was supposed to have more sense. So we never told. Never told on each other, ever. No matter what happened. Even when he snatched a bag of apples from a sidewalk stall and I got caught an’ belted for it — I never told on him. I remember him cryin’ that night as if he was the one with the sore ass. Cryin’ for me…” They were the sons of a cop. They had to be close — wasn’t anybody else for either of them in the tough street-jungle. A lot of the other kids would have taken it out on them, if they dared. With him they didn’t dare — with Nicky, not when he was around. “But when Poppa died — when I wasn’t around any more — he needed protection. He was used to havin’ someone fight his battles for him.” He swallowed, harshly, throat working.

“Starsk,” Hutch said, but Starsky was either not hearing or ignoring interruptions.

“Before I went out to Nam was the first time I found out what he was doin’. What he’d become. Hutch, I beat the shit out of him, I was that mad. He promised he’d go straight, and I believed him. When I came back — I found out I was wrong. He’d got himself taken up by a big oilman — a pretty regular arrangement. But Nick always wanted to have his cake an’ eat it — he was makin’ it with the guy’s wife, too. When the oilman got wise, he threw Nick out — ” He drew a deep breath, trying to keep his emotion out of his voice, and not quite succeeding. “So I hauled him out of the gutter again. You don’t want the details. And again. The last time was two years before the Stryker affair. I never told you about that time, Hutch. I couldn’t tell anybody. Even now, when I think about it, it makes me feel sick. He’d started cruisin’ for trade — the whole scene.”

“Starsk,” Hutch tried again. “You don’t have to tell me this.”

“Yes, I do.” He rubbed a hand over his eyes brusquely. “Damn him. I don’t think I’d have cared if he was gay. Except he wasn’t.” He took another shaking breath. “It was just for the money. He didn’t care what he did — what they did to him — as long as he got his bread.” The pain in his voice was cutting into Hutch like many small knives. “My brother, Hutch. My little brother. Hustling. He said ‘it’s the weird stuff that really brings in the loot’ — I knew it’d kill Momma if she found out. I — well, I figured I’d finally got him straightened out for good that time. And when he came out to LA, I was sure of it. Until he told me who he was runnin’ with. Guess he thought I’d lost track of who’s who on the wrong side of the street out on the East Coast. But I hadn’t. Names that wouldn’t mean a thing to you, but I knew ’em — what they were. Joe Durniak knew them, too — ”

And Hutch remembered Starsky’s face when Durniak had delivered the warning in the hotel room. “Tell you somethin’, little Davey. Some of the names I’m gonna mention — dates, places, some nasty little facts — you’re not gonna wanna hear ’em.”

Starsky was silent for a moment. “How long can you go on?” he asked softly, rhetorically. “How many chances can you give somebody you love? Are there any limits, Hutch?”

“I don’t know, Starsk,” Hutch said, voice quiet, even. “I don’t know, buddy.” With us, there aren’t any…

“There shouldn’t be limits. Not with — not with a brother.” He choked on the last word. “An’ I believed that. Believed him, too, when he said he was straight, that it was no fault of his Henderson and Lazero were huntin’ him. Until I started lookin’ round Andromeda. I found — oh, Christ, Hutch — ”

His voice cracked completely then, and Hutch risked another glance at him. Starsky was three-quarters turned from him, looking out of the car window, so his face was unreadable. But his knuckles showed ivory-white on his clenched fists.

Hutch’s instinct was to pull over, reach out, touch him — hold him. But a deeper instinct, his knowledge of Starsky, told him no. Not this time. Starsky did not want to be touched — at this moment could not bear contact, even with him. Setting his teeth on the rising anger, Hutch concentrated on his driving, letting Starsky gain a measure of composure without interference.

* * * * * * *

Apart from a brief half-hour stop at a roadside diner, where Hutch had bullied both himself and the unwilling Starsky into eating, the journey was unbroken. However, the food made him feel better, and Starsky’s condition seemed improved by it. He was still very quiet, but he had managed to sleep some of the way. It was just as well; they would both need their wits about them when it came to dealing with Nicky, Hutch knew.

