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Borders - Part Two
By
Ellis Murdock
"How long have you been partnered now?" Hutch asked, making a stab at polite conversation. It wasn’t easy.
"A year and a half", McMahon replied brightly. "She’s my first partner since making Detective. Couldn’t believe how lucky I was when I found out I’d been assigned to her, it was perfect timing. Her old partner retired, see? And there I was…"
The stream of words continued and, not for the first time, Hutch wondered how McMahon managed to talk incessantly without appearing to draw breath. Stakeout duty with him was akin to being one of the rocks on the beach pummeled by the never-ending tide, except that the tide didn’t expect a response: McMahon did. At least periodically. In fairness, he supposed, he would have found fault with anyone who happened to occupy that seat. As boring as surveillance could sometimes be even with Starsky - as annoying as Starsky could sometimes be on stakeout - not having him there just felt wrong, as though half of him were missing. And maybe, he reflected, in a way it was. He was rudely brought back to the here and now by the pair of binoculars being thrust into his chest.
"Hey, check it out", McMahon instructed. "That’s Ray Abolese right there. You know the two guys with him?"
Hutch dutifully looked. "Johnny Mather is the one on the left, I don’t know the other one." He frowned, grabbed the camera and tried to get a good shot of the mystery man. "Interesting. Mather, as far as we know, is a small-time dealer of high-grade smack. If he’s hanging out with Abolese…"
"…then somebody’s making a buy", McMahon finished with a grin.
"But which way? You see Abolese as buyer or seller?"
"My guess is seller", McMahon replied without hesitation. "Well," he corrected, "someone representing the seller. Whoever’s pulling the strings these days must be looking to liquidate some inventory. Debaran had a habit of stockpiling assorted commodities in key places in several states and between the drugs and weapons, we figured we only found about a third of what he really had." He turned to Hutch. "You?"
"Makes sense", Hutch agreed. "Next question is: are they re-establishing the organization under new management or just turning goods into cash?" There was no ready answer to that yet, of course, anymore than to the even bigger question of who might be behind it all.
Ross, Starsky realized fairly early on in the evening, was not one of the world’s most sparkling conversationalists, at least not tonight. They had spent about an hour covering the list of questions she had compiled for Mercury, mostly attempts to establish the red-head’s true motivation in all of this. It was, he readily agreed, unlikely that even a highly-paid prostitute like Mercury would be angry enough at being jilted by a john to turn snitch. Ross promised to run a more thorough background check on their prospective informant in the morning, but the task of determining the real reason behind Mercury’s eagerness to talk would still fall largely to him. Since then, they had settled for going over files and photographs in relative silence, his attempts at amicable conversation going largely unanswered. Ever the optimist, he decided to give it one more try.
"So, how long have you and McMahon been partners now?"
"A year and a half", she responded without looking up. "Since he was twelve."
He took the humor as a good sign and ,even though she didn’t ask, offered, "Hutch and I have been partners for the better part of a decade." ‘Better’ in every sense of the word, he reflected warmly. "We’ve known each other since our days at the Academy, though."
"It shows", she said with a smile, immediately returning her attention to the file in her hands.
"You must’ve had a few partner’s, huh?" Come on, lady, talk to me. Just a little.
Perhaps she recognized his need to hear another human voice, because she put the file down and seemed to make an effort. "Mac is my fifth since making Detective. I worked with Kieran Rafferty for four years, until he retired in ’78. That was the longest I’ve ever been assigned to anyone."
"Were you close?" he asked, curious.
She mulled the question over for much longer than he would have thought necessary. "Close is a relative term, I guess. We got on well, two stones rubbing against each other and producing very few sparks." Her face seemed to soften as she spoke of him. "I learned a lot from him and I like to think he gained something from being with me. We keep in touch, but…well, if you mean close like you two, no. I don’t think that I’ve ever been with anyone." It was spoken with no obvious regret or envy, just as a statement of fact. Having said it, she returned, once again, to her papers.
Starsky went back to staring at his watch, idly wondering if it had stopped or time itself had slowed, and fervently hoped that the stakeout wouldn’t last much longer. On a whim, he grabbed a piece of paper from the desk and began jotting down a list of the principal players in the case. He looked it over carefully when he was through, didn’t see any glaring omissions, and added either an "N" or an "C" beside each name to indicate the state in which they were active - adding both letters where appropriate. Browsing the work further, he still wasn’t satisfied and sat there frowning at it for a few minutes. Connect the dots. That was what was missing, lines linking names to show who was connected to whom. Abstract scribbles combined with nearly illegible Starsky shorthand in the end to create a document that looked like a page torn from a mad scientist’s notebook. Hutch will have a seizure, he thought with a grin, visualizing the neat lines, spacing , and - well, orderliness - that would have marked the Hutchinson equivalent.
Upon their return shortly before midnight, Hutch and McMahon offered their partners an encapsulated version of the evening’s events. Hutch agreed to take responsibility for having the surveillance photos developed poste haste, while Ross would see to the background checks on those people McMahon had recognized from New York. The two teams then went their separate ways with the intention of hooking up later to share any new information and prepare to start the cycle over again.
"So how’d it go?" Starsky pressed, when they were alone.
Hutch clapped his hands over his ears. "Ssshh. My ears are still ringing. I’ll tell you after the aspirin has kicked in. How was it here?"
"Quiet." Starsky sighed. "Wanna trade?"
FEBRUARY 5, 1980
"But why?" Starsky persisted, staring into the beguilingly innocent cow-eyes of Mercury. This ‘vestal virgin’ routine is wearing thin. "You’re not some star-crossed lover betrayed by her prince and you’re obviously not in it for the money."
She blew a bubble and popped it loudly, saying nothing.
"And you don’t strike me as one of LA’s more civic-minded inhabitants, so why?"
"What do you care?"
He counted to five, then made to get up. "It’s a simple enough question", he said, rising. "If you won’t answer it, then I’ll have to get my information elsewhere." It was a gamble, but under the circumstances also the only card he had to play.
