The television was on.

   Not that it really made much of an impression as he reached for the bottle the bartender had left near his glass. Nothing else made an impression either at that point: not the early evening influx of cowboys and construction workers who were looking for a little alcoholic help to unwind, not the increasing haze of cigarette smoke that seemed to obscure the already dim neons and overhead lights, not even the rather large man who seemed to have to make a damn production of climbing onto the barstool next to him.

   It didn't matter.

   None of it.

   He watched the last of the liquor fall into the glass, with a strange fascination as the volume on the television intermittently drifted into his hearing.

   "...And in National news, there has been yet another abduction of a celebrity's child today. Sixteen-year-old Laura Lynn Hutchinson, daughter of internationally renowned model, Catrina, was reportedly abducted from the bedroom of a friend's house late last night. New York correspondent Art Goldman has the story..."

   Midway through downing the drink he froze, his blue eyes moving to the television screen that was now filled with images of his ex-wife, grief stricken and running a gauntlet of reporters on her way out of a New York City police precinct. He watched in disbelief as that footage was interchanged with various pictures of a smiling, blue-eyed, blond-haired girl he couldn't help but recognize. "Laura," he whispered, nearly falling off the stool in his astonishment.

   All of a sudden the words being said were muffled, incoherent. He couldn't understand what was being said, but even in his drunken stupor he couldn't help but recognize the mother and the daughter and his hand inadvertently released the glass from his hand.

   "Hey!" The bartender exclaimed as the glass fell to the bar surface and shattered into jagged pieces, spilling liquid and fragments over a sizable spans of bar surface in front of him.

   He blinked as the news story ended, reluctantly returning his attention to the bartender as if being pulled out of a dream.

   "Dammit, what are you doing man?! You're on in ten mi...jeezus, man! Will you get your hand outta that?! You're bleedin' worse than a stuck pig...all over my bar!"

   He looked down and saw his right hand, still in position for holding a glass, covered with rivulets of blood that were dripping steadily onto the bar.

   "Are you listening to me?!"

   A slow sigh escaped the man's lips and he carefully extricated himself from the bar stool. Without saying a word to either the bartender or the surprised customer beside him, he started for the door, his red-rimmed, sunken eyes misting over slightly.

   He vaguely heard the bartender calling his name, but he didn't care. Barroom singers came a dime a dozen. He knew the old man would get over his conniption and move on with his life.

   The problem was...could he?!

   After all, it'd been a long time that he'd turned to the bottle for solace, to drown his sorrows, to numb his pain. He wasn't the same man anymore; hadn't been in a very, very long time. He'd come a long way, that was for sure. A long way to nowhere.

   He swallowed and made his way to the door, not looking back as he stepped out into the slightly chilly Montana twilight. He stood on the dilapidated porch of the equally dilapidated building and reached into the pocket of his oversized, well-worn trenchcoat, crushing out a cigarette as he looked around the dirt lot filled with cars that had seen better decades, let alone better days. He hadn't planned on having to leave so soon, thinking he could pick up a clunker sometime later in the month when he hitched a ride into town.

   He sighed and with his free hand, ran a hand through his thinning hair.

   The nearest town to this joke of a bar was a good 30 miles away. Even on his best day, anymore, he couldn't hoof that far and hitching at night...along this stretch of highway...what were the chances he'd get picked up? Hell, he thought, even if he did, with his luck it'd be some nutcase, like that time outside of Akron.

   I'm getting too old for this shit, he thought as he threw the cigarette to the porch and used the heel of his boot to crush it out.

   "Hey, cowboy..."

   He turned around slightly when he saw a woman in the doorway behind him, a doe-eyed blonde who looked no older than his daughter.

   He blinked a moment. "You talkin' to me?"

   She laughed, her crimson painted lips curving upward easily. "You see anybody else out here? Yeah, I'm talkin' to you. Barney told me to give you these."

   He watched in astonishment as she handed him his guitar and his duffel bag. "I guess he wants you outta here," She went on, looking up at him curiously. "You, uh...you got a ride into town?"

   He was silent for several moments. "No. As a matter of fact I don't..."

   She laughed. "Didn't think so. Barney said you was a drifter all right. Come on. My truck's just over there." She gestured toward where a battered cream-colored Ford pickup sat and started to walk toward it, but seemed to sense his reluctance and paused, turning around to stare at him. "Well? You gonna stand there and stare at me all night or are you gonna get in, Pops?"