“We could stop by your place, grab a shower and a change of clothes,” he said as they approached the sprawl of LA. That should complete the repair-job started by the food and rest, he thought. “Then we can call on Hug, find out where he’s got Nick hidden.”

“‘Kay.” It was a mutter of reluctant agreement, and Hutch guessed that Starsky was going to relish the forthcoming encounter even less than he was. He wasn’t sure yet what he was going to say to Nick — or, more to the point, what he was going to do to him. But he did not intend that Nick should enjoy either of it.

The late afternoon sun was bright on the redwood siding that sheathed the apartment-block as Hutch parked the Torino.

“We’re here,” he said unnecessarily. Starsky, making a visible effort, climbed out of the passenger seat, fishing in his pocket for the door-key. The way he was moving, Hutch had serious doubts that he’d make the stairs, so he followed close on his partner’s heels as he made for the door.

Neither man expected the sight that met their eyes as the door swung open. Hutch had said it himself, to Huggy, just over a week ago — “his brother’s pad is the first place they’d look.” He had been right. But it didn’t cushion the jolt any.

Starsky sagged against the doorjamb, leaning against it as if his legs had given out on him, his face slack and sallow gray with shock.

“Nicky?” he whispered. “Oh, Jesus, kiddo — ”

Hutch moved first, walking past him into the ravaged apartment. It was empty of life.

“He’s not here, Starsk,” he said. The place was a mess. Total devastation. There was no doubt in his mind who was responsible for the destruction — the big wheels in Vegas had long arms. And in reaching for Nick had torn apart whatever had gotten in their way. “He’ll be with Hug, in the safe house, if he’s got an atom of the sense he was born with.” He searched for the phone, without much hope, and found it ripped from its moorings under the debris of the kitchen. “Come on, buddy — we’ll lock this up, and get it straightened out later.”

Starsky did not seem to hear him. He had taken three steps inside when his foot had scrunched on a broken shard of something — he was crouched now looking at the shattered fragments of a white ceramic horse. As Hutch watched, he picked up a piece, holding it cradled in his two hands as if it were an injured bird. When Hutch spoke his name, it was a space of seconds before he raised his head, blindly.

“Terry gave me this,” he said, his voice cracking on the last word. “Hutch — ”

And bent his head over it again as he sat there heedlessly on the floor.

Hutch would have preferred anything — anger, hysteria, tears — to this silent grief, stunned shock. Get him out of here. Fast.

He knelt beside Starsky, touched him.

“Starsk. Come on. Let’s go.” Nothing, no response at all, either agreement or denial. “Leave it, babe. C’mon.” He had to use sheer strength to get Starsky to his feet — he was not resisting, but neither was he cooperating, and it was a 150 pound zombie Hutch was manhandling, apparently without will or awareness of its own. Hutch locked the door, got Starsky into the car, and headed for Venice Place.

* * * * * * *

It was a drive he later found it impossible to remember. The next thing he was clear about was the terrible shuttered look on Starsky’s face, the emptiness of the dark blue eyes. He couldn’t seem to get through the shell; knew that Starsky had withdrawn into himself, deep down somewhere inside where no further pain could reach him.

“Starsk?” he said gently, sitting beside him on the couch. “Come on, babe, talk to me, huh?” The long fingers were clamped around the shard he had picked up from the floor, and his knuckles showed almost as white. Hutch took the clenched hand and carefully opened it, flinching as he saw how the jagged edge had cut into the palm. Blood leaked cut as he eased the sharp anonymous chunk away, leaving wounds like slow-oozing stigmata. “Take it easy.” Hutch kept his own pain out of the words, fetched antiseptic and cleaned the cuts thoroughly, and Starsky didn’t move or even wince. The last straw, Hutch realized bleakly. Finally reached your limits, babe…

He left Starsky sitting there, made coffee, and collected the tablets he’d salvaged from the wrecked bathroom. There had been no need for them for weeks now — until this situation had blown up. He did not want to speculate on how far Starsky’s recovery had been set back by the events of the last few days.

