Deadly Diversion - Part One
by
Mani
It was a cold, overcast Monday morning--nothing much out of the ordinary for a winter day in Bay City, California. Detective David Starsky’s candy apple red Torino sat parked in its usual location outside Metro police station. Inside, its owner and his partner, Detective Kenneth Hutchinson, tried to work amidst a squadroom bustling with hyperactivity. Despite the chaos of officer comings and goings and constant interruption by assorted clerks reaching over their heads, nothing seemed to disturb the pair. The always ravenous Starsky was all set to chow down on one of his typical ‘roach coach’ selections, while his partner did double duty catching up on the balance of the previous day’s reports.
"You almost done with that?"
"Almost." Hutch answered, invariably noticing what his partner was about to stuff into his mouth. "I’m almost afraid to ask. What is that?"
"Scrambled eggs, chorizo, peppers and salsa wrapped in a toasty warm tortilla. Want some?"
"No, no, way. I’m still having trouble believing you really eat that stuff first thing in the morning."
"Aw, come on, Hutch, gimme me a break, willya?"
Hutch shrugged and mentally wrote his partner off as a lost cause. He got up and placed the finished reports in the out box at the end of the desk. He was on his way back to his chair, and Starsky was just about ready to bite into his breakfast, when Captain Dobey poked his head out of his office door.
"You two, come in here!" he barked.
Starsky looked at Hutch and Hutch looked back at Starsky. Dobey’s head quickly did a disappearing act back into his office.
"Oh, oh." Starsky muttered.
"Yeah, what have you done now?"
Starsky got up and reluctantly left his breakfast behind, following his partner into their captain’s office. On their way in, it wasn’t lost on them that despite his blustery directive, Captain Dobey looked uncharacteristically calm.
"What’s up, Cap’n?" Hutch asked cautiously.
"Yeah, what’s shakin?" Starsky chimed in.
"Have a seat, you two."
Still mystified, both men took up their customary seats. Dobey looked at the both of them, not speaking for a while.
"C’mon, Cap’ don’t keep us in suspense." Starsky urged.
"You two ever hear of a mob informant named John Carlisle?"
"Nope, doesn’t ring a bell, how about you, Hutch?"
"It was all over this morning’s paper, Starsk. John Carlisle is testifying against Vincent Bartok, the leader of a mob organization suspected of operating an extensive extortion ring here in the States."
Starsky patted his partner on the shoulder. "Got to love that Hutch, got a memory like an steel trap."
"I’m glad at least one of you is up to speed." Dobey remarked.
"Don’t hate me cause I’m beautiful, Cap’."
Dobey, well used to Starsky’s foolishness by now, ignored the comment and handed a thick file folder across the desk. "You’ll find everything there is to know about Carlisle in there. The trial date is two weeks from this Thursday. As of today you two are on babysitting duty." He leaned forward and his girth pressed against the edge of the desk. He raised and pointed a stubby finger at the two of them.
"Hutch, I know I can count on you--Starsky…"
"Don’t say it, Cap’n, I’m way ahead of ya."
"Don’t worry, I’ll keep an eye on him." Hutch assured the captain.
"Look, I know you two have a love/hate relationship with the Feds, so I’m letting you know up front, this is their baby. The reason I’m assigning this to you is because I know you’re the best. But don’t forget, this is serious business, too. I’m putting my ass on the line, not to mention the department’s, so don’t make me regret it."
Starsky stood up and gave him a mock salute. "Aye, aye, Cap’n."
Dobey abruptly rose from his chair. "Starsky, now that’s exactly what I’m talking about!"
Hutch stood up and quickly ushered his partner out with a smile. "It’s okay Cap’n, don’t worry, we’ll keep you posted."
"See that you do!"
When the door shut, the exasperated man sat down in his chair and wearily covered his eyes, then let go a frustrated groan that could be heard clearly outside his office, even amongst the din.
