Disclaimer: Starsky and Hutch do not belong to me and they are used without permission but with deep respect for those lucky enough to own them. This story is written only for creative enjoyment; certainly not for money. May the Powers that Be—Aaron Spelling, William Blinn, Paul Michael Glaser, David Soul, etc.—forgive me for living vicariously through their genius for a brief moment in time.

Authors note: I’m an absolute nut for classic lit and also for these wonderful detectives, so I decided I’d see what would happen if I snagged a page from Goethe and Tolstoy and dropped Starsky and Hutch into the mix. A touch of the supernatural, a dash of good vs. evil…Not necessarily a story for young kids because of mature themes and some implied violence. Thanks for reading and I hope you have fun. Any comments and/or constructive criticism (this is my first S&H story ever!) would be greatly appreciated. torinoluv@yahoo.com  
   

The Cosmic Bargain - Part One

By

Anna M

   "What is it now, Mephistopheles?" The regal tone could never sound weary but there was a touch of wry humor.

   "My master wants to pursue a small wager. He’s still rather sulky over Faust…and I mean, really, what an inappropriate trick by the Heavenly Hosts to steal him out from under us when we’d won his soul per our little arrangement."

   "Redemption comes in many forms, Mephistopheles. You should have learned that by now. Who is it this time? I assure you we are equal to any challenge—"

   "Kenneth Hutchinson."

   "Oh, really?" The archangel sat back and folded elegant hands together. "I seem to recall your master having no success in his attempt to break Hutchinson’s partner last year. What makes him think he’ll have more luck with the fair-haired one?"

   Mephistopheles shuffled his feet nervously. Really, couldn’t he merit some other form of work? He’d ended up looking a royal ass after the mess with Faust, failed miserably with David Starsky, and here he was again hat in hand, so to speak, pleading for his master’s pleasure. "He…um…er… well, in actuality he did not count on David’s innate goodness, his inner joy. You cannot toy with a man who has that wellspring of joy. Hutchinson is a different matter. He gets care-worn, downtrodden, guilt-ridden. There is much room for chiseling away at the soul of a man like Hutchinson."

   "Come now, Mephisto. I may not be omniscient like the Creator, but I do know your real game. Hutchinson is just the beginning. You’ve figured it out, haven’t you? Your master doesn’t have the patience to think it through, but you did, and you’ve convinced him. You break Hutchinson and you’ll have destroyed David too, thereby saving face in the wake of your prior defeat. Your timing is off, you should know. Hutchinson is not the same person he was before your botched attempt with David. He’s stronger, happier."

   "We’ll figure something out."

   The archangel sighed, grew silent, and was enveloped in radiance. When the light dispersed, the angel said calmly. "No. I have your answer. We’ll do the work for you."

   "What?"

   "Oh, yes. We’ll test him for you. You can just sit back and reap the reward if he fails."

   Mephistopheles narrowed his eyes. "You mean like Job?"

   "Ah, child’s play. Hutchinson can take great personal suffering. No, we have something entirely different in mind."

   "Well, my master would like to get in one shot at him. There’s this woman…"