“You better drink this.” He closed the uninjured hand around the mug. “Drink it,” he commanded. “You’ll feel better.” It took a long time for it to sink in, but at last there was a response in the blank gaze, questioning, vague. “Coffee,” Hutch said. “Drink it, okay? And take these.” According to the hospital, the standard dose was two, but Hutch upped that to three and watched as Starsky swallowed them, drank some more of the coffee, and finally began to register again.

“How did they know — ?”

“Easy enough. When they snatched you outside Andromeda, they only had to check out your wallet.”

“Oh, yeah…. Nick?”

“With Huggy, I guess. We’ll get in touch with him in the morning, when you’ve had some sleep.”

“No.” Flat refusal. “I — can’t, Hutch.  — I don’t trust myself.” He shuddered. “God help me, if he walked in here right now, I think I might kill him.” He sucked in a lungful of air, shivering. “Hutch — I can’t see him. Go talk to him for me, willya? I can’t….” He dropped his head into his hands, his last words a defeated whisper. “God, I’m tired, Hutch…”

He was asleep almost before Hutch finished stripping him — a limp, comatose body that made no resistance when Hutch rolled it into bed and pulled the covers up.

“Yeah, I’ll go talk to him,” Hutch said quietly. The face on his pillow, marked with stress, was almost as white as the linen, the crescent fan of long lashes sooty black against the pallor. “You sleep easy, partner. I’ll go talk to him.”

* * * * * * *

The Pits might have been deserted for all the notice Hutch took. He went straight to the bar, and people moved out of his way as if an invisible force-field preceded him.

“Am I glad to see you,” Huggy said grimly. “I think,” he added, with a classic double-take.

“Where’s Nick?”

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about — ”

“He’s skipped?” White-hot fury rasped in the quiet voice, and Huggy’s eyes widened. He had rarely seen Hutch this angry, and did not want to guess what had triggered it.

“No, he’s safe enough. Just kinda uncooperative at first. Stayed on in Starsk’s pad until yesterday — ”

“He did what?” Hutch cut in.

“Uh, stayed in Starsk’s place?” Huggy said cautiously. “Was doin’ some liv’n’-it-up until yesterday, then turned up on my doorstep demandin’ a hideout, like I was deprivin’ him of his due rights.”

“Did he say why he’d changed his mind?”

“No, not exactly. Just that he’d seen somebody who’d know him. I guess from Vegas.”

“So he didn’t tell you Starsky’s pad has been tossed like a demolition gang went through it?”

“What — ? No, he sure as shit didn’t!” Huggy’s face settled into an expressionless mask. “The bastard,” he muttered. “That creep is plain bad news, Hutch.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

“Starsk okay?”

“More or less.” But Huggy hadn’t missed the slight pause. “No thanks to his brother. Christ, Hug — d’you know what he was into in Vegas?”

“Well, maybe I could guess. Blackmail?”

“The real dirty kind. Primrose told you?”

“No. He don’t say nothin’, that one. Unless he gets paid.” Huggy put a beer in front of him. “I just guessed. Seems the kind of deal he would be into. And you an’ Starsk dropped right into the middle of all that shit?”

“Yeah. It’s sorted out, now, and he’s in the clear. But — ” He broke off, looking down at the gold and white liquid in the glass. “But he’s going back to Vegas on the first flight out,” he went on, and Huggy had the feeling that wasn’t what he had started to say.

Hutch drained the glass, took change from his pocket, and disappeared in the direction of the pay-phone, leaving the black man free to speculate on events in Vegas. Cousin Primrose had also been remarkably reticent, even for him, and Huggy’s curiosity was working at his self-control, no holds barred. The blond man returned to the bar.

“How did you — uh — sort it out?” Huggy asked casually enough, and the cold blue gaze lifted to his face. He gave a disarming shrug. “Okay, I didn’t ask that.”

“Where is Nick?”