"All right, all right. Keep your trousers on, huh?" She grinned mischievously. "I’ve always wanted to say that, but never had much opportunity in my line of work. Here’s how it is: Marty was a good client, we had a great thing going for a couple of years. The sex wasn’t important…" She grinned lasciviously. "Well, it wasn’t important to me, anyway, but he used to give me other work. Sub-contracted some of his jobs for Debaran and paid me - really well, too. I was good and he made certain promises, you know? That the work would continue. Then Tia came along, and…" She let the sentence fall and pouted.
"…you found yourself out of more than one job", Starsky finished. Okay, that makes a certain kind of sense. Maybe…
"Exactly! After everything I did: mule, runner, courier, escort, spy," she counted them off on her fingers, "he decides he’s had enough. Cut the brake lines in my car, tried to kill me." Seeing Starsky’s mouth start to open, she overrode him before he had the chance to speak. "Can’t prove it and under the circumstances I couldn’t exactly go the police anyway, but I know he did it. He’s a snake, remember? So I got away, went into hiding and figure, hey, turnabout’s fair play, right? A friend mentions you’re looking for info and I figured we could scratch each other’s backs. So to speak." She smiled triumphantly, crossing her arms. "Good enough for you?"
"Good enough." For now. "So what have you got for me?"
"I hear there’s a deal going down, Marty’s got his hands on a load of smack and wants to unload. I gather he’s been having prospective buyers interviewed, getting a lot of local interest."
"Know where he got it?"
"Uh uh."
Starsky was rapidly losing patience. "Care to make a guess?"
"If you’re asking if he’s going into business for himself, who knows? It’s possible. He was getting tired of being at the bottom of Debaran’s food chain. If he saw the chance, he might try and take it."
That Starsky found very hard to believe. He had gotten to know Martin Banks better than he’d of liked and the man struck him as someone destined to remain a minion for life. Granted, it had been a few years, but still. "Could he be taking orders from someone else?"
"Sure."
"Who?"
She laughed. "Oh, no. That’s your job. I don’t know and I’m not going digging there. Revenge is only sweet if you’re alive to enjoy it."
"Fair enough." He decided to drop it for the time being. "Who else is here? Were you able to get a line on Lorna Jensen?"
"It’s only been two days since our first meet", she protested. "Give me a chance. I asked around about Lorna, talked to a few people who’ve seen her, but not for more than a week now. One of them thought that she was trying to make the connections to get out of town, maybe even out of the country. Don’t know for certain, but she’s probably long-gone."
"It’s not that what you’re saying isn’t useful, but we need more", Starsky pressed. "We need to know who’s behind this, who’s actually pulling the strings. We can’t even begin to touch Marty with this. If you really want to hurt him, you’ll have to do better." It seemed the most likely argument to elicit a positive response.
She mulled it over for a few minutes. "I’ll bet you don’t have a lot of friends, do you?" she asked with a sigh, blowing another bubble. "Oh, all right. I’ll see what I can do. No promises, though, understood? And give me a few days, I have some business of my own to attend to." To the inquiring look, she grinned, quipping, "I have to see a man about a horse."
Mercury got up from the bench like a cat stretching after a long nap, looked over to where Hutch was pretending to pick up litter and waved. "Aw", she said lightly as the blond straightened in the distance, "he looks all ruffled now."
"Will you stop teasing my partner and go?" Taking a quick glance at Hutch, Starsky barely suppressed a smile himself.
Apparently satisfied with the reaction, she gathered herself together and skipped merrily away.
~~~~~~~~~~
"That’s all she gave you?" Ross asked again.
"I’m not holding out on you. That’s all she said." Starsky restrained from further comment only with great effort. He understood the reason for the impatience, had even been there himself a few times, but didn’t enjoy being interrogated. "I’m not defending her, but she had a point: we haven’t really given her enough time to get anything else."
"We don’t have any more time." Ross laid the file down with a little more force than was actually necessary and began to pace, eventually lighting on a spot by the window.
"What’re you thinking?" McMahon asked, moving a bit nearer to his partner without closing the distance entirely.
"I’m thinking I’m frustrated", she replied with a sigh. "I’m thinking that we only have three more days before we have to be on a plane back to New York, that we don’t have enough, and I don’t know how to get it."
"The way I see it, we have two options", Hutch said quietly from the couch. "Either we keep on with what we’re doing - watching, listening, digging, wait and see what happens - or, we begin rounding up people and see what shakes loose. Your call", he added with deference, as she turned to face him.
And they never even had to send you to sensitivity class, Starsky thought of his partner appreciatively. Even though Ross had no jurisdiction in LA and technically no say in what course of action to follow, it would seem to him - to both of them - that fairness dictated it was still her case. Out of respect, Hutch wanted the decision of how to proceed be hers.
She turned to face the window again and gave the problem several minutes serious consideration before responding. "I came here to get answers", she said finally. "Rounding up the peripheral players isn’t going to give me that. It might even blow the whole thing; effectively ensuring that it - whatever ‘it’ is - is never brought to light."
"Option one?" Starsky asked.
"Option one", she replied, turning to face the three men in the room. Ross let her posture relax as she sank into a chair. "I recognize and appreciate the professional courtesy…", she nodded to Hutch, "…and everything else you’re doing. Really. I don’t mean to be short-tempered."
"Hey, worse case scenario, even if nothing happens in the next few days, we’ll still keep at it", Starsky promised. "Sooner or later something’s bound to break. Law of big numbers, right?"
Ross made a weak attempt at a smile, but didn’t look at all encouraged.
FEBRUARY 8, 1980
The telephone jolted Hutch on the first ring and he grabbed it immediately, by habit catching it before it could disturb his partner.
"’Lo?" he mumbled, reaching blindly for the clock on the bedside table. 4:57 AM. What the hell?
An impossibly alert-sounding McMahon was on the other end of the line. "Get up. We’re on our way over."
"What? Jus’a min --" He swallowed, hoping to get his tongue and mind to work in tandem. "Do you know what time it is?"
"I know and I’m sorry to wake you, but it’s important. As of about fifteen minutes ago this investigation just became official. We’ll see you in a few." A telltale click followed.