   "Um, well...uh...listen, I...uh...do you...do you always go around asking strange men if they want rides?!"

   She sighed and thrust her hands on her denim clad hips. "Only the ones who look like they need one. Look, mister, I ain't a fool. I can take care of myself. 'Sides..." She smiled again and her eyes sparkled mischievously. "I figure a fella who has to ask me that, ain't gonna give me no hard time."

   He had to admit...she had a point.

   But as he reluctantly followed her to the truck, and as he started sobering up a bit, a horrendous thought hit him full force:

********

   "Looks like a cold one out there tonight," A familiar voice penetrated his thoughts as he stood at the window, his blue eyes gazing out into the burgeoning nightfall with a strange wistfulness.

   He smiled slightly, felt a gentle hand on his arm, but remained where he was. "Sure does," he replied quietly after a moment, not really sure how else to respond.

   More silence before he felt her head lean tentatively against his upper arm. "David, talk to me, please. You've been so distant these past couple of days. What's going on with you?!"

   He swallowed. She was right, of course. He had been distant. Very distant. After all of this time, he thought, shaking his head slightly. Still lettin' it get to me, partner. Still lettin' it get to me.

   He drew in a breath and straightened, slowly turning around to gaze down at the concerned face of his companion. He smiled again and cupped her face in his hands. "Don't worry about me, honey, okay? I'm fine."

   She wasn't convinced. "David, I know you're not fine. I've known you long enough to know when you are and when you aren't fine."

   He laughed slightly, still holding her face and gazing deeply into her dark eyes. "I guess you do, don't ya, Mouse." He paused and drew her close, momentarily burying his face in her sweet smelling, dark blonde hair. He looked up and around the livingroom, unable to notice the absence of himself and his past in the objects d'art he'd let her decorate it with. At the time he thought he didn't mind.

   Now, he minded. He minded a lot.

   He drew back and let his hands trail down her bare arms to take her hands in his. "You...you're gonna think I'm nuts," he half-laughed after a moment.

   He felt a slight pressure on his hand, as if she tensed at the comment. "Try me," she whispered after a moment, her voice drawn but sympathetic.

   "Uh, well...okay...um, well...uh, the other day I got a letter in the mail..."

   She frowned slightly. "What kind of a letter?"

   "The, uh...from the Auxiliary...um, the NYPD. Dad's old precinct...they, uh...they wanna know if they can put his name on a memorial plaque they're putting in on a wall down at the precinct."

   "Oh David, that...that's wonderful, isn't it? I mean, you told me your father was such a good cop and..."

   "The best, Mouse. He was the best. And, believe it or not, that's not what...I mean, I'm thrilled with that." His words trailed off and he broke away, turning to look out the livingroom window once again. He closed his eyes a moment, forcing himself to swallow over the damn lump that had somehow decided to wedge its way into the hollow of his throat.

   "Then why...I don't understand..."

   Neither did he. All he could think about after that letter arrived was the way his career on the force had ended and, worse yet, how his friendship with Hutch had apparently done the same also. He couldn't get that day out of his mind, the last words his partner had said to him, the things he'd said to Hutch...

   "David?"

   He snapped himself back to the reality of the moment. "I...I'm sorry, honey, I just...I just need some air. I'll be back."

   Before she could protest, he broke away and headed for the front door, absently reaching for the car keys that were kept, at her insistence, on a hook beside the front door.

   "David!"

   He didn't look back, just walked out the door, keys clutched firmly in one hand.

********

   "I need a one way ticket."

   Hutch stood before the ticket counter, running a hand over his face as he saw the dubious expression on the clerk's face as she made no pretense in giving him a wary once-over. Hutch had forgotten what a mess he was. Life on the road all these years had been anything but kind, but since he'd usually kept to the most rural parts of the country, there weren't all that many occasions where he'd had to worry about his appearance.

   Until now.

   "Uh huh," The clerk replied after a moment, glancing anxiously around for a moment. "To, uh...to where...sir?" She forced.

   "New York."

   "New York." She glanced at her computer and let her fingers dance across the keyboard for several moments, eyeing the display screen. "Any particular place in New York? It's a big state, you know."

   "The city, not the state. I'm sorry, I just assumed..."

   "One moment, sir. You, uh...do realize we only accept cash here, don't you?"