********
On the other side of town, another set of individuals were being briefed by their ‘superior officer’, Roger Samuels, the editor-in-chief of Inside magazine. Samuels, a one-time enlisted man, posed an impressive figure. He held his conferences seated behind a huge mahogany desk, surrounded by expensive furnishings and lush hanging plants. Seated before him were a leggy female reporter named Maxine Garvey, and the assistant editor of the magazine, Alan Piper. Piper was a small, bespectacled fellow who liked to dress in tailored, three-piece suits. He was by all appearances the buttoned down, by the book type. But then, looks could be deceiving. He watched attentively while Samuels snipped the end off a cigar and held it unlit between his forefinger and thumb. He was now ready to respond to their presence.
"Good morning to you both."
"Good morning, Mr. Samuels." They answered simultaneously.
"I’m very pleased to have this opportunity to finally meet with you, Ms. Garvey."
"Same here, sir." she answered.
"I hear from Mr. Piper here that you’re the reporter responsible for the very impressive stories we’ve been putting out lately. I told him I wanted to meet you personally, instead of talking to you on the phone as we have in the past."
"It’s a privilege to meet with you as well, sir."
"The privilege is mine. I’ll have you know that it’s in no small part due to your previous efforts that I’m considering you for our next exposé."
Garvey’s eyes glowed with excitement. She wanted to leap out of her chair, but didn’t dare do it. "Really?"
"Really. As you know the mission of our magazine is to offer our subscribers a look into the questionable activities of those involved in organized crime." He took a sip from his coffee cup. "Naturally, this means that there are some pieces that have to be obtained under very stressful and sometimes unstable conditions. I can’t emphasize enough the importance of discretion and good judgment on your part."
"I understand."
Samuels rose and walked over to the slide projector. He hit the toggle button on the machine and turned it on. The motor spun and the fan whirred as it came to life. "Mr. Piper, lights please."
Piper got up and flipped off the overhead light switch. Samuels pressed the clicker for the slide. As Piper returned to his seat and looked on the screen, the first images to appear were artist’s renderings. At first glance, Maxine concluded that the individual being depicted was obviously of the hardened sort. But upon a more detailed observation, she discerned the refined intelligence of a man who possibly appreciated art and fine wines. There was definitely something behind the eyes that hinted at a deepness beyond that of just a hired gun.
"These are artist’s renderings of Mr. John Carlisle, an information source close to the FBI. He’s being escorted into the U.S. tomorrow to testify against members of a criminal organization run by Vincent Bartok, a wealthy businessman with connections in Japan and the United States."
Maxine’s brow furrowed. "Do you mind if I ask a question?
"By all means."
"Why the court renderings and no photos?"
"Good question. The answer to that is, except for a few very close acquaintances and members of his former organization, no one has ever seen him to photograph him. Most of the people he comes in contact with aren’t around for very long. And unfortunately for us no cameras were allowed at previous trials." The next slide came up and Samuels continued. "Because of this the police and the FBI have him very well guarded. We think our readers would like an insider’s account of Carlisle’s treatment en route, during and after the trial."
The machine noisily advanced from a dark screen to the next slide. The next pictures were actual photos and not artist renderings as before. What stared back at the three of them were two very intimidating looking Anglo and four Asian men, all wearing business suits and permanent scowls hidden behind very dark sunglasses.
"These are some of the members of Bartok’s organization who are going to try to assassinate Carlisle before he can testify. They’ll be looking for any opportunity to try and get to him. The FBI and the police will also be watching anyone who tries to get near him."
Samuels shut off the projector, and walked over to her. "You need to tell me now, do you think you can handle this assignment?"
She didn’t hesitate. "Yes sir, I can."
"Good, that’s what I wanted to hear." Samuels shook her hand heartily and turned his attention to Piper. "Mr. Piper, please see to it that Ms. Garvey is provided with all the effects she needs." He turned to her once more. "Ms. Garvey, don’t hesitate to contact us should you need assistance."
Mr. Piper, quiet for most of the briefing, nodded proudly and smiled at his protégé.
"Thank you sir." she said, smiling back at the two of them.