Now fully awake in mind, if not in body, Hutch stumbled out into the kitchen to put on a pot of coffee before attempting the greater challenge of getting Starsky up - a feat that promised to be only slightly less daunting than the resurrection of Lazarus.
As promised, Ross and McMahon arrived within fifteen minutes, moving with an energy and purpose neither one of the apartment’s inhabitants had seen either of them display in any previous meeting.
"What happened?" Hutch asked, as soon as the pair were a few feet inside the apartment.
McMahon opened his mouth to say something, but his partner beat him to it. "A lot, but do you mind if we tell you about it over coffee?"
They both looked wired enough to him without the caffeine, but Hutch offered two steaming mugs anyway and settled everyone down in the living room before introducing the topic again. It didn’t require much prompting.
"We received a telephone call from our Captain about an hour ago", Ross began. "It seems that Helmut Krueger transferred one and a half million dollars from his bank account back home to a numbered account here yesterday. Money that was then withdrawn within the hour. Only he didn’t have access to the telephone and he literally had a heart attack when the Assistant DA confronted him with the news today. He’s in the infirmary as we speak."
"Weren’t all of the accounts automatically frozen?" Starsky asked with a yawn. It was too early to process this kind of information.
"Yep", McMahon replied. "There was either a glitch or somebody had some inside help."
"If it wasn’t Krueger," Hutch asked slowly, "then who --?"
Ross had a ready reply. "According to him - and this is backed up by all of the information we have - a lengthy page of personal data as well as a code known only to Krueger and Debaran were required to access that particular account."
"But Debaran’s --", Hutch stopped the sentence at that point, seeing the grim smile on Ross’s face and the enthusiasm reflected in her partner’s eyes; understanding slowly beginning to take hold.
"Yes, at least everyone thought he was permanently out of the picture", she said softly.
"Now just wait one lovely minute", Starsky protested a few seconds later, after the statement’s implication had a chance to sink in. "What do you mean ‘everyone thought he was out of the picture’? Don’t you guys check your bodies? Y’know, poke ‘em a few times - make sure they’re really dead?"
McMahon smiled. "You saw the crime scene photos. They were scraping bits of someone off the walls for days. At this point we’re just not sure who."
"How was the body identified?" Hutch’s voice had grown very quiet..
"Fingerprints", Ross answered. "Obviously, a visual ID was out of the question. So was dental - both jaws were shattered by the blast."
Starsky and Hutch exchanged looks, came to a silent understanding, and Starsky spoke again. "So what’re you saying? It’s not Debaran after all? But that would mean --"
"…that Debaran is alive, someone else isn’t, and a person or persons unknown in either the Coroner’s Office, with the DA, or high enough in the NYPD is involved in a conspiracy", McMahon finished, his voice an even mixture of excitement and revulsion.
"That is just one possibility at this point," Ross threw in, before the conversation could venture too far into the theoretical, "but it changes things enough to warrant our being here in an official capacity."
"What about the money?" Hutch asked. "Any line on who it was who withdrew it?"
"According to the bank," she said with a smile, "a man named Helmut Krueger came in to collect it. I’d say Helmut’s had a very busy few days."
Hutch caught Starsky’s eye. "Well, we could gather some mug shots together and go see the teller. She might recognize someone from --"
"Security camera", Starsky interrupted, appearing fully awake for the first time that morning.
Hutch laid one hand excitedly on his partner’s arm while the other shot to his own forehead. "Of course! The bank has to have a security camera, right?" Both men looked up expectantly at Ross, but it was McMahon who answered.
"We thought of that, too. Interest you guys in a little trip downtown?"
"First things first", Ross interjected. Addressing Hutch directly, "I realize that you’re off today, but we wondered if you would like to accompany us to your Captain’s office to fill him in. He’ll be receiving a phone call from our superior, too, but he’ll no doubt have questions."
"Of course", Hutch replied immediately. "That goes for you, too, Starsk. You’re as much, if not more, involved in this as anyone." The comment elicited exactly the response he would have hoped for: Starsky looked like a child on Christmas morning.
The group opted to go out to breakfast before confronting Dobey, taking the Torino at McMahon’s request, just so he could enjoy the experience of riding shotgun in the car of his dreams.
Dobey was obviously less than impressed with the narrative the four detectives offered him. Although he listened patiently enough, his demeanor still strongly suggested a father dealing with a group of recalcitrant children.
"You should of come to me with this before", he scolded them en masse. "Ross, your Captain is very displeased with the way you handled this and I can’t say as I blame him. You should have gone through channels, made it an official investigation. Not involved a junior partner, let alone two of my men."
Hutch opened his mouth to object, but Dobey stopped him. "And you, Hutchinson," he bellowed, pointing his finger at the blond, "you damn well know better than this. I don’t believe you, and dragging Starsky into this mess, too."
"Now wait just a minute here, Cap’n", Starsky interrupted. "Nobody dragged me into anything. In fact, a lot of what we’ve done was my idea."
"I’m not surprised", Dobey grumbled. "You always did write your own rules."
Starsky started to say something, seemed to think the better of it, and settled instead for looking offended.
Ross jumped in next. "With respect, Captain, I wanted an official investigation and was denied. I know I overstepped. I take responsibility for everything that’s happened here and I’ll no doubt be reprimanded for my actions, but that doesn’t change the fact that I was right. There is something going on here that deserves to be looked at, deserves to be pursued."
"Hrmph. Well, you’ve got your official investigation now, Detective." He sighed, pointing at the two interlopers from the East Coast. "You two are here as a professional courtesy, with jurisdiction only as it relates to crimes committed in the State of New York. Understood?" Ross nodded. "I’ve been asked to assign this case to one of my detectives," he continued, "someone who will function as the lead investigator on the case." He turned expectantly to Hutch. "Can I assume that you want the assignment? Seeing as how you’re already doing it", he added dryly.
"Yes, Captain. We want the assignment."
Starsky didn’t look up, but Hutch didn’t need to see his partner’s face to know what expression would be reflected there. Side by side, they presented the familiar united front that had been missing from their Captain’s office for so long a time now.