   "In the name of all that’s holy, Mephisto, couldn’t you be a little more original? With Hutchinson there usually is… All right. We’ll divide the labor. We shall show Detective Hutchinson one path in life and you may show him another. We’ll see which he chooses."

~~~~~~~~~~

   The sound clawed its way through an unusually pleasant dream and the blond shifted restlessly, tangling himself almost inextricably in the white cotton sheets. A moment later a large hand rose from somewhere beneath his torso and waved frantically as though to shoo away the intruding noise. No such luck. Two minutes later one eye resembling a shining blue topaz in the eerie half-light of the apartment blinked open and a well-fashioned ear practically rose an inch on the side of the sweat-slick face. "Wha’?" He demanded of no one in particular and tried to vacate the bed. The sheets won the battle decisively and Ken Hutchinson found himself head over tail on the floor. "Damn!" he muttered. Tonight he really, really needed sleep. The sound reverberated through the room and Hutch lost no time scrambling to his feet. Somewhere in the near vicinity of his bed, someone was being flayed alive. That was the only explanation. He collected his gun from its normal home in his shoulder harness and checked the chamber, readying himself for anything. Then he waited, frozen in the stillness like a nouveau-art statue, until the noise assaulted his ears once more. His body shifted into hunter mode and he crept with practiced stealth through the darkness, homing in on the origin of the sound. The greenhouse. What the--?!

   He edged his way cautiously into the habitat of his various leafy species and bit back a cry of surprise when he found nothing immediately amiss. That is, until he lowered his eyes and dropped to his knees in front of a small cardboard box filled with… Kittens!? One smoky-gray ball of fur slung open its tiny mouth and shrieked to high heaven. Hutch released his gun almost in afterthought and extended a wary, trembling hand into the vibrating mass of fur, tails, and paws, instinctively groping for the one kitten disturbed enough to pry him out of a dead sleep. The anxious creature stretched luxuriantly in the warmth of his palm and the yowls decreased by a decibel. Hutch felt the ghost of a smile toying with his lips but it faded when he spotted the note. Perched in the corner of the box, it read simply, "No creature’s hunger should ever be ignored, Blintz."

   Hutch fell backwards onto his heels and the kitten’s abrupt release drew another blood-curdling mew from the tormented animal. Hutch failed to notice. His dull, sleep-deprived brain tried to reason through the fog of sudden, violent suspicion. He was at his phone in one stride and dialing a familiar number.

   "Star--rr--shky…"

   "David Michael Starsky, I swear if this is your idea of a hilarious practical joke, I’ll—"

   "Hu-utch?"

   "Get over here."

   "Hutch, it’s… 3…o’clock in th’mornin’…."

   "Get. Over. Here. Now."

   "Okay. Jeesh. Keep yer pants on. I’ll…be there in twenty."

   Hutch slammed the phone receiver down in its cradle and slumped onto the couch dragging a hand over his eyes, nose, mustache, and lips. Why? Of all the harebrained, stupid stunts. Blindfolding him and letting him fall down a damn flight of stairs couldn’t be termed an intelligent, productive use of humor. But this…! And Starsky better…better not pull that innocent-I’ve-come-back-from-the-dead-a-reformed-man act. Because he’d kill him, Hutch vowed. He’d good and thoroughly wipe the floor with the blue-jeaned, starry-eyed, smirking little… No, he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t, Hutch corrected himself wearily. He’d take one look at Starsky, breathe the 10,000^th sigh of relief since last May that his best friend still lived to play practical jokes on him, and then they’d crack up together over the mewling kittens. Murderous crying commenced in the greenhouse. Hutch rolled his eyes heavenward but thought better of the obscenity hovering on the tip of his tongue. He stretched himself to his full height, sucked in a deep breath and exhaled slowly, repeating soothing words as he lumbered into the new home of at least six kittens. He’d been unable to establish the precise number with them sleeping all over each other like the feline version of a hippie commune at Woodstock.

   Hutch knelt by the box again and paused before his hands made it halfway to their destination. This is ridiculous! Which one is responsible for the Alfred Hitchcock noise? Seven tiny heads greeted him with open mouths. Hungry…they really are hungry. Where the everloving hell is the mother? Obviously not here, stupid. Hutch berated his lethargic brain just as a pounding on his door interrupted his reverie. Had twenty minutes passed? Hutch abandoned the kittens for the door.

   Starsky had thrown on an old long-sleeved jersey and his around-the-house pair of jeans, but had opted for a brand new expression. Sheer, blatant astonishment mixed with concern and seasoned with a touch of annoyance. Starsky could act. Hutch had no doubt he’d successfully played Camille once upon a time. But this facial display was beyond reproach and stunningly genuine. "You okay, Hutch? I figured I’d better not just let myself in. What’s going on, huh?"

   Hutch sighed deeply. "You really don’t know, do you? Sorry I had to drag you all the way over here to convince myself." He backed away from the door and Starsky prowled in throwing curious glances around like sonar buoys. Hutch turned to face the greenhouse, wondering just how guilty he’d let himself feel that he’d summoned a slumbering Starsky over at this time of night. Sure, Starsky was back on active duty and left more with bad memories of the Gunther hit than lingering physical disabilities, but still…the human body does its best healing while asleep. The kittens chose that precise moment to vocalize and Starsky lunged at Hutch, clamping onto his shoulders and practically coating the blond’s back with his startled body.

   "What the hell’s--"

   "That," Hutch said, calmly extricating himself from Starsky’s terror grip, "is why I called you."

   "No kiddin’?" Starsky must have assumed by Hutch’s collected demeanor that the apartment was in no immediate danger of being attacked by bloodsucking, howling aliens because his entire form relaxed slowly and he swaggered behind Hutch into the greenhouse. The kittens had given up on prompt service and were now trying to climb their way out of the cardboard box. Starsky just stopped and stared.

   "Thought you weren’t too fond of cats, Blondie?"

   "I believe I said I could take ‘em or leave ‘em, Starsky. I’m not too fond of having seven orphan kittens dropped off inside my apartment…the usual doorstep approach wasn’t sufficient, apparently."

   "And you thought I--"

   "Take a look at the note."

   Starsky bent and investigated the contents of the box thoroughly despite the frantic gyrations of its inhabitants. "Blintz, huh?"

   "Exactly. Who else christened me that? You have a spare key of your own; you move like a cat--" At Starsky’s expressive snort, Hutch swallowed and cleared his throat. "Okay, poor choice of words. But the point remains that you were the most obvious choice."

   "Where would I scrape up seven cats, Hutch?"

   Hutch waved his hands in frustration, "Starsky, with you anything’s possible." He sighed. "I suppose I’d better feed them." He turned and headed for the kitchen, Starsky shuffling along behind him.

   "What about that girl you’ve been seeing… Lenore?"

   "Nope. Not her style. Besides, we…uh…broke it off." He heard silence in the background and swiveled to find Starsky regarding him thoughtfully with a set to his jaw that reminded Hutch of… "No, buddy, she’s no Diana Harmon." Starsky looked unconvinced. "Look, the Bay City cop gave way to a stunning job promotion in San Francisco. When I said the SFPD wasn’t my cup of tea, we parted ways amiably. No, scratch her off the list." Hutch plodded through the kitchen rubbing his weary eyes and mumbling something about an eye-dropper.

   "Your eyes hurt?" Starsky inquired solicitously.

   "No, dummy, for the kittens."

   "Wha’?"

   "They’re hungry. Can’t you tell? You read the note."

   "And their being hungry and an eye-dropper have exactly what to do with each other?"

   "To feed them with, Starsk."

   "What about a good ol’bowl and some milk?"

   Hutch stopped his frantic searching and pivoted, hands on hips. "Because," he explained with infinite patience, "I don’t know if they’ve been weaned yet."

   "Ya lost me again."

   "Weaned, from their mother. They may have still been nursing. I don’t know a damn thing about infant cats. They may not be old enough to lap milk out of a bowl."

   "Well, ya obviously know more than I do if you’re lookin’ for an eye-dropper at 3:30 in the mornin’ to feed them. Wouldn’t a baby bottle be better?"

   Hutch laughed out loud. "Yes, and why exactly would I just happen to have a baby bottle lying around?"

   "Oh. Yeah. ‘M still asleep." Starsky flushed and scratched through his curls and stretched, arching his back. Hutch continued mumbling about spare eye-droppers he kept for distributing liquid plant food to his African violets. Starsky decided to speed up the process by locating the milk and sniffing it suspiciously. "S’pose we better see about getting the box and note dusted…"

   Hutch whirled, "Are you insane?!"