********
By mid-day the heat from the afternoon sun had somewhat dissipated the dewy haze of the morning. Starsky expertly maneuvered his bright red Torino through the crowded downtown traffic like an experienced racecar driver. As he and his partner wound their way toward the hotel where Carlisle was being sequestered, Hutch busily immersed himself in the file on the elusive John Carlisle.
"Man, this guy’s got a list of priors longer than my arm. No wonder the Feds are so protective of him."
"Like what, for instance?"
Hutch flipped through the file. "Oh, just a little assault and battery, arson, armed robbery…and that’s just here in the States."
"Oh, terrific."
"My sentiments exactly."
"Those Feds are gonna be breathin’ down our necks the whole time. Any ideas yet how we’re gonna do this?"
"We do what we’re supposed to do. Keep our eyes and ears open and keep him alive."
"Sounds easy enough."
Starsky pulled up to the curb in front of the hotel and parked. Both men got out and flashed their badges, strolling up to the entrance and right into the lobby with no problem. Starsky brought up the rear while Hutch approached the desk clerk. He looked up at them and waited until one of them spoke.
Hutch flashed his badge again. "I’m Detective Hutchinson, and this is Detective Starsky, we’re here to…"
The clerk cut him off with a bored, "Follow me," then stepped from behind the counter.
Hutch stole a look at Starsky, who was likewise mystified by the clerk’s behavior. They soon found themselves following him as he led them up to the Penthouse level of the hotel. On that floor, four plain-clothed Federal agents were gathered outside the door of one suite. As the two men came forward with the clerk, two agents, both with rather obvious high differences, cut them off.
"You guys are on your own." The clerk told them, then disappeared from sight.
The two partners shrugged and moved towards the guarded door.
"Hold it right there. Identify yourselves." The taller of the two agents directed.
"Detective Hutchinson." Hutch flashed his badge and smiled, politely offering his hand to the tall agent for him to shake. It was flatly ignored.
"Detective Starsky here." Starsky was serious as he flashed his badge, and after witnessing his partner’s gaffe, he didn’t bother offering his hand.
"You two must be the guys BCPD assigned to help escort our pigeon to his destination." The shorter agent deduced.
Hutch nodded. The short agent knocked on the door.
A voice answered the knock. "Identify yourself."
"Detectives Starsky and Hutchinson are here. Requesting entry."
The door was unlocked and the shorter man stood aside to allow the two partners in. Starsky went in first, but in a gentlemanly manner stopped beside the door long enough to let his partner in ahead of him.
"After you, Blondie."
Hutch walked in, wagging his finger at his partner and looking just a little embarrassed. "Cool it, Starsky."
Once inside the room, a very large, very intimidating guard stood just inside the doorway. Both men jumped as he closed the door menacingly and secured it behind them.
Starsky looked up at the intimidating fellow. He gulped and smiled at him. "Hey, how ya doin’?"
There was no response. He pointed a large finger in the direction they should go and motioned for them to move forward.
"Tough room." Hutch responded under his breath.
"Must be the tall, silent type."
The detectives were led through a maze of hallways, one of which went past a balcony where three other agents seemed to be on a break. They continued on through a labyrinth of unguarded doors, until they were finally told to stop at one that opened into a guestroom. The burly agent escorting them stopped short of the door.
"Wait here." he ordered, and then left.
"This is gettin’ kinda strange." Starsky remarked.
"No kidding."
"So where do you think Mr. Popular is?"
Just as Hutch was about to answer, a disembodied voice issued forth from a dark corner of the room.
"Gentlemen."
Hutch turned around to try and see where the voice was coming from. Starsky strategically adjusted his position for a better view. When the dark figure came into the light, Starsky could have sworn he was looking at a character from out of one of those Christopher Lee horror flicks.
"Better watch your neck." Starsky whispered to Hutch.
"Quiet, Starsk."
Then the man of mystery came out from the shadows; he was dressed in an expensive bathrobe and slippers. He walked over to them and graciously shook their hands.
"Please, sit down, won’t you?"