Even Dobey had to smile, albeit briefly. "Well, what’re you waiting for then?" He made a shooing motion with his hand. "Hutchinson, until further notice, your desk is cleared of everything but this. That means I need all of the paperwork relating to your current caseload turned in by morning. Now get out of here, but keep me informed. I want to know where you are every step of the way in this thing and I want the reports on my desk on time for once."
"Yes, sir", Hutch replied softly, as they all exited the room.
Starsky’s form popped halfway back through the door. "I’ll keep ‘em all on the straight and narrow, Captain", he said with a click of the tongue. "You can count on me."
His visit was cut short as a hand, presumably belonging to a tall blond detective, reached into the office and unceremoniously yanked him out.
When he was finally alone, Dobey indulged in the laughter that had been threatening to come to the surface during the course of the meeting. It was undeniably good to have his favorite team back together again, even if only one of them was officially on the books.
~~~~~~~~~~
After Starsky called Huggy to set a meet with Mercury for later that afternoon, the four made their way to the bank, an undeniably posh building in the middle of the most upscale section of the downtown financial district. Definitely not part of their usual beat.
The severe-looking bank officer to whom they were sent regarded the detectives with rank suspicion, casting her eyes over each in turn and apparently finding something essential lacking in all but Ross. It was to the impeccably dressed female detective that she chose to address her comments.
"Well, the man who made the transaction wasn’t really our kind of people. You must understand, though, that when one is dealing with persons of great wealth one learns to expect a certain amount of eccentricity."
"Naturally", Ross replied with a straight face.
Remind me never to play poker with you, Hutch thought dryly.
"He presented a New York driver’s license, a passport, possessed all of the required security codes. I really don’t see how one can place the blame on us." The woman twisted all three of the rings on her left hand in rapid succession, the pitch of her voice rising with each word. "We followed procedure to the letter. One doesn’t suspect duplicity without cause…"
"No, of course not", Ross soothed. " Ms. Crawford, isn’t it?" The woman nodded mutely and she continued. "No one is blaming either you or the bank. It would help us a great deal, though, if we might just borrow your security tapes from yesterday."
"Certainly. We have every intention of cooperating – " Her eyes almost doubled in size as she fixed her gaze on Starsky, who had picked up a small piece of unusual pottery from her desk and was casually turning it over in his hands. "Please don’t handle that! It’s Ming." She snatched it out of his hands as one might do with a troublesome three year old and reverently returned the item to it’s place of honor, turning her focus once again to Ross.
Managing his best ‘I-can’t-take-you-anywhere-can-I?’ expression, Hutch lightly slapped Starsky’s fingers in mock reprimand. Three heads turned away in unison as each of the male detectives struggled to regain a certain degree of decorum.
"You are, of course, all welcome to view the tape here", Crawford continued. "We have a room upstairs equipped for that very purpose. It’s at your disposal, should you wish to make use of it."
"We’ll have to seize the tape anyway," Hutch threw in, tired of being invisible, "but it would save us some time if we could go over it here first."
They were promptly ushered into a stately executive meeting room, complete with heavy red velvet drapes and a dry bar, and shown how to work the projector. Crawford left their company only with great reluctance and after a final admonishment to the four not to touch anything.
It was easy enough to pick out the man who had identified himself as Helmut Krueger to the bank staff: in this environment he stood out like the proverbial sore thumb. Hutch felt his spirits sink - he had the awful feeling that he knew exactly where this was headed.
"He looks like he just walked out of a shelter", McMahon exclaimed.
"Maybe he did. I take it then that neither of you recognize him?" Starsky glanced at both McMahon and Ross before exchanging a grim look with his partner.
"It would be a shrewd play", Hutch agreed, easily following Starsky’s line of thought. "Pick a street bum out at random, dry him out, and give him some forged documents. With enough coaching and the promise of an enticing enough payoff at the end, he’ll act out whatever role you give him."
"And when he disappears", Ross continued, "there’s nobody to miss him. Clever."
"Well," Starsky pulled his feet off the table as McMahon shut of the projector, "if there was any doubt before, there’s none now. We’re dealing with a pro."
They dropped the tape off at Metro and Hutch ordered photos of the as-yet unidentified person of interest to be circulated among all of the black and white units. It was akin to looking for a needle in a haystack and even if they should by some miracle make an ID, all four knew that the chances of it leading anywhere were slim to none.
~~~~~~~~~~
"This had better be worth my effort", Mercury sighed. "You’re playing havoc with my social life."
"Tell me everything you’ve heard about who’s pulling this team together. No more lies of omission, no more games. Straight story. Understood?" Starsky hoped the unusually harsh tone would catch her off guard, maybe even jar loose some information she had no intention of disclosing. And maybe pigs will sprout wings and fly, he thought wryly. Remember who you’re talking to.
True to character, Mercury did not rise to the bait. "Who peed in your cornflakes this morning? I’ve already told you, I don’t know who’s been crowned Master of Important Things in all this and I couldn’t care less. Why don’t you go find Marty and ask him?"
"Because I’m asking you. You wouldn’t be holding out on me now, would you, Mercury?" That at least seemed to raise her tension level up a notch.
"What do you mean?", she asked cautiously.
"You been hearing any rumors about Debaran? That maybe he’s not quite as dead as everyone initially thought?"
"What?"
For the first time since they met, Starsky had the feeling something he said had actually taken Mercury completely by surprise. Got your attention now, haven’t I?
"That’s what we hear", he said calmly. "So how about it?"
"How – I mean what…?" She paused, taking a deep breath and pulling herself together somewhat before continuing. "What makes you think that Debaran might be alive?"
"We have our reasons. I asked nice. Now answer the question." Not so much fun being on the receiving end of ‘need to know’, is it?
"I...I suppose it’s possible." She was silent for at least a full minute and Starsky made no effort to interrupt her thoughts. "If it’s true, I guess it would explain a lot."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, it’s almost easier to believe that Debaran rose from the dead than that Marty suddenly grew a brain. If he is lurking around somewhere, he’d be smart enough to direct everything without actually coming to the surface. I’ll see what I can do, but I doubt that anyone in the know will talk to me." She bit her lip and studied her fingers before making eye contact again. "If you don’t mind my asking, how do you plan on going about finding if he’s really dead? I mean, can’t you test the body or something? Make sure?"