   He sighed and slung the guitar strap back so the guitar fell against his back. Reaching one hand into the pocket of his faded, ill-fitting jeans, he pulled out a hundred dollar bill and slapped it on the counter, his expression hardening. "Any particular kind of cash, or will that kind do?!" He quipped sarcastically, shifting position so the duffel bag hung off the shoulder opposite the guitar.

   The clerk was cowed, her jaw dropping in astonishment briefly before she attacked the keyboard again, this time with a noticeably larger amount of enthusiasm. "Um, yes...uh, we have a...we have a flight to New York...a connector from here...um, that goes to, uh Helena...then on to Chicago and then..."

   "I need something more direct," Hutch insisted firmly, ignoring the stares of the passersby and other airport workers. "The soonest you can book me. Do it."

   "But sir, I..."

   "Please."

   "I'll...uh, I'll check..."

   Hutch nodded briefly and straightened, turning around and surprised to find himself facing a pair of Security Guards, who were looking anything but pleased as they stood behind him. "There a problem here, gentlemen?" Hutch asked after a moment as one of them flinched, visibly taken aback by something.

   "Not if you come along quietly, pal," One of the guards sighed. "We don't allow vagrants in here, son."

   "Vag...do I...never...the clerk...I'm paying for my ticket like a normal paying passenger! Is there a particular reason why I'm being singled out like this? Aside from my...appearance?"

   The guards glanced at each other, then at the clerk, who was now watching the scene curiously. "Is this true, Darleen?" The second guard asked. "This bum paying for a ticket?"

   "Bum?! Who the hell are..." Hutch forced himself to swallow his words. Man, I need a drink. I REALLY need a drink! He cleared his throat, forced himself to retain some semblance of composure as he glanced at the clerk briefly, surprised when she nodded slowly.

   "That's right, Ed. He's payin'. It's okay."

   The guards eyed Hutch again before reluctantly walking away. Hutch sighed inwardly and turned back around to the clerk, who held up a hand before he could say anything. "Listen, don't say anything, okay? There's a flight out of here in an hour that takes you straight to Chicago and then on to New York. That's the best I can do on such...short notice."

   "Thank you."

   "Don't thank me. Just...go. Please."

   He forced a thin smile as he reached into his jacket for the rest of the ticket fare.

   So, our Golden Boy is now nothing more than a common street bum, huh?, a familiar voice from out of the past seemed to laugh inside his head as he stepped away from the counter, looking around the relatively small sized terminal that yawned before him in several different directions.

   Time for a drink.

********

   The East River looked strangely beautiful tonight.

   He wasn't sure why, but for some reason it struck him that way. Starsky smiled slightly and stuffed his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket. Not the same jacket he used to wear, all those years ago, but one that Lizzie had bought him just a couple of years ago.

   He drew in a deep breath and slowly exhaled, looking at the twinkling lights of the city buildings reflected in the water. So much had changed. So damn much had changed.

   "Where has all the time gone, old pal?" He smiled wistfully, letting his mind travel back in time to try to recapture a moment...

   He felt a cold shudder trickle down his spine at the memory. Even after all this time, he still had the scars in his back and his mind. Some nights he even still had night tremors, dreams of Gunther coming back from the grave to finish the job, sometimes even using Hutch to do it.

   He blinked and glanced down the river, listening to the sound of distant voices yelling something that the breeze easily contorted into something unintelligible. That was all right, anyway. The last thing he wanted to do right at the moment was listen to somebody else's problems. He turned around and glanced at the hideous compact car Lizzie's old man had bought them last year as an anniversary present.

   He started walking along the sidewalk, the new sidewalk that some kind municipal official had thought to have installed on either side of the river. As if that would make the polluted waterway somehow more palatable to the city's residents. Not that Starsky really cared. He hadn't considered himself a real resident of this city in a long, long time, despite the fact that he'd moved back here shortly after he and Hutch'd had the Falling Out.

   That was nearly...god, was it really almost...twenty years?!

   He had to pause with that realization.

   The breeze off the water picked up a bit and ruffled through his closely cropped, thinning, but still (for his age) admirable coif of dark hair. He could now practically feel the extra wrinkles and slightly sagging jawline, though thankfully he was still in fighting shape as far as the weight went. Time had been generous to David Starsky, at least in the physical department.

   It was the emotional one that he was having some problems dealing with.

   For a moment, he thought he sensed a presence behind him and he turned around expectantly. A low sigh of disappointment escaped his lips when he saw no one there.