   Starsky just about dropped the milk at the sound of panic in his partner’s voice. "Hutch," he said quietly, "some person or persons unknown broke into your apartment in the middle of the night--"

   "And dropped off a passel of kittens!" Hutch slammed a cabinet shut and produced not one but three eye-droppers. "Here we are."

   "Hutch, how did they get in?"

   But Hutch was already en route to the greenhouse. "Don’t know. Had my key in with me and the door locked."

   "Right. And the door didn’t look forced open to me. So someone managed access to your apartment without your knowledge and we can’t even figure out how. Don’t you at least wanna know who?"

   "Starsky, do you realize what life will be like for me at the station when it gets around that some joker is stalking me with kittens?" Hutch quickly filled all three droppers with milk and handed one to Starsky.

   His dark-haired partner sighed audibly and tried to extract a kitten from the box while watching the interesting motions of Hutch juggling both droppers and attempting to scoop two kittens into his lap. "Yeah, this time it’s kittens. We’re cops, Hutch. What if it had been some kind of incendiary device insteada box full of big-mouthed fur balls?"

   "This isn’t like you, Starsk. You’re blowing this thing way out of proportion. It’s someone’s idea of a practical joke—probably even one of the guys in the department. We’ll find out soon enough when someone starts meowing every time I walk by."

   Starsky relinquished his kitten and snatched another one. "Ain’t like you to be so nonchalant about someone breakin’ in. Sure you won’t do something about it?"

   "I’m sure. Oh, I’ll do something all right. Tomorrow the whole litter goes to the animal shelter where someone can give them adequate care."

   Starsky’s grip on the kitten tightened involuntarily and he received an insulted howl. "Aw, Hutch, you can’t take ‘em there. They’ll end up glue, for Chris’sakes."

   "Ow! Watch it, they do have teeth. Starsky, you’re thinking about horses."

   Deep blue eyes rolled and sneered at Hutch simultaneously, "Whatever. You know what I mean. Hey, I know! Minnie."

   Hutch sat back and allowed the contented kittens to latch onto the waistband of his pajama bottoms. "Minnie?"

   "Yeah, you know, Minnie. Sweet little lady works in Records…"

   "Of course, I know Minnie, idiot. I’ve only worked in the same building with her for how many years? Just tell me what she has to do with our current conversation." Hutch separated his torso’s bare skin from the tiny claws of the curious felines in his lap and returned the writhing animals to their siblings in the box.

   "Minnie loves animals. She’s all the time adoptin’ some poor lost creature or findin’ a home for some friend’s unwanted puppies. We can drop ‘em by her place early on our way into Metro."

   Hutch felt torn. It would be nice to have an immediate solution to the sudden population spike in his apartment, but still… "Starsky, I know Minnie thinks you single-handedly created Mt. Olympus, Rome, and Paris in the space of a day, but do you really want to complicate her life with seven stray cats? Minnie works too, you know. How’s she going to manage?"

   Starsky’s face expressed his disappointment in Hutch’s failure to grasp the beauty of his plan. "Aw, Hutch, you know Minnie. She’s great about arranging things. Why don’t you go on back to bed? I’ll crash on the couch. I still have a clean set of clothes over here, right?"

   "Yeah…think so. Fine. I’ll go to bed. Tomorrow we’ll swing by Minnie’s place. But Starsk, I swear on everything I’ve ever held sacred that if one word of this gets around the squad room, I’ll—" Hutch couldn’t think of anything sufficiently dire on the spur of the moment so he let his extended index finger dangle threateningly in mid-air while his icy blue eyes spoke volumes. Starsky swallowed hard, nodded, and gathered up the eye-droppers.

   Minnie invited them in for coffee and beamed at Starsky’s revised story of how Hutch had "stumbled onto the kittens and decided they needed good homes." By the time Minnie ushered them out the door waving away their thanks for an impromptu breakfast with the graciousness of a true hostess, she had named all but two of the frisky cats. Hutch sank down in the passenger seat of the Torino and regarded Starsky with abject incredulity.

   "What’s eatin’ you, Blondie? We’ve solved your problem, had a balanced breakfast that even you can’t complain about, and are still gonna be on time for work." Starsky maneuvered the Torino expertly into traffic and flashed a grin at his partner while adjusting his shades. Hutch shook his head and groaned.

   "I know, God help her, one day she’ll find the capability of refusing you something."

   "Nope," Starsky lounged back and flattened his palm against the steering wheel. "There is no expiration date on the Starsky charm. In fact, I think it improves with age… like fine wine."

   Hutch snorted, "Or cheese, of which I’ve always said you’re full to the brim."

   Starsky sighed, "Yeah, well, I’m used to getting no thanks outta you, pal. So, what’s on our agenda? Log us in."

   Hutch confiscated the mic, "Zebra-3. Log us in."

   "Roger, Zebra-3. You are logged in as available."

   "The pawn shop murder’s still at the top of our list. Should probably head into the station and see if Corey has released the official findings from the autopsy."

   "Terrific. A chance for Dobey to yell at us before we hit the streets. Good morning to you too." But Starsky’s smile indicated his true feelings on seeing his superior officer. Hutch grinned.

   "Get over it, Starsky. You know the man has to practically sit himself on a tack to work up a good yell at you after your ‘extended leave’ as he refers to it. He has, however, no difficulty drumming up a few extra decibels to throw at yours truly. Not that I’m eager to try your method of getting on his good side."

   "Admit it, Hutch. Dobey’s just realized after all these years who has the most talent in this partnership—"

   "Zebra-3."

   Hutch quirked an eyebrow and snagged the mic. "Zebra-3 here."

   "Zebra-3, see the man named Cantrell at Lolita’s Thrift Shop. 110 7^th Street. Cross-street Ames."

   "10-4, dispatch. We’re on our way."

   "Cantrell. Can—trell." Starsky drug the syllables out in an exploratory fashion, tilting his head to the side. "Oliver Cantrell?"

   Hutch snapped his fingers. "It’d be nice, buddy. Remember Oliver Cantrell’s favorite line of work?"

   "Yeah. Knocking over pawn shops. Hey…" Starsky’s eyes glimmered. "Think Oliver’s back up to his old tricks after bein’ outta prison just a month or two?"

   "Maybe, but I don’t think he’s the trigger finger, Starsk. His most violent act was kicking the guard dog in one of the shops. And from the looks of the dog I think that was only to protect himself from dismemberment."

   "People do graduate. Maybe he did and he’s gettin’ an attack of conscience."

   "Nice air-tight case, signed confession, etc. You must still be asleep and dreaming." Hutch shifted in the seat and closed his eyes. Wish I was still asleep and dreaming…I really did need the sleep last night. That last conversation with Lenore took more out of me than I thought…

   "I like my life here, Lenore. It’s like old times again with Starsky just getting back to active duty. I feel better about my job than I have since the first year out of the Academy. I don’t want to disrupt that."

   "I thought so too, Lenore, but I’m sorry. I’m where I need to be. I know that."

   "How? Give me one reason. And don’t say Starsky because I know how you feel about him, and I can handle that. I just have the feeling that if Starsky didn’t even exist, you’d still be out on the pavement, running down dirty alleys, facing thugs and pushers. Why? There are nicer, safer communities that need law enforcement too."

   Hutch sighed wearily and avoided her eyes while he tried to put into words his core philosophy on that subject. Nothing came to mind that made sense. Then a voice from his distant past whispered in his ear and he looked squarely at his lover. "Lenore, my grandmother was a very religious woman. I admit not much of her faith rubbed off on me, but I do remember her telling me when I was a kid that religion is really about being there for people who may not be liked, may not be understood, but who need help the most. People in your rich, suburban communities can always find people to protect them, stand up for them. They can pay for allies if they have to. But the people on my beat…more often than not no one cares if they live or die. Starsky and I do. So I’m right where I want to be…I forgot that for awhile before Starsky was…shot…but I’ve gotten a second chance to live it again, and I’m not giving it up."

   "I just hope it’s worth what you’re sacrificing, Ken. I’ve got a good life waiting for me in San Francisco. I won’t sit around here and watch you get killed for people who probably care as little for you as most people do about them. I’m sorry."    

   Hutch stood on the curb in front of Venice Place and watched her trendy compact car pull away. He slapped his hands against his sides and cursed himself soundly. Why the hell did I have to bring religion into the equation? One too many twelve-hour stakeouts recently and I start hearing Grandmother’s voice and preaching sermons! As Starsky would say, terrific! God, I need sleep tonight.