"We’re may go ahead and request an exhumation", Starsky answered quietly. It seemed a harmless enough bit of information to offer.
"Just out of curiosity," she pressed, squirming slightly, "how long does that take?"
All of the red flags in Starsky’s brain were fully raised now and it took a supreme effort to keep what he was feeling from showing on his face. "It varies. Anyway, if the fingerprints on file have been tampered with, it won’t give us much. Why?"
"You’re not the only one who wants to know who you’re dealing with. Going up against Marty is one thing. If you want help in bringing down Debaran, you had better get your hands on a fatter wallet." The smile she flashed as she left told him that her equilibrium had returned to normal. Or whatever passed for normal in Mercury’s life.
~~~~~~~~~~
"You know, you’re not as much fun as you used to be", Starsky observed between mouthfuls of popcorn, watching as Hutch laboriously typed out each of the reports due on Dobey’s desk by morning. Judging from the size of the stack, Starsky thought it likely represented several day’s worth of neglect.
"Yeah, well, it’s all in the name of remaining employed. Unless you’re planning on us making a career change and you forgot to tell me, I suggest you let me get back to it, huh?"
Starsky sighed. He had spent the better part of the last hour and a half studiously noting all of the new information in his ever-expanding file of case-related mind maps and musings. Hutch still claimed to find the scribblings as incomprehensible as Martian, but his actions belied those words. Starsky had gloated inwardly on more than one occasion as he watched the other man root through the pile of papers to reference some fact or other.
Just now, though, he was bored, missed the beach, missed the time spent together there, and was still too buoyed by the day’s earlier activities to curl up quietly with a good book. "Hey", he said softly.
"Yeah?"
Giving into his mood, he tossed a piece of popcorn in the general direction of his partner’s mouth and grinned broadly when Hutch happened to catch it. "Y’know," he said with mock seriousness, "talking about a career change, there’s this exhibit at Sea World where the seals do the same thing, only with fish. Think we could turn you into an act?"
"Cute", Hutch laughed, returning to the papers.
Come on, Hutch. Play with me here. I won’t break. In the hope of eliciting some sort of a reaction, Starsky shot another few kernels of popcorn at his partner. When one landed directly on the paper Hutch had just finished typing, he got his reaction, though hardly the one he was hoping for.
"Knock it off, will you? You’re getting butter all over the reports!"
Starsky wasn’t about to give up that easily. "Nope", he said evenly. "It’s called doing upper arm exercises, hand-eye coordination and all that. Making an accurate shot with one a these takes a lot of skill. You wouldn’t want to impede my training, now would’ja?"
There was a pause while Hutch seemed to carefully evaluate the situation.
Come on, Starsky thought, let go a little. It was with a vague sense of hope that he flicked one last kernel into his partner’s lap.
It had taken a lot of goading, but Starsky finally got his wish. Instead of answering, Hutch grabbed a handful of popcorn and made a lunge at his partner, thus precipitating a careful-but-enthusiastic wrestling match on the couch, each man vying for the upper hand while popcorn flew on all sides. At one point Starsky actually had Hutch off-balance enough that he slipped to the floor, but not without taking Starsky with him. The blond positioned himself with great care to be sure that his own body served as a mattress for the other.
"Give?" Starsky asked, huffing a little from his perch atop Hutch’s chest.
It was to be a short-lived victory. "What do you think?" Hutch deftly flipped his partner back up onto the couch and this time managed to pin Starsky’s four limbs securely against the cushions. "Ah, ah", he warned as the body beneath him wriggled furiously, "this can only get worse for you from here. I suggest you lose graciously and surrender while you still can."
Recognizing his own position as hopeless, Starsky finally acknowledged defeat, of a sort. "All right!" he laughed. "You win…this time. Chalk it up as a bad idea, ‘kay?"
It had been too long since they had played as freely as this and it seemed to soothe an aching need, long denied but deeply felt in each man. The uninhibited laughter had also served to relieve a lot of pent-up tension and probably most important of all, the gentle wrestling - though undertaken with extreme caution now - no longer belonged only to the distant past.
Hutch finally settled for ditching the remains of the popcorn down the front of Starsky’s shirt, and announced - with as much dignity as the dusting of corn hulls in his hair would allow - that he was going to the kitchen to get some beer. "Find us a movie, will you? The reports can wait."
Starsky’s grin was radiant. His off-the-cuff parting comment, "Maybe if we dressed you up like a whale…", earned him the overturned bowl on his head.
FEBRUARY 11, 1980
Scanning the ancient magazines in the waiting room while actively dreading his monthly doctor’s exam, Starsky was reminded once again of how bleak a day could look when one was sleep-deprived. Between the disturbing dreams and the muscle spasms courtesy of yesterday’s idiotic overexertion at the gym, neither he nor Hutch had gotten more than a few hours of rest before the alarm had gone off at six. If you’d of listened to your partner instead of trying to prove you had superpowers, you wouldn’t be feeling like this, the little voice inside his head scolded him. The fact that it was true helped not at all. He had also run out of hot water halfway through his shower, proceeded to trip over a pair of boots Hutch had casually discarded in the middle of the floor and - more than just a little grumpy by then - had nearly succeeded in picking a fight with him over breakfast.
Now this. He checked his watch again and swore under his breath. Were doctors ever on time? He had been kept simmering in the all-too-familiar beige waiting room for over an hour and a half past the scheduled time set for his appointment while Hutch, Ross, and McMahon followed up on the leads Mercury had given to him. That’s where I should be, he thought glumly, and if they don’t call me within the next five minutes I’m walkin’ right… In keeping with the rest of the day, the nurse chose that particular moment to summon him to the examination room. Terrific.
By the time the examination was over, the only thought left in Starsky’s mind was to get home, take a couple of pills, and go back to bed: the few parts of his body that hadn’t been hurting before were screaming at him now. A wave of nausea, no less severe for being expected, hit midway through the parking lot and he lost what little was left of his breakfast between two parked cars. The thought of curling up there and letting someone run him over held a momentary appeal, but he soon dismissed it. Way my luck is running today it wouldn’t finish me off, just earn me another stay in the hospital, he thought miserably, inching ever closer to where the Torino was parked. He was shaky enough by the time he got there to seriously question the wisdom of attempting the drive home, eventually concluding that the destination was close enough to merit the risk.