   Dammit.

   "You're gonna be the death of me yet, you know that, Blondie?" He half-chuckled, turning toward the water and looking out at the reflected lights again. "Twenty years apart and you still bug the living hell out of me."

   He paused before a wrought-iron framed bench, debating a moment whether or not he wanted to sit here a while or turn and head back for the warmth of the Sewing Machine.

   The gray Sewing Machine, he added sarcastically as an afterthought and with a visible shudder.

   He knew Lizzie was worried about him, knew he should get his ass back in the car and head on home or at least pick up the damn cellphone she'd insisted they installed in the thing and let her know that way that he was all right.

   But he didn't want to.

   He really didn't want to.

   He'd spent too many years losing himself in this marriage because he'd been hurting about Hutch, too many years capitulating to a woman and her family that literally changed him from the man he had been when he'd first met her.

   He smirked, a smirk he hadn't felt like making in a long time, and seated himself on the bench, the very top, so that his feet touched the seat.

   What the hell's the matter with you, Starsk? Can't you ever sit in a chair like a normal human being? He imagined Hutch demanding.

   He glanced at the sky and with his eyes slightly misty, chuckled, "Not any more, Blintz. Not any more."

********

   "Hey! Hey you!"

   The voice permeated Hutch's consciousness and he opened his eyes, startled by the unfamiliar intrusion. He blinked himself awake and forced himself to sit up, frowning as he studied the face that blurred in and out of focus above him. "You talkin' to me, buddy?" Hutch half-yawned, glancing at a nearby clock and thankful he hadn't missed the flight.

   "Yeah...you got a light?"

   Hutch rubbed his eyes, then glanced at the chair beside him where he'd left his guitar and duffel bag before deciding to doze a little. Much to Hutch's surprise, they were gone. He got to his feet, whirling on the man that had dared to intrude into his listless slumber. "Where are they? My bag! My guitar! Where are they?"

   "Hey! Hey, man...I don't know nothin' about no guitar or no bag! I just...I just wanted to ask you if you had a light, man! That's all! Back off me, will ya?!"

   Angrily Hutch shoved the guy away and looked around, his eyes narrowed almost into thin slits. Hell, he sighed, watching the man quickly half-run, half-stumble away. What am I doing? What the hell am I doing?!

   His thoughts were just starting to clear...really...to the point where he could actually realize his behaviors were all askew.

   And the emotions started coming back.

   He staggered, glancing up at a television set that was muted for sound but that continued to show images of his daughter and ex-wife, interspersed with images of other teenage girls who had been abducted in recent weeks. "Oh god," he gasped, falling back into a chair and paling. It was as if he had been moving someone else's body these past few hours. He'd heard the news, somehow knew enough to get his ass going and on his way to New York...but it was just NOW that he was realizing exactly why he was doing it.

   Everything was becoming too focused. He couldn't tear his eyes away even as his heart seemed to tear in a multitude of different directions.

   He felt his left arm start trembling, the way it did when he went too long without the familiar numbing sensation his body had come to associate with liquid nourishment. That didn't matter, at least for the moment, for once. As he sat tensely on the edge of the chair his mind drifted back to the last time he'd seen his daughter...

   "Who's fault is that, Ken?!" She choked, her voice near breaking as her eyes started filling up. She clasped the frame of the doorway for support. "She and I have been right here, where we've always been, but you...no, you had to go on some sort of macho odyssey to god only knows where looking for god only knows what!" She paused, seeing the wounded look on his face. "Oh Ken...let's face it. You still haven't gotten over the clash with David."

   He laughed thinly. "Wha...what? Oh come on, give me a break. I got over that a long time ago." He didn't sound convincing even to himself.

   He jerked back to the reality of the moment with a start, finding himself watching a commercial.

   He was also surprised to find the trembling in his left arm had stopped and the top of his right palm was damp from where a tear had fallen onto it.

********

   As he piloted the Sewing Machine home, Starsky flipped on the radio, eager for something to distract him, at least temporarily, from his thoughts. What he heard, however, caused him to slam his foot on the brakes and veer off to the side of the street, much to the annoyance of the drivers around him.

   Amid a sea of curses and honking horns that passed him by, Starsky leaned forward and cranked up the volume and listened in disbelief to the local newscast that reported the abduction of another celebrity's daughter, this one with a very familiar surname.