“Over in Honey Mercedes’ top room,” he said. “Haveta take you over there myself — I done told her ain’t no one allowed in there but us brothers, an’ you’re kinda Nordic, good buddy.”

“Sure,” Hutch said indifferently. “Let’s go, huh? I don’t want to waste any more time on him than I have to.” He put coins on the bar and turned for the door, leaving Huggy to follow in his wake.

* * * * * * *

“Hey, said Huggy, getting into the Torino, “you’re sending him back to Vegas?”

“Yes.” Hutch glanced in the mirror and pulled out into the traffic.

“Takin’ a risk, ain’t you?”

“Not so you’d notice. Told you, Hug, he’s in the clear. No one’s going to move against him.”

“So how the hell did you an’ Starsk manage that?” Huggy asked, his curiosity over-riding caution. He did not get an answer, only the bleak-eyed stare again.

“What’s been goin’ down with Nick since we left?”

“Like I said, the high-life has kept him kinda busy. You wouldn’t believe the ladies that have been passin’ through that place. Then again, maybe you would. Obviously reckoned he was home free with you two trouble-shootin’ for him. Until he saw those guys, whoever they were.”

“Yes,” said Hutch. “Obviously.”

“Then he came high-tailin’ it round to me,” Huggy finished lamely. “I tried to tell you ‘n’ Starsk he was playin’ around — ”

“I know. It wouldn’t have made any difference to the end result. Starsky’s pad would still have been ripped off. Some of Lazero’s goons jumped him, worked him over. Found his address in his billfold, I guess. At least he wasn’t carrying his police ID, for which we can be thankful.”

“Worked over? You sure he’s okay?”

“Could be a hell of a lot worse.”

“The Whizz-Kid sure as shit got a lot to answer for,” Huggy growled. “You gonna let him get away with it, Hutch?”

“No.” And for the rest of the journey, he did not speak.

* * * * * * *

Hutch had no clear idea of his own intentions. Having booked a seat for Nick on the first available flight, all that remained to be done was get the punk to the plane. But first he was going to tell him exactly what he thought of him, warn him to keep his nose clean — especially with regard to Henderson and Lazero — and to keep out of his brother’s life. Nick was getting off scot-free from an unsavory and highly unpleasant episode, and that burned like gall in the light of the actions he, Hutch, had been obliged to take. But there didn’t seem to be much he could do about that.

* * * * * * *

Nick Starsky’s expression of nervous apprehension changed to relief as Huggy led the way into the room.

“Hutch!” he grinned, coming forward with a bounce, “they’re off my back?”

“Yes.”

“That’s fantastic!” Nick laughed. “Whatcha do, pal? Flash your badges an’ break a few bones?”

“No.”

The younger man’s brash cockiness wavered a fraction.

“Hey, lighten up, Hutch! Say, why don’t we all go out an’ celebrate?”

“No.”

“What’s with you, huh? Why — ?”

“Aren’t you going to ask about your brother?”

“Uh,” Nick’s eyes slid away. “Yeah — he’s okay, ain’t he? — Where is he? Why didn’t he come up here with you?” A querulous note of complaint had crept into his voice.

“He’s at my place.”

“Oh,” said Nick. ” — Uh — how come?” But something in the way his gaze flickered across Hutch’s face made it very difficult for the blond man to hold down the rising tide of anger.

“You know how come, Nick. Don’t play games with me — I’m a cop, remember? I can smell a lie at twenty paces. You knew his place had been done over, didn’t you?”

“No way! Hey, Hutch, what kinda brother d’you think I am, huh? I — ”

“I know exactly what kind of brother you are.” Hutch’s left fist bunched on Nick’s shirt-front — the garment was Starsky’s, part of his mind discovered, as were the pants and jacket. “You’re a twisted up, yellow-bellied sneak-thief and third-rate blackmailer. You have the moral compunction of an alley-cat, and the intelligence of a practicing moron; the kind of punk I deal with every day of my working life. You are scum, Nick Starsky. Gutter-sweepings. And you’re going right back where you belong — ”

“You can’t talk to me like that!” Nick yelled, struggling to free himself, to strike out — Hutch dealt him an open-handed blow across the face that rocked him back.