Willpower alone propelled him up the steps to the apartment, the desire to reach the telephone before it stopped ringing provided whatever other motivation he needed to get inside. Of course, it had stopped by the time he got to it.
Maybe I can just sleep until tomorrow, he thought as he reached into the medicine cabinet and retrieved the stronger variety of the available pain pills. He had just shaken two from the bottle when the telephone rang again, but this time he was ready for it.
"Hello?"
"Starsky", exclaimed an exasperated-sounding Huggy. "Finally. I’ve about had my fill of being your answering service today."
"What, Huggy?" He knew he sounded terse, but couldn’t help it. Now was not the time for anything but the briefest exchange of information.
"Well, Hutch has been tryin’ to get a hold of you for most of the day. Says to tell you that he got called into work, something about an extra body needed for a bust or words to that effect. Anyway he’ll be late."
Perfect, Starsky thought, resisting the urge to bang his head against the table. "Anything else?" he asked wearily.
"Yeah. Mercury wants a meet, says it’s important."
"When?"
"Oh, about half an hour ago."
Damn. He looked down at the pills in his hand, then over at the door.
"Starsky? You still there?"
"Yeah, I hear you. I’m on my way." With that he hung up, carefully returned the pills to their bottle, and grabbed his car keys. Mercury, this had better be worth a hell of a lot more than anything you’ve given us so far. Otherwise it won’t be Banks you have to worry about - I may just kill you myself.
It was during the seemingly endless walk down the park path that Starsky became fully cognizant of the folly of his decision. Aching everywhere, lightheaded from having nothing at all in his stomach, and far past the point of being tired, his body was letting him know in no uncertain terms that it was not going to cooperate for very much longer. What the hell am I doing, anyway? he wondered to himself. Should’ve stuck with Plan A, Mercury and her information be damned. Then again, Hutch wouldn’t be back until who-knew-when and even Ross and McMahon were away to parts unknown. What if it really is important?
The pacing figure with the bright red hair laid into him as soon as he was within visual range.
"Why am I bothering to help you if you can’t even go to the trouble to meet me when something comes up? Do you have any idea how long I’ve been waiting here? I called over an--"
Starsky could still hear her irate voice but could no longer make out the words as he put his head between his knees and made a valiant effort to not get the dry heaves on the park bench. Time passed and somewhere along the way the voice had stopped, or at least changed tone, and he felt hands touching his knees lightly.
"What’s the matter with you?" a much gentler Mercury was asking.
"Bad day", he almost hissed. "Just get on wi–"
"It’s more than that, surely. Maybe you should--"
"Look, you said it was important", he interrupted. "Will you just…" He stopped and took a breath. "Just tell me whatever it is so I can go home. Please." If that constituted begging, so be it.
He was struck by the fact that her entire demeanor seemed to have altered in the last few minutes, a gravity and refined competence replacing the slightly salacious wit to which he had become accustomed. Starsky had the strangest feeling that he wasn’t talking to Mercury anymore, but to someone else momentarily sharing her body. Then the effect was gone as quickly as it had appeared, leaving him to wonder if it wasn’t just an illusion brought on by his rather fuzzy state of mind. Right now he wasn’t trusting much of anything he might perceive.
She slowly got up and settled herself alongside of him. "All right, here it is. I’ve heard talk that something big is going down tomorrow around midnight at the old Mercherson warehouse. You know the one by the pier?" When he nodded, she continued. "Abolese is a definite. Al Richter, Johnny Mather, and someone called Tigo - I don’t know his real name - they’re all supposed to be there, maybe a few others, as well as a small group from out of town."
Herbert ‘Tigo’ Estell. Starsky quickly made a mental note. Tigo, it turned out, had been the mystery man with Mather from the other night’s stakeout.
"Richter used to belong to Maling," Mercury continued, " so it’s a safe bet that it’s a transaction of some sort, but those are all the details I have. Play your cards right and you might even get someone to lead you to Debaran. I guess it could’ve waited until tomorrow, but I’m heading out for a few days and I thought you’d like to know."
"Why?"
"’Why did I think you’d like to know’ or ‘why am I leaving’?"
"No." He rubbed his face, tried to clear his vision a little. "No, I mean why are you giving this to me? What do you get out of it?"
"Whose transaction do you think it is?" she asked with a grin.
"Banks", Starsky replied, dropping his head into his hands with a sigh. "Should’ve guessed."
"So where’s your blond shadow, anyway?" she asked, scanning the park. "Don’t tell me you forgot to bring him the one time he could actually do something useful."
"Busy", was all Starsky managed by way of reply.
Mercury sighed dramatically. "All right then. Give me your keys."
"What for?" He was vaguely aware of how dim the question sounded, but things were no longer clicking the way they should be.
"You’re in no condition to drive", she said patiently, "and if you kill yourself or someone else, you’ll be of no use to me whatsoever. Give me your keys and I’ll drive you home." She held out her hand expectantly.
When he didn’t immediately respond she started to laugh, seeming to find a degree of humor in his hesitance.
"What is it you think I’m going to do? We don’t share the same taste in cars, I’m not planning on abducting you, and - no offense to your obvious charms - I have no intention of doing anything that would involve either one of us undoing a zip. Besides," she added, leaning closer, "didn’t we already establish that you can’t afford me?" The extended hand still hadn’t moved.
"No one drives my car", Starsky replied shortly.
"Get over it", she said with equal brevity and an unblinking stare.
His mother had used that same tone with him when he was five years old, ordering him to spit out his gum. It had the same effect now and, reluctantly, he handed over his car keys. Score one for Mercury.
Once she had adjusted the seat and mirrors to her liking, they were underway. She was a surprisingly defensive driver and the trip itself was uneventful… until they were more than halfway home, when it occurred to Starsky that he hadn’t as yet given her any directions.