   "Oh my god," he gasped, his eyes widening in shock as he listened to the few details the media had of the girl's abduction. He fell back in his seat, his hands clenching the steering wheel before him so tightly his knuckles whitened.

   Just then the cellphone rang and he seized it thoughtlessly. "Yeah," he answered mechanically.

   "David...David, where are you?"

   He sighed and turned off the radio. "Did anybody call, Lizzie?"

   "What?"

   "I said, did anybody call?"

   There was a tense silence on the other end of the line before his wife's voice returned, guardedly. "Only my mother. David, what's going on? Where are you?"

   "On my way to the station."

   "What? David, I..."

   Slamming the phone down, he jerked the car out of Park and into Drive, giving only a cursory glance over his shoulder before pulling the Sewing Machine out into traffic.

   As he made his way toward his father's old precinct and where he still had connections, Starsky found his thoughts drifting back to another moment from the past...

   He parked the Sewing Machine in one of the city's newest abominations: another parking garage with multiple levels and multiple problems. It was the only place he could park at that hour without getting his ass fined or towed, or both and even though he had to hoof it a good three blocks or so to the precinct itself, it was the closest of any of the other municipal parking areas.

   Damn city anyway. Why the hell had he ever, EVER moved back?!

   He walked briskly, shoving his hands into his coat pockets and keeping his eyes straight ahead, his mindset a tunnel vision of his destination.

   As he approached the large stone facade he stopped abruptly, suddenly having serious reservations about this.

   He felt his brow burst out in beads of nervous perspiration despite the chill in the night air and his pulse quickened. A quick glance down at his left hand showed that it was trembling slightly, as it always did in recent years when anything involving the police or police work came within physical proximity.

   His stomach churned violently.

********

   The flight to New York was mercifully uneventful. By the time his connector flight touched down at LaGuardia, however, the tremors were back and Hutch was feeling more than a little nauseated and dizzy. It was all he could do to pull himself to one of the exits and into the back of one of the waiting taxis.

   "Where to, buddy?" The cab driver asked, glancing curiously in his rear view mirror.

   "A bar," Hutch muttered, struggling to keep his tremors under control.

   The driver smirked. "Any particular one? This town is riddled with 'em."

   "I...I don't care. Just pick one and take me to it."

   The driver shook his head. "Man, leave it to me to get the weird ones."

   Hutch said nothing as the car got underway. He leaned his head against the window frame, wrapping his arms about himself to try to help control the tremors a bit. To say that he felt like hell was a massive understatement. He closed his eyes a moment and was once more assaulted by a moment from the past...

   Hutch jerked himself out of his memory quickly, wincing as the memory stopped suddenly, strangely, in time with the cab pulling up in front of a small bar in the heart of what looked to be a less than affluent neighborhood.

   "Here ya go, Mac. From the looks of ya, I'd say this would be about the cheapest dive I can think of. That'll be $8.50."

   Not about to quibble over the fare, Hutch reached into the pocket of his overcoat and pulled out a wrinkled ten and handed it to the driver. "Keep the change," he muttered as he pulled himself out of the vehicle and, trembling, made his way into a dark and smoky atmosphere that was comfortingly familiar.

   He paused just inside the doorway and looked around for an empty stool or chair. Thankfully there was one at the far end of the bar. Good. Nice and close. Just the way I like it.

   As he settled himself on the stool, he watched as the bartender gave him an evil eye. "What'll it be?" The balding, portly figure grumbled as he walked over to Hutch.

   "Strong...something strong. Strongest drink you got."

   As he watched the bartender grudgingly start reaching for a bottle, Hutch put his elbows on the bar and put his face in his hands.

   "Can I help you?"

   "Yeah, my name's Dave Starsky, I need to speak with Lieutenant Brenner. Is he in?"

   The desk clerk lifted an eyebrow slightly and gave Starsky a cursory once-over. "He expecting you?"

   "Yeah, we had a date for tea and bagels, now will you tell him I'm here? Please?!"

   "Okay, okay! Don't get your shorts in a knot."

   Starsky sighed as the clerk picked up the phone and started to look up Lieutenant George Brenner, a veteran of the force left from his father's day who somehow managed to keep from retiring and from being promoted due to his sheer grit and irascible personality. Like Starsky, and (so he was told) his father before him, Brenner was a damn good cop who sometimes had a little problem with authority figures. No doubt that's why he was still a Lieutenant after more than 30 years of service to the city.