~~~~~~~~~~

   "Hutch? He-ell-ooo… are you unconscious over there or just ignorin’ me?"

   "Huh… Oh. Jeez. Way too little sleep. We there?"

   "Uh, yeah. Move your lazy, blond butt. I don’t want Cantrell gettin’ itchy."

   Cantrell prowled around the back of the thrift store flipping through the pages of a worn-out magazine and cursing by turn. Starsky and Hutch spared a few seconds for polite conversation with Lolita, a forty-something redhead with youthful features and an infectious laugh only a little less famous than her soft spot for the young man with a hunched back and nervous tic pacing her back room.

   "Cantrell? You in need of a friendly chat or is this more than a social call?" Starsky plopped down with feline grace backward in a chair and cradled the back of the chair against his chest. Hutch stood to the side and tried to smother a yawn.

   "Yeah, man, I got somethin’ for you guys about that pawn shop job but you gotta help me get outta sight."

   Starsky hooted and looked back over his shoulder at Hutch. "Hear that, Blintz? We just gotta help him." He turned back around. "Cantrell, with your past record, do you really think we’re gonna shell out dough to someone who might well be in on the--"

   "Can it, Starsky, you know me better’n that. Would I call you geeks in here if I’d been part of the action? ‘Sides, I got an alibi for that night. Real solid, man. Solid."

   "Yeah, what might that be, Cantrell? Doing the midnight tango with Marsha at The Purple Riot?"

   "Hutchinson, you’re a real belly-laugh. How about my ma dying in the hospital? That good enough for you? I was there with her when they took the…breathin’ thingy off her. Sat by her bed for three hours. You can check on that."

   Starsky and Hutch exchanged shaken glances. Hutch cleared his throat, looked away for a minute, and then nodded solemnly at Starsky, who gestured for Cantrell to take a seat in one of the other rickety chairs. "All right, Cantrell. We’re sorry about your ma. Here’s what’ll go down. We’ll listen to what you have to say and then we’ll check on your information. If your alibi’s tight, we’ll swing back by here and help you find a safe place to lay low. Deal?"

   Cantrell shuffled his feet, tilted the chair back on two legs, muttered a few half-hearted oaths, and then rolled his shoulders. "Yeah, I guess so. Look, you guys played right by me when I got sent up for assisting those two robberies. I’m out now because you stuck by your deal and I got to be with my ma at the end. I owe you one, see? Anyway, I think you’re wantin’ a dude named Barry West. I got to know him in the joint. I don’t know how he managed to fool the parole people and all, but he got himself released about two weeks ‘fore I hit the streets again. He’s a bad ass, lemme tell you. Gets off on hurting people. He blabbed a lot in the joint about what jobs he was planning soon as he saw the sun again. This pawn shop thing rings a bell."

   "Care to describe this shining example of humanity?" Hutch asked wryly.

   "Big guy. I mean…large! The kind that could make up half the Turbos’ defensive line. Brown GI haircut, dark eyes, scar on the left side of his forehead, pale skin. Good enough?"

   "You could do this for a living, Cantrell," Starsky said with just the faintest hint of irony. "Any ideas on where Mr. Defensive Back hangs out?"

   Cantrell sighed. "That I don’t know. You’re the detectives. Now that you know what he looks like and you got a name, go find ‘im."

   Hutch tapped Starsky on the shoulder and as his partner rose to his feet, Hutch arrested Cantrell’s attention with a stern look. "You stay put and out of sight until we can check out your story and get back to you. You’re on the honor system, pal. You jerk us around and disappear, we’ll track you down and we’ll be in a bad mood. Got it?"

   "Yeah, like I’m gonna go out on the street and wave a flag around. Sheesh."

   Half an hour later Hutch closed the file containing the ME’s report and glanced up at Starsky, who doodled on a sheet of paper while waiting for someone at County General to handle his request for information regarding Mrs. Dana Cantrell. Starsky felt Hutch’s eyes on him and looked up, frowning slightly. "Is it just me or did Huggy act scared the minute we mentioned Barry West?"

   "He certainly didn’t act his fearless, ever-informed, always-curious self. But he wasn’t hedging either. He can’t tell us what he doesn’t know. So we wait for the parole officer to get back to us."

   Starsky dangled the phone receiver in frustration and took another gulp of coffee. "Hello?—Hello? Yes, I’ve been on hold for five minutes. Look, I’m Detective Sergeant Starsky and I need—All right. No, that’s okay. Yes… I’ll wait."

   Hutch grinned and was about to duck his head back into the file he just closed when he noted the entrance of a middle-aged man, very much worse for the wear and clothed in tattered rags, barefoot except for a viciously twisted right leg bandaged from instep to mid-calf. He stood just in the door of the squad room, casting nervous glances around before he finally said quietly, "Detective Hutchinson?"

   That got everyone’s attention. Starsky turned from his phone call and looked the man over before questioning Hutch with his eyes. Hutch gave a barely perceptible shrug as an answer and approached the man. "I’m Detective Hutchinson, can I help you?"

   "When I woke from my nap over by the dumpsters on Washington, I found this note pinned to my jacket. Thought it was worth a shot. Kinda desperate you know."

   Hutch felt something in his chest twist into a knot as he took in the parched, chapped lips of the man in front of him. He removed the note from visibly shaking hands and recognized the same paper, same handwriting as the note that had accompanied the kittens. "Like his partner, Detective Ken Hutchinson has a good heart. Seek his help. He will not let you down."

   "I asked around ‘till I found out who you were and where to find you. I’m—I’m sorry if I—shouldn’t ha-have come."

   "No, no that’s all right. Look, we’re waiting on some vital information, so I can’t leave the station right this minute, but why don’t we go down to the cafeteria and you can tell me about it." Hutch looked behind him to make sure Starsky caught that and would know where to find him if necessary. Starsky smiled and waved a hand before returning his glare to the phone.

   Once settled at a table in the cafeteria, the older man joyfully gulping down the first of three different kinds of fruit juice and contemplating the sandwich, soup, and salad before him like a royal feast, Hutch finally allowed himself a bite of whole-grain muffin. "What’s your name?"

   "Robert. Robert Whitaker. Ahh, man was I thirsty! I-I’m not us-used to bein’ a bum." He bit off a good half of the sandwich, chewed ravenously, and slurped up a swallow of soup. "I h-had a job. Lived in a one-room over on Benton Street. But two weeks ago I got laid off and then a section of my apartment building collapsed. I was one of the lucky ones. Some didn’t make it out at all. Still, I got my leg all bummed up and won’t ever be able to use it right again. I—I just want another job. Get back on my own feet again…you know?" Most of the soup was gone and not a crumb left of the sandwich. Robert delved into the salad with one hand, wrestling with the second fruit juice bottle with the other.

   Hutch felt a pressure on his shoulder as Starsky slid into a chair beside him. Hutch introduced their guest. Starsky grinned broadly and extended a hand to shake the one Whitaker held out, "Nice to meet you, Mr. Whitaker. I’m Dave Starsky. Any friend of Hutch’s is a friend of mine." He shifted slightly, all business again. "Hutch, we got an address on West from his PO and Cantrell’s other info checks out. Think we better be makin’ tracks?"

   Hutch nodded quickly, "Sure, give me a minute. I’ll meet you in the parking lot."

   Starsky stood up, dug in his pocket, and produced a candy bar, dropping it onto Whitaker’s tray. "You know, Hutch here never thinks about dessert. You gotta have dessert." He gave Whitaker one more blinding smile, slapped Hutch on the back, and left the room. Whitaker rolled the candy bar around in his hand before unwrapping it.

   "That your partner?"