"Hey!" He tried unsuccessfully to straighten somewhat in his seat. "How do you…"
She glanced over at him with a casual smile and replied, "You don’t really expect me to answer that, do you? Relax. We’re almost there."
The number of things that were not adding up were increasing exponentially, but at that particular moment, he couldn’t have cared less. Starsky was grateful enough to be home by whatever means and would mull over the intricacies of their conversation at some much, much later time.
As she pulled into his usual parking space, she turned to him. "Will you be all right here alone?"
The question itself was unexpected, but the underlying sentiment startled him even more. It seemed so…genuine? "Yeah," he said finally. "I’ll be fine. Thanks." In truth, he wasn’t quite sure how best to tackle the steps - right now Mt. Everest could have presented no greater obstacle - but had no intention of sharing that with her. "How will you get back?" he asked, suddenly aware that she had no apparent means of transportation.
Mercury bounced out of the car and came over to his side, where Starsky was moving with deliberate slowness. Offering him her hand she said cheerfully, "Oh, I’ll hail a cab. They usually stop for me."
"Thanks", he said again. "Really."
There it was again, that same look that seemed to belong to another person altogether. Smiling, she gently asked, "You sure you’ll be okay?" When he nodded, she said, "Take care of yourself, hmm?" and tossed him the keys. "’Til next time." With a wink, she was off in the direction of the nearest main street.
By the time he was fumbling with the lock, he was no longer able to completely control his breathing. Once inside, he knew from the way the room was spinning that he had to lie down fast. Eschewing food for the time being, he grabbed the bottle of pills, extracted one more than the recommended dosage, and took them with a swallow of Hutch’s leftover coffee. Dragging himself to the couch he collapsed onto it, the sound of the telephone ringing in the far distance only partially registering as sleep overtook him.
~~~~~~~~~~
Hutch was mildly uneasy as he approached their apartment. He didn’t like the fact that he hadn’t been able to make contact with Starsky all day, but at the same time he knew that his partner was mobile now and under no obligation to wait at home for him. The unease grew to concern when he saw the Torino parked in it’s usual spot; it turned to worry when he entered the darkened apartment. Near-panic when he saw the recumbent figure on the couch.
"Starsky?" He approached slowly, fumbling with the lamp as he passed. Very quietly, "Starsk?" Still no response. It wasn’t until he was close enough to observe his partner’s slow and rhythmic breathing that he remembered to breathe himself. Pills. Must have taken some. Doctor’s appointment, pain…of course. Practiced fingers took a pulse anyway; he automatically counted respirations and felt for a fever. When all seemed to check out, he allowed himself to sink back against the coffee table, content for awhile just to watch the other man breathe.
Seeing Starsky in the daytime, active and involved in normal activities, it was relatively easy to cling to the illusion that the damage done to his body had been all but reversed. Sure, he was still underweight, tired quickly, and experienced periodic pain and shortness of breath, but he had also become remarkably adept at hiding those weaknesses. There were other times, though, that the reminders were harder to ignore and Hutch once again felt the weight of being the only one privy to the fuller truth. He saw what no one else was allowed to, knew the effort it took to put on the facade Starsky presented to the world at large. An ugly litany of realities played across his mind: the nausea caused by the required medication; the extreme pain when damaged muscles in his chest and abdomen would spasm and refuse to release; the speed at which Starsky’s body would give out entirely when fatigued. Now the nightmares. God yes, the nightmares. A relatively recent twist - flashbacks not only from the shooting, but from every other trauma he had faced in life - they alternately reduced the man either to a terrified child he rocked in his arms for hours or to a stranger who wanted to be left completely alone. In his zeal to prove that he was whole, Hutch sometimes wondered if Starsky wasn’t inadvertently finishing the job Gunther had started.
Yet Starsky was determined to return to active duty. The belief and determination that he would had often been the only thing that made the struggle seem worthwhile. Unfortunately, that increasingly likely scenario also happened to be the stuff of Hutch’s worst nightmares. When all was said and done, what he wanted most now - needed - was to keep his partner safe, loved, and permanently out of harm’s way. Conflicting needs, for the first time in our lives. Hutch also knew that he would have be the one to adapt, to find a way of controlling the fear.
When all other alternatives are unacceptable, you find a way to cope. Hutch scooted himself down to the end of the couch and began the delicate task of removing Starsky’s sneakers in such a way as not to disturb the sleeper. He watched for any sign of reaction and observed none, deep breathing the only visible indication of life. A freight train could come crashing through our living room and you wouldn’t even hear it, would you? Still, he arranged the afghan with equal care, allowing his fingers to linger briefly over the cheek they brushed before he finally turned away.
Halting mid-stride by the coffee table, Hutch distractedly toyed with the puzzle, fitting three more pieces into place as he banished his demons once again to the realm they occupied in his subconscious. Another day.
When over an hour passed and the sounds and smells coming from the kitchen had still failed to rouse his partner, Hutch decided to take a more proactive role. Placing a mug of coffee beside the half-completed puzzle on the coffee table, he crouched down alongside of the sleeping figure and did his best to coax him into consciousness.
"Starsk? Come on, babe. Time to wake up. Brought you some coffee. Come on." It took awhile, but his efforts were finally rewarded as the form reluctantly began to stir. An arm reached out, groping blindly.
"Hutsshh?"
Hutch captured the hand that first found his ear, then worked it’s way haltingly to a shoulder.
"Hey, welcome back to the land of the living."
"Wha –" Starsky tried to sit up, was stopped by a painful cramp, and settled back down on the couch with a moan. "What time is it?"
"After seven."
"At night?" he asked, amazed.
"Last time I looked. Dinner’s almost ready." Hutch gently smoothed back a few dark curls that sleep had left askew. "How many did you take, anyway?"
"Three."
He made a face. "Must’ve been one hell of a doctor’s visit."
Starsky flashed a weary grin as he made a more determined effort to sit up. "Yeah, well. It was fine until he tried to push his hand through my ribcage and out the other side." He grimaced, rubbing his chest lightly. "Damn near had to peel me off o’ the ceiling. Then Huggy called and I had to go meet Mercury."