The partners looked around for some familiar place to sit, but seeing nothing closely resembling that, they reluctantly took seats on the only objects available, two very stiff throw pillows. Starsky managed to sit down on his without spilling over, but Hutch, being the taller of the two men found the task a little more difficult to achieve. Obviously, this was some depraved interior designer’s attempt at humor, he thought. Finally, with time and a little embarrassment, he was able to remain stationary.
"May I offer you gentlemen a beverage?"
"Whatcha got?" Starsky asked.
"Starsky." Hutch chided him.
"Right, we never drink on duty." he answered sarcastically.
"I’d like you two to try something I brought back from my last trip to Japan."
"Really, we can’t."
Carlisle ignored Hutch’s demurrals and went over to a table where an ornate teapot with several small teacups sat on a small tray. He brought the tray over to where the two men were sitting and poured three cups of tea. He handed one cup to Starsky.
Starsky leaned toward his partner as he took it. "Whaddya think this is?" Starsky whispered.
Hutch took his cup from Carlisle. "Sake, Starsk. It’s a traditional Japanese rice wine."
"Oh."
Carlisle took a seat on the floor in front of them. He held the cup up and away from him and prepared to take a sip.
"Kanpai, gentlemen."
"Kanpai." Hutch followed his lead.
Starsky imitated Hutch. "Kanpai."
"Drink, drink up." Carlisle urged.
Hutch held the cup in both hands and sipped the tea slowly. Starsky followed suit, except he drank his down in one gulp. Carlisle set his cup down on the tray and waited for both of them to finish before he questioned them. Hutch put down his cup and set it on the tray as well.
"You’re the policemen who are going to be escorting me to the trial, am I right?"
"Right. Starsky and I will be your decoys in route to the courthouse, right, Starsk?" Hutch replied. "Right, Starsky?" he repeated.
When he didn’t get an answer right away, he turned to his partner and saw that Starsky looked a little strange. Maybe even a light-headed probably due to strength of the sake. He placed a steadying hand on his friend’s shoulder.
"Hey, you all right?"
"What?"
"You okay, partner?"
Starsky shook himself free of the lightheaded feeling. "Whoo, yeah."
"You’ll have to forgive my partner, you’d think he’d never had sake before."
"Well, it is pretty strong, especially on an empty stomach. He’ll be all right though. So, have you worked out a plan?" Carlisle inquired.
"According to our captain, the FBI has arranged at least two separate routes leading to the courthouse. At least one of those that we’re aware of, will be a red herring. Starsky and I will be there to make sure you get where you’re going in one piece." Hutch replied.
"When this is over, I guess I’ll owe you two big time."
"Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, gotta get you to the courtroom first." Starsky managed to reply.
********
Maxine Garvey was up early Tuesday morning, preparing herself for the possibility of a productive day. Several pairs of shoes, undergarments, wigs, sunglasses, and a dingy, weathered old coat lay on the daybed in the living room. She was going over in her head the strategy she would use to approach her subject, John Carlisle, when the phone rang. She rushed over to pick it up.
"Hello?"
"Good morning, Max, it’s Allan."
"Good morning, Allan. What’s goin’ on?"
She pulled the phone cord around the coffee table with her to sit down.
"Just checking in to see if you needed anything. How’s the apartment?"
"It’s very nice as usual, Allan. I’ve already thought up some ideas on how to get in. Why don’t you tell me what I’m up against?"
"It’s like Samuels said, the police, the Feds and Bartok’s inner circle. The most important thing is, whatever you do, they can’t know that you’re a reporter and you can’t help law enforcement in any way, the whole operation must run without interference."
"I’m hip to that. I’ll be a fly on the wall, baby. Don’t you worry." She consulted her watch. "Look, I’ve got to go, I’ll talk to you later."
"Good luck."
"I don’t need luck, Allan. But thanks anyway."