   "Yes. For eight years now."

   "He’s really nice."

   "He’s the best." Hutch said fondly, looking back over his shoulder at the doorway through which Starsky had disappeared. He turned back. "Look, I’m sorry I have to run. But I know someone who can help you. His name’s Gene Sampson and he owns a little diner over on the corner of 8^th and Trenton. He’ll find something for you to do and a place to bunk until you can locate a real job that you can manage with your…your injury."

   "8^th and Trenton. Yeah, I know where that is."

   Hutch fished about for his wallet. "Here. You certainly don’t need to do any walking. This should take care of cab fare and…" he produced a few more bills. "This should keep you in food and fruit juice until Gene can get you set up."

   "Y—you don’t have to…I did-didn’t come lookin’ for a hand-out."

   "Call it an investment."

   "How about I call it a loan?"

   Hutch sighed. Homeless, hungry, thirsty, but still possessing dignity and pride. "Call it whatever you need to, Mr. Whitaker--"

   "Robert."

   "Well, Robert, you know where to find me if you need anything else."

   "Thank you, Detective Hutchin--"

   "Hutch."

   Robert smiled. "Hutch. Tell your partner he has great taste in candy bars."

   "Do I warrant an explanation or am I just your chauffeur?" Starsky shifted lanes on sheer reflex, utilizing his talent so he could rake his eyes over his partner’s slumped form, bowed head, and dazed expression.

   "When I’ve decided what I believe, I’ll let you in on it."

   "Oh, come on, Hutch. Bounce it off me now. Who was that guy?"

   "Robert Whitaker."

   "Yeah, I’m not deaf. I heard your introduction the first time. But who is he?"

   "I don’t know. Some poor guy who’s fallen on hard times, lost his job, involved in an apartment building collapse. Now he’s living on the streets. Woke up on the street today with a note pinned to his clothes telling him to find me and ask me for help."

   "Note, huh?" No one could ever accuse David Starsky of having poor instincts. "Déjà vu? Meow."

   "Don’t even start on me, Starsky," Hutch cautioned. "I know what you’re thinking. When I’ve digested it, I’ll let you know what I want to do about--"

   "Hutch, I just think—"

   "Look, all my cop instincts tell me to get to the bottom of it pronto! But something else is tugging on me to just let it alone. Right now all I want to do is concentrate on tracking this West character down before he has a chance to hurt anyone else—assuming he was even responsible for Tito Warren’s death: blood matching West’s type and brown hairs under Tito’s fingernails aren’t exactly conclusive. And then we’ve got to deal fair with Cantrell. We worry about those things first."

   "Sure, Hutch, you’re the one with some benevolent stalker doling out assignments for you. If you can handle it, I can handle it."

   Hutch climbed the steps to his apartment and thought that his couch might be the most beautiful thing he’d seen all day. He barely let the door close behind him before he sank onto the softness of the cushions and buried his face in his arms. He’d refused Starsky’s offer of pizza, beer, and monster movies, knowing that the curly-haired mother hen just wanted to ease him through the transition from Lenore to being alone again. A night of watching Starsky get sillier as the clock progressed and the beer diminished did sound appealing, but Hutch knew what he needed most was uninterrupted sleep. Their day had been frustrating and oddly tiring. Just as they suspected, West was not keeping in touch with his PO and the address produced nothing but empty liquor bottles, old newspapers, and a refrigerator that would have to be condemned. They’d bustled Cantrell into a bus with some pocket change and a destination that would leave him available if they needed further assistance. Huggy had not been able to detect a whisper about West’s whereabouts and seemed less than inclined to discuss the subject. Dobey demanded results and grumbled about Hutch’s weary demeanor. By the time Starsky dropped his half-dozing partner off at Venice Place, Hutch decided that he’d never make it to his bed before passing out.

   Some few hours later Hutch’s right eye blinked open and the back of his mind registered the sound of torrential rain. He shifted uncomfortably, cursed his back, and thought more fondly of making the trek to his bed. Just as he hauled himself to an upright position a loud thump against his door startled him. "Starsky?" He called loudly. Silence. "Starsky, you have your own key, dammit, use it!" Nothing. Hutch groaned. "No rest for the weary." Feeling trapped in a memory of the night before, Hutch drew his gun and moved cautiously to the door. He placed an ear against the wood and said, "Someone there?"

   "Help."

   Hutch barely heard the word but his instincts clicked in and he opened the door a crack until he caught sight of the huddled, quivering figure responsible. He hastily sheathed his gun and opened the door carefully, bending down to help the drowned soul to her feet. She was scantily dressed, drenched, and weighed all of ninety pounds, he guessed, as he swung her into his arms and carried her inside. He deposited her on the couch and went in immediate search of clothes, blankets, and towels. Even in May a drenching rainstorm can produce violent chills. He returned with one of his jogging suits and handed it to her along with the towels. "Here, the bathroom is right over there. Dry off and put on these warm clothes. They’ll swallow you, but they’ll warm you up. Then come back over here and curl up in the blankets while I put some warm food together. Okay? Can you walk on your own?"

   The girl nodded, eyes the size of jumbo almonds and just as golden. She clutched the clothes and towels and vanished without a word. When she reclaimed her position on the couch, buried beneath several blankets, she looked drier but no less terrified. Hutch turned from his activities at the stove and smiled at her. "Feel better?"

   "Y-yes."

   Hutch tarried a few moments at the stove in order to give her enough time to compose herself and the soup a chance to boil. As soon as the tomato broth bubbled, he flicked the dial to the off position, and poured the concoction into a large mug. The girl accepted the mug and spoon with another trembling nod and did not take her eyes off his face as he sat down on the other end of the couch.

   "Y-you mu-must be K-Ken."

   Hutch smiled. "Yes. Eat your soup. Then we’ll talk."

   She complied, hurriedly and without a hint of enjoyment. But her eyes flashed gratitude at him when she set the mug down on the coffee table. "Y-you do-don’t even know me."

   "No-o," Hutch agreed. "But I’m sure you’ll tell me who you are and how you came to fall down outside my door."

   "My name’s Lila. I—I work for Big Louie."

   Hutch flipped through the various names in his memory bank and felt a grimace pull on his mouth. Big Louie. Suspected drug dealer, pimp, and overall less than savory specimen. Slick as grease and chased unsuccessfully by both Vice and Narco. So she must be a hooker. "What brings you here in the middle of a rainstorm? How do you know my name, where I live?"

   "I—I left h-him. He—he’s got some new clients w-who want their girls to shoot up w-with them before they get down to business. I—I don’t do d-drugs. I w-won’t."

   Hutch felt an ice floe pass through his heart, break into tiny fragments, and turn his blood cold. He was transported several years into the past and an upper room over a bar. Pain, sweat, vomit, sour-tasting candy bars, overheated coffee, shaking, chills, anger, need, slavery… He realized suddenly that Lila stared at him. He forced a smile. "You did the right thing. And now you’re running. I imagine Big Louie was less than thrilled with your departure."