“Shut up!” he snarled. “I’ll talk to you any way I want, and you’ll listen. And when I ask you a question, you’ll answer it with the truth. First of all, Starsky’s pad. You walked in on it?”

“I — yeah — after they’d split. I didn’t see ’em. Hutch, have you gone crazy? Let up on me, for Chrissakes!”

Hutch’s hand cracked across his face again, and he yelped.

“Answer the questions and spare me the dramatics. Why didn’t you tell Huggy, get word through to us?”

“I — I was scared — ” Nick’s tongue darted over his lips. “Guess I wasn’t thinkin’ straight — ”

“That figures. So why were you still at Starsky’s, and not here?”

“Hey, c’mon. I knew you ‘n’ Davey could handle it. Figured I’d be just as safe there — don’ hit me!”

Hutch’s mouth stretched in a mirthless smile.

“We handled it,” he said. “It’s all wrapped up, Nick, and so are you. You’re going back to Vegas, and you stay clear of California from now on. You hear me? Furthermore, you go to hell on your own ticket. You do not yell for Big Brother to haul you out of any more holes. That is finished with. Understand?”

“You’re crazy! I can’t go back to Vegas! They’ll waste me!” His voice rose to a shrill edge of terror, and his hands locked on Hutch’s forearm. “They’ll — ”

“No, they won’t.” Distaste curled Hutch’s lip. “Your precious hide is safe from them.”

“Yeah?” Hutch watched a little of Nick’s confidence return. “That’s okay, then,” trying to pry loose the fist knotted in his shirt. “Guess it’s business as usual, then, huh?” his smile ingratiating, and nervous.

“Sure. If you mean Andromeda.” Hutch’s smile did not waver. “But not the blackmail. You can hustle your ass all you want, but don’t put the moves on Lazero or Henderson again. Or you are dead meat.”

“B-blackmail? Don’t know what you mean,” Nick stuttered. “I ain’t into nothin’ like that — let me go, Hutch — ”

“Blackmail,” he repeated. “They’ve got their films back — ”

“What?” A screech of outrage, and Nick’s face altered miraculously.

” — and I’ve got the photos, for security,” Hutch continued, ignoring him. “They are what’s preserving your skin. But if you start stirring up the shit again, the agreement is void. It’ll be open season on Nick Starsky, or Sinclair, or any other name you hide behind.”

“You blew the whole fuckin’ deal?” Nick howled. “Goddamnit, I was set to rake in a cool million — ”

“Tough luck,” Hutch said. “It’s all gone down the tubes. Which is the best place for it — and you.”

“You are crazy! You have to be!”

“No, Nick. You’re the one with the kink in his head. Have you any idea what you’ve done to your brother? Do you care?”

“I don’t have to answer to you!”

“Wrong again. Did you honestly imagine we could go to Vegas and clean up behind you without finding out about your wheeling and dealing? Seems like you keep your brains in that high-priced ass of yours. Starsky got worked over because of you.” Without conscious volition, his palm lashed across Nick’s cheek. “Had his apartment wrecked.” Back of his hand across the other cheek.

“Hutch!” a scream of fear and pain.

“Some things got busted that were beyond any price to him.” A forehand. “Because of you.” Backhand!

Too stunned to put up coordinated resistance, Nick hung from Hutch’s grip, clawing at him, ineffectual protests bubbling from bleeding lips. “He also got reminded, once again, just what kind of bastard you are. And all you can say is ‘Fantastic, let’s go celebrate.”‘ He slapped aside Nick’s flailing arms. “I got news for you. You are not going anywhere except the airport, and then not until I’ve finished with you. Because you are not going to get off scot-free. You are not going to hide behind Starsky this time, letting him take all the kicks aimed at you.”

“Hutch — ” Nick croaked, clutching at him. “I-I didn’t mean — t-take it easy, huh? Huggy! Gethimoffame!”