She hung up the phone and she walked over to the hallway closet, pulled out a huge garment bag and stuffed the clothes and the coat into it, zipped it up and flung it over a chair. She took the shoes and several other small articles and put them into a light travel bag. She disappeared into the bathroom and a few seconds later came out looking completely put together, grabbed both bags and took them out the front door with her, mindful to lock it on her way out.
A white convertible Mustang sat outside her apartment. When everything was loaded into the back seat, Garvey slid in, put on her sunglasses and turned the key in the ignition. When the motor sprung to life, she put the car into gear, smiled a satisfied smile and sped off.
Twenty minutes later Garvey pulled the Mustang to a stop in front of the garage of a craftsman style duplex. She opened the glove compartment and pulled out a remote control, signaling the garage door to open. It all seemed very routine, as if she’d done it all before. She pulled the car inside, the interior lights coming on automatically as the door closed.
********
Hutch stood before one of the large picture windows in the penthouse staring out at the magnificent view it offered, the cleft in his brow clearly furrowed. Starsky kept carefully quiet, after working together all this time, it was second nature for him to know when his golden-haired partner needed time to mull things over.
"Okay, that’s long enough. What’s goin’ on in that blond noggin of yours?" Starsky prompted.
"I’m thinking about how we’re going to get Carlisle out of here without getting him or ourselves killed."
"I’ve been thinking the same thing. The crazy thing is, we don’t even know who we’re dealing with."
Carlisle came into the room quietly, hidden in shadow.
"Never fear, gentlemen. I‘m well acquainted with my former employer’s habits. I’ll tell you all I know." Carlisle said, his voice again seeming to come from out of nowhere.
"I wish you wouldn’t do that." Starsky said.
Carlisle moved into the sunlight. "I’m sorry. We have a lot to talk about. Won’t the two of you please sit down?"
Hutch looked down at the pillows, making a slightly sour face. "Ah, I’ll stand if you don’t mind."
Starsky, having had no trouble the first time around, grinned cockily and propped himself up on the throw pillow across from Carlisle. While his partner leaned against a nearby wall.
"What can you tell us about Bartok?"
"Well, I know that he’s a very patient man. He’s waited a long time to get to me. I don’t think he’s going to let a little obstacle like the FBI or two undercover cops get in his way, if you know what I mean."
Hutch folded his arms across his chest. "Do you have any idea how this guy works? What his M.O. is?"
"Judging from what I’ve seen in the past, his men don’t act without being led. They usually wait for the other side to make a tactical error. That’s when they make their move."
"Well, if they’re gonna be poppin’ up from outta nowhere like you do, I’m tellin’ ya right now, we’re in for a lot of trouble."
"I’m curious, what happened, what made you turn informer?" Hutch asked.
"Some might call it an attack of conscience, I call it an epiphany. After being his right hand man for the last fifteen years, I came to the realization that Bartok’s existence depends upon having someone as his enforcer, his muscle. That was his power. It meant that I was a device that fed the machine, and once I was gone, he would just promote someone else to take my place. In essence, it meant that I was expendable. And that’s not how I wanted to exist for the next fifteen years."
"So you’d make good on his threats using intimidation and elimination." Hutch guessed.
"For starters."
"The main thing is, how are we gonna know when they get here?" Starsky queried.
"You won’t."
"Well, the trial’s two o’clock next Thursday, we’d better think of something quick before they get here." Hutch said.
********
On Wednesday, at about mid-morning, several men got off a private plane landing at Bay City airport. On close examination, they vaguely resembled the men on the slides shown to Garvey and Piper at Exposé magazine. There were at least twelve men, each of differing shapes and races, with an even combination of Caucasians and Asians. All of them were dressed stylishly, their eyes concealed behind sunglasses. No one spoke; gestures seemed to be enough to communicate with one another. A finger movement and waiting baggage clerks quickly whisked their accompanying luggage away, loading them into four waiting limousines.
In the center of this entourage was an elderly gentleman guarded by two security men, both tattooed and tough looking. They walked beside him with their hands held in close proximity to their weapons. Thus making it apparent to any would-be aggressor that crossing them was done at their own peril. The men divided themselves among the four cars and the chauffeur of the lead car pulled off while the rest followed close behind.