   "He threatened to kill me if I left. B-but he went t-to this p-party and I took a ch-chance. I was going through my purse t-to see if I had enough money for a bus ticket and I found this…" She reached behind her and pulled forth the said purse, delving into it. She extracted a piece of paper that was all too familiar to Hutch. He took it, his hand shaking slightly. "Ken will not treat you like a stranger." His address was written in the same neat script beneath the message. "I figured one of the other girls must have known I was getting ready to run away and… are—you—are you a client?"

   Hutch flushed, heart pounding. The girl before him with her honey-brown hair and elegant, youthful features could have been Gillian as a teenager, years before she walked into his life and died out of it just as quickly. "No, honey, I’m a cop."

   Lila jumped to her feet, hopelessly tangled in the blankets, and Hutch had to lean over and steady her to keep both her and the coffee table separate and intact. He lowered her back onto the couch with murmurs of reassurance. "I’m not going to bust you, kick you out, whatever you’re thinking. Let me help you. You can’t be more than what… sixteen?"

   "I’ll be twenty in two weeks."

   "Where are your parents?"

   Lila shrugged. "I don’t know and I don’t care. M-my father t-taught me firsthand how to do my job. Mom k-knew and b-blamed me. I-I’m not going back there."

   Hutch flinched. He knew he should keep his distance, preserve the detachment, and not risk giving her any indication that he wanted more than to help her, but he could feel her pain as it radiated from her slight frame. He opened his arms slightly and she flung herself into them, burrowing her face into his shoulder. He closed his arms about her loosely. "Do you have anyone?"

   "A-an Aunt. In Culver City. Carla Owens. I-I’da tried to make it there but I’m afraid she—might not want me."

   "Do you know her number?"

   "Yeah." And she mumbled the digits against his shoulder.

   "Okay, here’s what we’re going to do. I’m going to place a call to your aunt and if she’s willing to help, I’ll drive you out to Culver City myself. If we can’t reach her, we’ll come up with something else. Meanwhile, you’re going to have a good night’s sleep in a warm bed."

   "W-with y-you?"

   Hutch froze but commanded himself not to push her away. Gently he shook his head. "No, honey, I’m going to be on the couch."

   "Wh-why?… Y-you don’t like me?"

   "I think you’re lovely…very brave. But you’re frightened and hurting and you need nothing less than some guy taking advantage of that. Now, up you go. Time for sleep," he pointed her in the right direction. "I’ll try to reach your aunt."

   "I—I could make it really nice for you. You know…for helping me."

   Hutch tilted her chin with his index finger and stared down into her eyes, "Lila, how long have you been doing this?"

   "Almost seven years. I was a ’73 model. Big Louie called me his ’73 Mercedes. I’m real experienced."

   Her listener had to swallow hard to avoid choking as his throat clenched shut. When he opened his mouth, his words escaped as bare whispers. "Lila, how about starting tomorrow we find you a world where you never feel compelled to bargain with your body, hmm? You deserve so much more than that." He let her out of the circle of his arms and she tried valiantly to stand, but the events of the night seemed to crash in on her and turned her legs to mush. He gathered her up in his arms and carted her to the bed where he tucked her in quickly, brushing the hair off her forehead with almost a paternal smile before he left.

   Slowly he dialed the Culver City phone number trying desperately to compose a proper speech. "Hello, Ms. Owens? This is Detective Sergeant Ken Hutchinson of the Bay City police…"

   Hutch swung from filling a bowl of granola cereal and fresh blueberries with milk and regarded the doorway with mild alarm. Starsky shut the door with a sound smack and cavorted across the room like a man on a youth elixir. "Hutch, I’m telling you, man…after I dropped ya off last night I went over to Huggy’s and met this incredible--"

   "Ken, is that—" Lila stepped out of the sleeping alcove wearing her newly dried clothes of the previous night. In the harsh light of day they were even more skimpy and inflammatory. Starsky’s mouth hung open and he took two steps back.

   "Uh, Hutch, I’m--" Starsky’s face finished the comment. Lila stood still and trembled.

   "Wait!" Hutch practically shrieked. "Introductions first. Lila, this is my partner and best buddy, Dave Starsky who has arrived for the first time in his entire life half an hour early to start our workday. Starsky, this is Lila, a friend of mine who is waiting for her aunt to arrive and take her to live with her in Culver City. Now maybe we can all sit down for breakfast?"

   Starsky gave Hutch a look that indicated a belief in his blond partner’s temporary insanity before he turned a dazzling and comfortable grin on Lila. She responded immediately, basking in its warmth like a young duck preening her feathers in the sun on a pond bank. Within five minutes the two of them were seated at the table chatting like long lost chums while Hutch looked on in speechless amazement and managed only a couple of spoonfuls from his cereal. At least she’s going to be free of Big Louie. Carla Owens sounded so nice…and to insist on coming herself to pick up her niece and take her shopping for real clothes. Maybe, just maybe Lila has a real chance. But to have been doing this since she was thirteen… God! Oh, God, how many more are there like her? How many more can I stand seeing, dead or alive, before I quit feeling shock? And what the hell do I do when I quit feeling it?

   "Big Louie, huh?" Starsky said with a low whistle an hour later. "You know Vice and Narco’ll string you up by the toes if they find out you had someone who could turn his whole operation and ya let her waltz away."

   "I don’t care!" Hutch growled, not at Starsky but the world that produced Big Louies. "I’m not going to break her back and spirit to get to him."

   "Shades of Sharman Crane?" Starsky queried with perfect sympathy in his voice.

   Hutch smiled softly and shot his best friend a look of unadulterated affection. "Yeah, something like that."

   "Shameless softie."

   "Look who’s talking."

   "Zebra-3, come in, Zebra-3."

   "Zebra-3 here."

   "Zebra-3, shots fired at a 2-11 in progress at Wilson’s Trading Post. Officers require assistance."

   "Zebra-3, we are responding." Hutch slapped the mars light on the roof and turned to Starsky, "Another pawn shop. If this is West, he does have iron-cast ones going after it at 9 in the morning on our turf."

   "Tell me about it, partner. Maybe this will be his last job."

   But they were bitterly disappointed. Arriving on the scene, Starsky and Hutch vacated the Torino and tore down the alley indicated by one of the non-injured uniformed officers. After ten minutes of thorough searching and doubling-back, they admitted that the culprit had eluded capture. Returning to the shop, Starsky interviewed both officers and soothed the young rookie who had taken a bullet in the upper arm while Hutch dashed into the shop in search of Theo Wilson. He found him huddled on the floor of the back room shirtless and boasting violent welts and bruises that stood out gruesomely even against his dark skin. Wilson glanced up at the newcomer and almost convulsed, holding up his hands to shield to his face. Hutch went down on his knees in front of the victim.

   "Theo? It’s me, Hutch. Don’t you recognize me?"

   "H-hutch?" A shadow of the normally booming, enthusiastic voice.