   Brenner was also one of Starsky's father's best friends and had been a semi-father figure to him for a number of years.

   I only wish I'd paid more attention to the help you were trying to give me then, George, he thought as he looked around the lobby that seemed unusually busy for this time of night.

   "Hey, buddy..."

   Starsky looked at the clerk. "He's on his way down. Why don't you have a seat over there, huh?"

   The clerk nodded toward a row of chairs nearby.

   Fighting back the urge to make a wise assed comment that would do little to better his purpose here, Starsky took a seat, reluctantly, glancing around at the people that seemed to be from almost every walk of life who passed by.

   And yet there he was.

   He sighed, knowing exactly why he was here.

   He straightened and watched as a nearby elevator opened and a tall, thin, silver haired man walked out. Immediately Starsky got to his feet as George Brenner approached, still surprisingly vigorous for his age. A slight pang tore at Starsky as he wondered what his father would have been like if he had lived to George's age. Would he still be on the force? Or would he have retired to some god awful community in Florida like he used to joke about?

   Starsky swallowed as George's face lit up. "Oh my god," he grinned. "Davey Starsky! My god...it is you! How the hell are you, son?!"

   The two shook hands before the older man unabashedly gave Starsky a brief hug. As he drew back, Brenner's eyes rimmed with tears. "You look just like your old man, Davey. Just like him."

   "Thank you, sir. Uh..."

   "You, uh, got the letter, I take it? The one that the Auxiliary sent out about putting your old man's name on the memorial plaque?"

   "Yeah, I did. I think that's great, but that's not why I'm down here."

   Brenner's eyebrows lifted slightly. "It isn't? Well, come on, boy...let's go upstairs to my office and talk about why you are here. Nothing, uh...nothing wrong, I hope? Your mother all right? I've been meaning to go see her in that home and..."

   "Sir, my...uh...my mother passed away five years ago."

   Brenner paused. "Oh. Oh, I'm sorry. I, uh...I must've missed the announcement."

   "No problem. Say, uh...what are the chances that a civi like me can buy a respected member of the police establishment such as yourself a lousy cup of coffee around this joint? Maybe bend your ear for a minute, maybe?"

   Brenner laughed and habitually tugged at the upturned elbows of his rumpled white dress shirt. "Just like your old man. Okay, Davey, let's go. The coffee's on me."

   Starsky smiled as the older man wrapped a fatherly arm around his shoulders and led him down the hall to a door marked, appropriately enough, LOUNGE. Stepping inside, Starsky found himself immediately overwhelmed with memories of the lounge back in Bay City and he had to stop a minute and collect himself, reorient himself to the present.

   "Davey? Hey, kid, you okay?"

   Starsky nodded, looking around the empty room briefly. "Yeah," he lied, taking a moment to draw in and then exhale a deep breath.

   Brenner shook his head, nodding toward one of two chairs at a nearby table. "So sit. I'll pour. What do you take in your Joe, huh?"

   As he seated himself Starsky shook his head slightly. "That's okay. I don't drink coffee."

   "What?" The Lieutenant laughed as he walked over toward a small kitchenette where a coffee maker was set up. "Give me a break, Davey. You've gotta drink coffee. All cops drink coffee."

   Suddenly Starsky's expression sobered. "I'm not a cop anymore, George. I haven't been one for a long time."

   The deadpan expression and monotone were unintentional on Starsky's part, but they got his point across vividly. Brenner sobered as he poured himself a cup of coffee and proceeded to carefully seat himself across the table from Starsky. "Yeah, I...I heard about that," he began awkwardly after a moment. "I think it's a bum deal that you pulled out like that, Davey. Not your fault your partner couldn't hold his own."

   "What?!" Immediately, Starsky's instincts to defend Hutch kicked into high gear once again and his posture stiffened. "What do you mean? Hutch was the best damn partner I ever had...pardon my language, sir, but..."

   "Hey, hey, take it easy, kid. Didn't mean to ruffle any feathers. Guess it's still a touchy subject with you, huh?"

   Reluctantly, Starsky nodded, unzipping his jacket and leaning back slightly. "Problem is, George...it's kinda why I'm here tonight, too."

   The older man was silent a moment, taking a deep drought of his coffee and studying Starsky. As he lowered the cup to the table, he cleared his throat, suddenly concerned. "You heard about the girl, didn't you?" he asked quietly after a moment. "The Hutchinson girl...that's why you're here, isn't it?"