"Oh? What’s happening on that front?" Hutch sat down beside him, fitting his hand against the back of the other man’s neck, massaging lightly as they talked in a gesture that had become so familiar over time he was no longer even fully aware of doing it. Noting the difficulty Starsky was having in situating himself comfortably, he reached for a pillow and casually handed it to him, waiting to see what would happen.
"Mmnn", Starsky mumbled, accepting both cushion and massage with equal appreciation and easing himself back a little. "Better."
Hutch breathed a sigh of relief. Lately a gesture like that was as likely to be met with open hostility as it was with gratitude and predicting which reaction was coming when was something he was still working on. His partner had made it abundantly clear that help was rarely welcome anymore unless he himself asked for it, and Hutch was at least making the effort to accommodate.
Starsky proceeded to fill his partner in on the particulars of the day’s events, highlighting some of the stranger aspects of his conversation with Mercury. "I don’t know", he said, wrapping up the narration. "Maybe she’s schizophrenic or something. It was like talking to two different people today and I feel like I didn’t really understand either of ‘em too well." He shifted position again and, seeming to conclude that Hutch made a better pillow anyway, leaned more of his weight onto his partner’s shoulder. "At least she’s a careful driver", he added with a yawn, almost as an afterthought. He stiffened as soon as the words left his mouth.
Hutch’s hand stopped mid-rub. "What did you just say?"
There was a pause Hutch recognized from long experience as his partner desperately searching for the best possible spin to put on an uncomfortable topic.
"Okay. First of all, you have to understand that I was feeling really lousy at the time", he began.
Hutch braced himself for whatever was to follow. "Go on."
"Well, I was there - we were there - and she didn’t think I should drive and…"
"Starsky…"
"…she drove me home", he finished simply.
Hutch let all of the various ramifications of that statement sink in before saying anything. When he did speak, it was to get a clarification.
"Let me get this straight", he said with exaggerated slowness. "You let a confidential informant - one that we still have some serious reservations about - drive your car and take you home to our apartment?"
"I know how it sounds, but –"
"She knows our address?"
"That’s another thing", Starsky said cryptically.
Hutch rubbed his eyes, letting his hand rest over his mouth for a few seconds while he debated whether or not he really wanted to ask the next question. It was only with great reluctance that he decided in the affirmative.
"What?"
"You’re not gonna like it."
"I figured that. Tell me anyway."
"She already knew our address, drove right to it. I get the impression that Mercury knows a lot more about us than we know about her and maybe it’s time we did something about that."
"Well, the background check Ross did certainly didn’t yield a wealth of information", Hutch said, simultaneously running through a mental checklist of available options. "I wonder if either of them have any contacts they can reach out to long distance, try and get a bit more." He shrugged. As uneasy as the situation made him, it was something that would have to be put on hold until tomorrow anyway, so there was no use dwelling on it tonight. Later.
"Not to change the subject," he said, doing precisely that, "but did the Doctor have anything new to say?"
"Not really", Starsky replied, relaxing again. "Everything looks, sounds, and feels like it should --" , he made quotation marks in the air, "—‘at this point in my recovery’. I need to work on increasing my lung capacity, appetite, and stamina, but can’t over do it. Get enough sleep. Must not - under any circumstances - get over-tired. Follow my medication schedule as written. Keep up with whatever physical therapy program is working for me. Hold hands while crossing the street, don’t take candy from strangers, and go and sin no more." He had memorized the standard speech long ago.
"He’s thorough, I’ll give him that", Hutch said with a chuckle. Turning more serious, "Did you bring up the ‘other’?" He cautiously referred to the flashbacks and nightmares using the euphemism Starsky seemed to prefer.
"Nah, he’s no shrink. He’d just send me to one and I’ve really had enough of doctors for awhile." Suddenly tense, he asked, "’Sides, we’re managing okay, aren’t we?"
"We’re doing fine", Hutch replied reassuringly, drawing his partner a little nearer. If that was the way Starsky wanted to play it and it didn’t seem to be causing any real harm, so be it. At least for the time being.
"Want dinner in bed tonight? I could fix up a tray."
"No, that’s okay. The way I feel now, you’d end up havin’ to pull my head up off the plate and that would be embarrassing." He yawned again, adding softly, "I’m not too hungry anyway."
"Have you eaten anything today?" Hutch found himself addressing a head of dark curls that had somehow ended up resting on his shoulder, the answering silence confirming what he had already suspected. Trying to keep at least some of the concern out of his voice, he offered, "Tell you what: I’ll heat up some of yesterday’s soup, draw you a hot bath, and after that, a massage."
Starsky’s head shot up, his face transformed into a mask of apprehension.
Hutch smiled. "The non-therapeutic kind this time, okay?"
"Sounds terrific", Starsky admitted, mid-yawn, contentedly returning to the shoulder. "So, did’ja catch all the bad guys?"
"What? Oh. I guess it all depends upon your perspective. We raided Ruth’s again." A sixty-eight year old grandmother of four with a penchant for knitting, Ruth also ran impressive high stakes poker games from her back parlor. "Let it never be said we didn’t do our part to protect the world from illicit five card stud."
"Really? Can’t imagine you were all that successful."
"We weren’t", Hutch admitted with a soft chuckle. "She made bail before I had the report typed."
"Well, there are some battles out there y’ just can’t win."
"Tell that to Lieutenant Reynolds", Hutch retorted. "It’s his obsession, I just went along as a token warm body. I have a theory, though, if you wanna hear it."
"Sure. Why not?" Starsky stretched his legs lazily.
"I think that Ruth and Reynolds provide each other with a reason to get out of bed in the morning. If either one of them actually won, they’d both probably cease to exist."
Starsky laughed at the thought. "It’s as good a theory as any", he said, settling in. Neither man was in any great hurry to move.
Stretched out on the bed later that evening, Starsky gave all indications of being fast asleep before Hutch had progressed the massage beyond his shoulders. The blond kept on anyway. Touch, he knew, was one of the most potent communicators of all and he often chose to let his hands give voice to what words seemed woefully inadequate to express. He hoped the gentle contact would convey at least some of the depth of feeling behind it and keep the monsters at bay, for a little while at least. For both of them.