   "Dammit, why isn’t someone in here with Theo!?" Hutch screamed in the direction of the storefront. "Take it easy, Theo. The ambulance will be here soon." He watched as Theo failed in an attempt at a nod and quaked like a man in the last stages of malaria. "Jesus, Theo. Hold on, buddy." Hutch shed his jacket and holster and hastily unbuttoned his flannel shirt, draping it over Theo’s shoulders and pulling it closed about him, careful of the bruising. Theo’s shoulders twitched violently once more and grew still.

   "H-he…got o-off o-on it, man. I mean it… wh-while he w-was beatin’ me."

   "Shh, it’s okay. You don’t have to do this yet, Theo. Save your energy and breath for right now."

   "A-always k-knew you’d give a guy th-the shirt o-off y-your back, Hutch, br-brother."

   "Hell, looks better on you anyway, Theo. Shh now."

   Hutch knew he shouldn’t. He looked at the phone in his hand as though it were a poisonous reptile. But after the day--no, the last three days--he’d had… Oh, hell! He waited for the call to connect and at the first sound of the melodious voice on the other end, he caved. "Lenore? Sorry I’m calling so late. I- I know w-we agreed not to see each other anymore… but could I come over?"

   Twenty minutes later he breathed in a deep sigh as she opened the door and took his arm gently, drawing him into her luxuriously appointed condo. Dressed in a flowing concoction of silk, brocade, and satin slippers, she pulled him into her arms and cradled the back of his head with one warm, perfectly styled hand. "Oh, my warrior is tired tonight, aren’t you, darling?" The voice was as safe as roasted peanuts and summer baseball games encased in a body more exotic than mango groves and bougainvillea. He drank in her scent, felt the curves in his embrace, and lost the last vestige of his control.

   "Ken?"

   He turned over in the expansive canopy bed and opened his arms sleepily. She curled up against him. "What brought you here tonight?"

   He gulped, felt moisture against the back of his closed eyelids, and knew he was going to stutter through any answer. Just say it, Hutchinson. "I—I n-needed you."

   "Oh, darling, I understand. I’m glad to be here. But what made you need me more tonight than a couple nights ago?"

   "You’re so fresh and bright…untouched by everything I see each day. I guess I just needed--"

   She began brushing her lips softly against his chest. "You needed to remind yourself that there’s a different world than the one in which you spend most of your time."

   "I—yeah."

   "There isn’t anything wrong with my world, Ken. You could be happy in my world too, if you gave yourself a chance. Haven’t you ever wanted to be free to pursue your music, see different parts of the world, cultivate a garden outside of a cramped room in an apartment?"

   "I’ve spent most of my adult life running away from money, Lenore. I was born into it, remember?"

   "Ken…" she buried her face in the hollow between his neck and shoulder blade. "I’m not talking about money. I’m talking about things of beauty: music, culture, nature. Those things don’t have a price tag. But you can’t really devote yourself to them leading the life you do."

   "I do well enough."

   "Really? Do you feel fulfilled?" Fingers caressing his arm, sending chills fluttering across the planes of his chest.

   "What a time to ask me that question, you little temptress." Hutch smiled and started to turn her over in the bed but she halted him with a hand against his stomach.

   "I’m serious, Ken. Haven’t you wanted a more complete life?" Her jade eyes were not seductive right now; rather, they caressed his face as if they could apply balm to his soul. He shivered, something nagging in the back recesses of his mind.

   "The suburban house, wife, kids, dog, station wagon, basketball goal, swimming pool?"

   "In essence. Not that any life we fashioned together would completely resemble that. I’m not housewife material. But I do know one thing…"

   "What’s that? You seem to have figured everything out. Why not let me in on it?" He tried to adopt a teasing tone but the light in her eyes defied taking the conversation lightly.

   "I want to have your child, Ken. I love you."

   "M-my …Lenore, you’re n-not—"

   "Pregnant? No, Ken. Doesn’t mean I don’t want to be. I never thought I’d feel that way…want that with anyone. But I do with you."

   "Provided I quit the Force," Hutch said with a trace of bitterness.

   "No, darling. Provided you take yourself out of the lion’s den in which you currently operate. You told me how you felt during the months before Starsky’s shooting. I think right now you’re riding the euphoria of his being able to work again…but as that wears off, do you really want to cycle back through that depression and despair when things start piling up on you again?"

   Hutch relinquished his hold on her and sat up, swinging his legs off the side of the bed.

   Lenore rose up on an elbow and traced a line down his back with her manicured nails. "Darling, what’s wrong?"

   "I—I need to go. I’m sorry. I have to think, and I can’t—I won’t—do that here with you. Not like this."

   "Ken… I’m leaving for San Francisco in a week."

   "I thought your new job didn’t start until next month."

   "Yes, but I’m going to be an editor now. Even in a travel magazine, an editor’s position is a hike in responsibility from location consultant. So I’m going to move in early, get settled, and meet my new staff."

   "You feeling all right, Blintz?"

   But Hutch, though ostensibly driving, wandered somewhere between lost in thought and trapped in memories. Vanessa! That’s who… No, I’ve got to quit seeing Vanessa in every beautiful sophisticated woman who happens to like the finer things in life. Lenore isn’t like Vanessa. For one thing she seems to genuinely like Starsky. A voice whispered in his mind, Then why is she trying to take you away from him? She’s not trying to destroy our friendship. Yeah, the voice responded, and where would your friendship end up if you took a position in the SFPD?

   "Hutch, if ya don’t respond to me wavin’ my hand in fronta your face, I’d hate to be one of the other poor saps out here on the road with you. Oh, waita minute, I am. So snap outta it!"

   "Huh? Oh, sorry. Thinking."

   "Obviously."

   "How about we swing by Huggy’s. I want to pick his brain about these notes that keep turning up all over the city."

   "Best idea you’ve had all mornin’," Starsky sighed, his eyes remaining serious and concerned as he stared at the blond.

   Huggy did not immediately turn into sunny smiles when they knocked on his door. His expression vaguely resembled the one he wore after Bagley’s goons had trashed his bar and conked him over the head. "I’m not open for business, gentlemen," he tried to joke but Starsky and Hutch just grinned in unison.

   "Since when do we need to operate on general public hours?" Hutch demanded, following Starsky into the empty bar. Huggy went behind the bar and commenced sweeping a cleaning rag over the top.

   "I don’t know so don’t ask me." He said simply, something akin to abject worry coloring his tone.

   "Huggy, we’re not here about West. Come ta think of it, though, we could ask why ya jump every time you think we’re gonna bring him into the conversation?"

   "Lay it on me, gents," Huggy blatantly ignored Starsky’s probe. Hutch sighed and pulled out the notes he’d collected, detailing quickly the events that accompanied them. Huggy read the notes and stopped the motion of the rag. "Now that’s gotta be a first. White Knight Consulting, Inc. open for business."

   "You heard anything, Hug?"

   "About someone turning you into a cross between the SPCA and a social worker? Nope, Hutch m’man. Not a whisper. But I’ll keep my ears perked as usual."