   "That's right. I just found out about it on the radio. And obviously you've known about it from the get-go, right?"

   "Since the mother called...yeah, I'm working on it..."

   Anger suddenly flared in Starsky's eyes as he leaned forward again. "They why didn't you call me the minute you found out, huh? You knew about Hutch and me! You knew that I'd want to know about something like this!"

   Brenner sat back, holding his hands up in the air. "Now wait a second there, Davey...hold on a minute here. I haven't seen or heard from you in years! How the hell..."

   Starsky shook his head slightly, his hands clenching slightly at his hair in frustration. "I know," he said quietly after a minute. "I...I'm sorry, George. I'm just...I'm just frustrated, y'know? Hutch's kid...I mean...has anybody heard from him at all? Has he called in? Said he's coming here? Anything?!"

   Brenner was mollified Starsky's return to a semi-calm demeanor. "Not yet," he admitted after a moment. "The mother's been asking about him, too. She's a wreck. Wouldn't leave the station until we had a couple of uniforms drive her home." He paused a moment, his indigo colored eyes studying Starsky. "You really care about this putz, don't you? After all this time? After all the crap he put you through?"

   Starsky fell silent.

********

   Hutch didn't remember staggering outside or sagging against a nearby lightpost until he opened his eyes and felt a stabbing pain piercing his temples. He groaned and clasped the sides of his head, leaning over for a moment as his stomach churned in violent protest. Whatever the hell he drank was definitely not agreeing with him. The tremors were gone, yeah, but only to be replaced by problems of a whole other variety.

   He gasped and slid down the pole as his stomach finally released its contents. The last thing he saw before losing consciousness was a red light, blurrily approaching, and for a moment, he thought it was Starsky's Torino.

   When he awakened, however, it was painfully obvious that the red light he thought he saw wasn't that of the Mars light on the Torino. Rough hands shoving him into the back of a cruiser quickly alerted him to that fact.

   "Get in there, you bum," A rough voice growled.

   Hutch barely felt his head connect with the seat as the door slammed shut behind him. He lay on his side, blinking, his vision occluded as he listened to the front doors open and close and the sound of exasperated voices flooded his mind.

   "Damn drunks!" One voice grumbled. "Puking' all over themselves. Y'know, I'm gettin' so sick and tired of this beat it's pathetic."

   "I know what you mean, man. Let's just get him into the drunk tank so we can get on with the real work, huh?"

   "Yeah, okay. I gotta run by the shop for a sec and grab the damn paperwork first. Damn, damn, damn!"

   Hutch barely felt the car move. Hell, he could barely feel a thing at that point, except sick. He closed his eyes again and listened to the sound of the police radio and the officers up front talking, taking him back...

   "Better. Got a letter from her the other day." A slight smile upturned Starsky's lips as he leaned back, casually resting his left arm on the open car window ledge beside him. "Charmen said to say hello."

   Hutch tried to sit up, struggling to suppress that tidal wave of nausea that wanted to swallow him. Everything was so damned out of focus, so hazy. Where was he? What was he doing...wherever he was?

   "Relax, buddy," A voice said, and a blurred round object suddenly floated before his field of vision. "My partner's gotta go get some forms and then we're taking you straight on to the drunk tank. No reason for you to get antsy."

   Painfully he sat up and leaned against the window and froze, his eyes widening in drunken disbelief.

   At least, he thought it was drunken disbelief.

   "Starsk?" He gasped, his hands splaying against the window as he watched the figure descending the precinct steps. It couldn't be! It...sure as hell looked like him! But...but even in his stupor he knew that...that it couldn't be.

   Or could it?!

   "Starsky?!" He called, reaching for where he thought the handle of the door was.

   "Hey!" The officer in the front of the car exclaimed, turning around in his seat. "Settle down back there, buddy." Through the wired grill that separated the halves of the cruiser, the uniformed officer glared at Hutch.

   "Starsky!" Hutch called again, throwing himself against the door, his fingers unable to find a way to unlock the door which was, as it turned out, locked from the front.

   "Knock it off!" The officer growled. "Don't make me come 'round back there and cuff ya..."

   "STARSKY!!!" Now Hutch was throwing himself against the door, again and again, prompting the officer to curse and slam his palm on the automatic door lock button before quickly scrambling out his door and moving around to Hutch's door.

PART TWO