Bartok leaned his back into expensive leather upholstery and pulled a cigar from its holder, in an instant a lighter appeared.
"Where are they holding him?" Bartok asked, puffing on the now lit cigar.
His lead man, Crandall Grimes, sat beside him.
"The Imperial Hotel downtown. He’s heavily guarded." Grimes put the lighter back into his jacket pocket.
"Federal agents and police, I presume."
"Yes."
Bartok’s eyes found his number two man, Franklin Manville. Again, no verbal directives were necessary, just a simple nod and the man instantly knew what to do.
Manville picked up the limo phone, dialed a number, said, "We’re on our way," into the receiver and then hung up.
Grime’s continued. "Our reservations are at the Miyako hotel, which is within walking distance of the hotel where Carlisle is being secured. The rest of the men are positioned and ready to proceed on your order, sir."
"That’s fine." Bartok answered. When Grimes rose to leave, Bartok reached out and grabbed the man’s arm with such force he thought he might have broken it. Such was the ferocity of his well-harnessed anger. "Crandall, I want you to tell your men to use caution, but above all..."
"Yes sir?" Grimes winced.
"Tell them that failure is not an option."
"Yes, sir."
Bartok released Grimes’s arm then, freeing him to return to the seat opposite his. Bartok closed his eyes and took a long, slow drag off his cigar and then laughed, a long, hearty, wicked sounding laugh. Manville looked at Grimes, expecting him to be grimacing in pain from the near bone crushing assault. Instead, Grimes was holding his bruised arm and smiling.
********
In the Imperial hotel, just a few feet away from Carlisle’s heavily guarded room, the doors to the elevator slid open, a cleaning cart was pushed out of the elevator and onto the carpeted corridor. The agents on the outside, sluggish after a huge meal, were slow to detect the heavyset black cleaning lady who strolled in, her face partially obscured by long, graying hair.
The woman began to softly hum as she unlocked the door to the cleaning closet. She pulled out some cleaning supplies and other items and put them down on the cart, closing and locking the supply door. After she’d finished loading her cart, she continued pushing it down the hallway, still humming softly to herself.
********
Inside Carlisle’s suite, Starsky paced back and forth like a caged animal. While his cool and collected blond partner Hutch, played solitaire on the coffee table in the living room, far away from those damned throw pillows.
"Hey, Hutch, I’m going stir crazy. Can’t we go out or somethin’?"
"Why don’t you just go out on the balcony and get some air?"
"We’re twenty-two flights up, dummy. You know I hate heights."
"So, don’t look down."
Problem solved, Hutch continued with his game, while Starsky apprehensively wandered out onto the balcony, staying well away from the railing.
********
The cleaning woman continued to roll the cart down the long corridor, triggering one of the wheels to squeak loudly, bringing her presence to the attention of the taller of the two agents. He looked up and then roughly shoved his partner.
"Hey, what are you doing up here?!" he yelled.
Before she could answer him, both men were out of their chairs and racing the two feet where she stood, knocking over the cart and tackling her to the floor in the process.
"Aah, aah! What I do? Ya crazy, let me up"!
The two agents were still on the floor holding down the woman’s legs and were trying to secure her arms behind her when the commotion brought Starsky and his partner out of the suite to see what was going on. In seconds, they had blown past the guard, flinging the door open with their guns drawn. Upon seeing the two agents and the harmless trespasser they had captured, they lowered their weapons and returned them to their holsters.
Hutch shook his head. "What’s going on out here?"
"What’s it look like?" asked the tall agent sarcastically. The woman was still struggling under his grasp.
"Looks to me like they sacked the cleaning lady." Starsky remarked.
"C’mon fellas. She looks harmless enough. Let her up." Hutch suggested.
The two agents reluctantly released the woman. "She’s not even supposed to be up here, this is a restricted floor." The shorter agent stated matter of factly.