“Man, I think I’m getting’ hard of hearin’ in my old age,” Huggy drawled, inspecting his fingernails.

“Davey’ll make you sorry — ”

The last vestige of Hutch’s control snapped. He let Nick go, and slammed his fist into Nick’s mouth, the impact hurling the smaller man back against the wall. His legs folded and he slid to a huddle on the carpet; the look of disbelief on his face would have been comical if Hutch had felt like laughing.

“No — Hutch, no more, please — I — ”

“Don’t speak to me.” A low-voiced command, sibilant and deadly. “I’m not listening. Christ, I thought I’d seen it all — met up with every kind of filth — but you are something else. You really are.” He pounced on him, got a two-handed hold on the shirt and lifted him easily.

No longer struggling in his grasp, Nick was staring at him as if he’d never seen him before, the tip of his tongue moved over his split lips, and a shudder ran through him.

“Hutch?” he whispered, and his voice had changed. “Please…” The wide eyes — brown, not blue like his brother’s, Hutch noticed distantly — were luminous, liquid with an emotion Hutch did not want to put a name to. He almost dropped Nick then, overcome by a revulsion as strong as his anger — but the rage was too great to be set aside. His palm cracked across Nick’s face again, forehand and backhand. You get off on pain, you bastard — so bite on this —

* * * * * * *

“Ease up, man.” Huggy’s voice broke in on his awareness, quiet but commanding. “You gonna kill him, you go on like that.”

Hutch sucked in a deep breath, his gaze clearing — wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, and blinked at the skinned knuckles. Nick was a heaving tangle of limbs on the floor, making ugly retching sounds.

“Killing that isn’t on my agenda, Hug,” he heard himself say. He was, he realized dimly, shaking — the aftermath of the adrenaline surge that went with the primeval enjoyment he had got from hurting Nick; wanting to punish, wanting him to feel something of what Starsky had suffered — and then simply wanting to smash, to destroy. Nick had become the scapegoat for all the crud and evil they had been forced to wallow in — for Henderson, and Lazero — for Sophie, and Primrose McGregor, for the whole sordid scene — even, in some deep and carefully hidden recess of his mind, for Starsky himself. But that final fact he would not face, could not acknowledge.

“Get him down to the car,” he ordered brusquely. “I’ll take him along to the Emergency Room, get him patched up, and put him on the plane. Vegas can have him.”

* * * * * * *

It was nearing midnight when Hutch let himself into the apartment in Venice Place. The bathroom was his first objective — he leaned on the washbasin, running the cold water and splashing it into his face. His reflection gazed grimly back at him when he raised his head, pale, drawn and weary. Check on Starsk, then hit the sack — long day tomorrow —

But he was too wound up to rest. He sat for a while at the bedside, watching the troubled sleep that even the drugs had not calmed completely. Half-audible mutters, a word, a name, ” — Nicky — ” More than anything he found he wanted to grab hold, to comfort and reassure, to banish the nightmare, whatever it was. To banish all nightmares, past, present, future…

Christ, Hutchinson, you’re punchy. Get your head down — don’t risk disturbing him. If there’s one thing you can’t handle right now, it’s another emotional crisis.

Eventually he collected a spare pillow and blanket and stretched out on the couch to wait for morning. His thoughts, before he at last slipped into a drowse, were bleak.

* * * * * * *

Starsky surfaced out of the drugged sleep shivering, a tight band of pain constricting his ribs. Before he was properly awake, a whimper escaped. The sound was faint, little more than a breath, but it must have penetrated Hutch’s doze, for the figure on the couch stirred and sat up.

“Starsk?”

He couldn’t find the breath to answer. But Hutch was there, steadying and competent and reassuring, fingers on his pulse, a hand on his brow.

” — No arguments, Starsk. You can have this the easy way or the tough way — but you’re seeing a doctor, and soon.”

There was no strength in him to argue. He didn’t want to argue. It felt good to have somebody else take charge, run his life. Just for a little while.

The End

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Chapter End Notes:

The second novel in the trilogy is One More River.