   Starsky leaned in close and straightened the lapel on Huggy’s ridiculously bright polyester shirt, "And you won’t tell us anything about--"

   "Starsky, the street is quiet about this dude West. Contrary to popular opinion—especially yours—I don’t go out there and suddenly the whole city’s tellin’ me their business. For one thing, most folks have figured by now that you two are surgically attached to m’ right an’ left side, dig?"

   "Huggy, we don’t want to pressure you. We just want this guy under lock and key ASAP because he’s got a mean streak as long as his inseam. We have reason to believe he killed Tito Warren and he did put Theo Wilson in the hospital. I don’t know if Theo’ll ever be the same." Hutch’s face spoke to the pain and grief he’d felt in the injured man’s presence. Huggy nodded solemnly and ducked his head.

   "I know—word did get out about that. I went by the hospital to see about him. Sad, sad sight, gents. I want this dude put down as much as you."

   "Theo gave us a statement at the hospital and with corroboration from the officers at the scene we had enough for a warrant. We’ve got an APB out on him, but you know how scum tends to disappear into the sidewalk."

   "Maybe this turkey more’n usual," Huggy whispered and then clamped his lips together, turning around to begin setting out clean glasses. Hutch leaned over the bar and gripped Huggy by the elbow, turning him around.

   "Listen, pal, you’ve been hearing something. What’s eating you about this guy?"

   Huggy’s face, normally jovial and full of good-natured mischief, had a desperate cast to it. "Look, can’t you two super-heroes back off this one and let some other fearless officers of the law track him down?"

   Starsky stared at Hutch open-jawed. Hutch backed away from the bar-owner in his shock and sputtered, "T-this is our case, Huggy. We can’t just go to Dobey and say we want out because Huggy asked us. You got a particular reason?"

   "Nothin’ you’d believe, and if I talk about it I’ll get the shakes. Go on, scram and let an honest businessman get back to work." Huggy turned his back on them again and devoted his attention to the glasses.

   "Why don’t you level with us, Hug, and we’ll tell ya if we believe you."

   Huggy spun around. "Okay, listen up close. My aunt Hattie called me a week before that afternoon in the police garage, Starsky, but I couldn’t put two and two together. Woman don’t even believe in telephones but she found one on purpose. She’s some sort of ‘soul specialist’. You know, prayers, fasting, meditation, etc. Told me powerful evil was brewing, warned me to say anything to you I’d always wanted to say. Scared the hell out of me, but I couldn’t figure out what she meant until it was all over. Well, she called me again five days ago. Spent ten minutes yammerin’ about Hutch’s soul hanging in the balance. Said my blond brother should beware of deceptive beauty and one who embraces violence like it’s a woman. Now you get it? Don’t know what that first part means, but word on the street has it that West gets a particular chemical reaction outta makin’ folks bleed. An’ either one o’ you big brains stumbled onto what day a week from that phone call falls on? ‘Cause I ain’t likely to forget. May 15, 1980, gentlemen."

   Hutch’s face shifted through several shades between ashen pale and pink before graduating to scarlet, "Oh, this is nonsense!" He roared and felt disappointment when Huggy failed to blink or cringe. But Starsky’s reaction, though much quieter, was the more violent by far. He swayed slightly, reached up a hand to grasp the edge of the bar, and then sank down in a heap on the floor. Huggy flew around the bar and helped Hutch haul the unconscious detective into the nearest chair so Hutch could bring him round with pats to the cheek, squeezes on the shoulder, and words of encouragement. "I ought to--" Words failed Hutch as he glared across Starsky’s lolling head at their friend. Huggy threw up two hands in a gesture of surrender but his face remained stern.

   "You asked, Hutch! You pushed me ‘til I had to tell ya. Look, I don’t care what you think with your WASP education and pyscho-babble. I learned a long time ago not to discount a damn thing Aunt Hattie says. She’s as good at what she does as Aunt Minnie is with her Voo-doo."

   "God save me from relatives like yours! Starsky’s attack was fueled by a selfish, mean old man whose pet crime spree had been interrupted and who wanted revenge. Simple as that. And in case you forgot, they were shooting at both of us."

   "Yeah, well, accordin’ to Aunt Hattie when I confronted her after the events, Gunther was just a pawn. An instrument of evil. And Starsky was the primary target. Gunther wanted both of you; the Power behind him wanted Starsky. Kept this from you both since that day because I had nightmares myself every time I contemplated it."

   "You’re trying to tell me the guy with the pitchfork and horns was after my partner?" Hutch scoffed. Huggy fell silent and his face turned to stone.

   "H-hutch?"

   Hutch’s attention immediately shifted as he dropped down in front of the chair and his suddenly lucid partner. "I’m here, buddy. You all right now?"

   "Mmm, yeah, ‘M fine. G-guess we better h-head t-to Metro and give those files another go. Must be some lead we’re overlookin’."

   "Are you sure you’re--"

   "I’m fine, Hutch, jeez!" Starsky snapped, pushing out of the chair and wobbling before he squared his shoulders, thrust out his chest, and walked calmly out of the bar without a backwards glance. Huggy looked away and Hutch’s face softened when he read the pain in the finely chiseled features.

   He stood and planted a hand on their friend’s shoulder. "He’s just embarrassed about fainting, Huggy, that’s all. I think he’s been trying hard not to think about that particular anniversary."

   "That ain’t it, Hutch. You’re as blind as a one-eyed dog in a room full of black cats. He believes me, bro. He’s scared to death for you. I’m scared too. Maybe it’s ‘bout time you were."

   Hutch rolled his eyes to the ceiling. "Oh, Christ. Huggy, I have no plans to be anything but thrilled when we nail West’s hide to the wall and send him up for enough years to forget what violence, women, or anything does to his hormones." He swiveled on heel and left a forlorn Huggy Bear standing in the silent bar.

   Hutch found a shaken Starsky leaning against the LTD. "Jus’ about to come in an’ get ya. Dobey just radioed in. West’s PO was found dead… by his six-year-old kid no less. God!"

   Hutch jumped into the driver’s seat as Starsky slammed the passenger door shut. "Well, this is shaping into a beautiful morning," Hutch said with a note of disgust.

   "Tell me about it," Starsky mumbled. Hutch peered at his partner with his peripheral vision while he negotiated traffic.

   "Starsky, you don’t…I mean—what Huggy…"

   "Drop it, Hutch. You don’t really wanna hear what I havta say on the subject, so just let it go." Starsky’s voice quivered like a bowstring pulled taut.

   Hutch gripped the steering wheel and had the brief daydream that his hands were wrapped around Huggy’s neck. Starsky believes in it. Oh, sheesh. That’s it! I’m never paying my bar tab now! Huggy knows he’s a pushover for monster movies, science fiction, and anything supernatural. That I got him back in one piece from Playboy Island still amazes me. He twitched for a month when I said the word ‘hell’ after Pine Lake.

PART TWO