Hutch knelt down next to her. The woman was wringing her hands nervously, obviously distressed by the whole situation. He tried to calm her, supporting her back as she got to a sitting position against the wall. Starsky knelt on her right, while the two agents kept a watchful and suspicious eye on all three of them.
"Calm down, all right?" Hutch instructed the agents, and then turned to the woman. "Are you okay?
"You’ll have to forgive these two, they really love their jobs." Starsky informed her.
When she spoke, her words were a confusing jumble of West Indian patois. "Everting irie. They jes a-scared I witless is all! Lord all mighty, I never see such a ting."
Strangely, the blond seemed to grasp all this. "They got just a little overzealous, ma’am. Come on, let us help you up." Hutch offered.
Hutch took hold of the woman by her right shoulder and elbow while Starsky grabbed her on the opposite side. With their assistance she was able to get her to her feet. Of course, her first thought was to immediately try and right the heavy cart.
Starsky restrained her. "Hey, hey, hey! Let those two get that!"
"Go ahead guys, it’s the least you could do." Hutch insisted.
The two agents halfheartedly righted the cart and picked up each and every spray bottle and cleaning rag from its resting place on the floor, and then put them back on the cart.
"There you go, ma’am." The taller agent said, pushing it over to her.
"Now say you’re sorry, like good little boys." Starsky insisted.
"We’re sorry--ma’am." The agents responded begrudgingly.
The woman nodded at them and straightened out her uniform, then smiled at Hutch, who smiled back. Then she did something very strange, she took his chin in her hand and looked into his eyes.
"You are good man. I can see dis clear. So no worry, I mean to cause no trouble."
"It’s no trouble at all, ma’am." Hutch answered, blushing a little.
Starsky knotted his brow. "Yeah, we’re here to help. Hey, ya mind if I ask you somethin’ though?"
"I will answer, if I am able."
"How did you get up here?"
The housekeeper gave him a big sheepish grin. "It no magic, if that what you be thinkin’. I come up di wrong floor, dat all it be, no big ting."
"Oh."
And with that, the woman pushed her cart towards the elevator, summoned it, and departed just as curiously as she’d arrived, leaving the four men standing scratching their heads, literally and figuratively.
"How about that?" Hutch asked his partner.
"Mighty strange if you ask me."
Excitement over, the two partners walked back to the penthouse door and knocked on it to be let back in. No response.
"Hey, Bruno, open up!" Starsky yelled.
"What’s the password?" The agent responded through the door, obviously finding this situation humorous.
"What password? Do you remember a password, Starsk?" Hutch asked.
"Nope."
"Hey, Bruno, would you let us in please?" Hutch requested.
Then Starsky got an idea. "Hey Bruno, open up, I got somethin’ for ya."
Curiosity peaked, the door opened and the agent looked out. "Like what?"
"This!" Starsky reared back and sucker punched him in the nose.
"OW!" howled the burly agent.
"Starsky!" Hutch yelled.
Starsky walked right past the big man without looking at him. "That’ll teach ya to play games with the hired help."
"Nice, Starsk, piss off the big guy with the gun." Hutch remarked as he walked past the guard. Bruno was now leaning with his back against the door, gingerly examining his nose.
"What, it worked didn’t it?"
"I think you broke it!" Bruno grumbled.
Hutch rolled his eyes at his partner and put his hand on Bruno’s shoulder. "You’ll be okay. Why don’t you see if you can find some ice for that?"
The big man followed the blond’s instructions, holding his bruised proboscis all the way into the kitchen. Hutch patted him on his back as he walked past them.
"Let’s see what Carlisle’s up to."
"Lead the way." Starsky replied.
Both men set off towards the backroom to find Carlisle. When they stepped into his room, it caught them off guard to find him sitting on his bed meditating. They stopped in their tracks. Hutch cautiously approached him. "Mr. Carlisle? Ah…Mr. Carlisle? We’d like to go over the preliminary route with you once more so you know what’s going on Thursday…"
Carlisle didn’t respond. He remained in a deep meditative state, legs crossed beneath him.
"Mr. Carlisle? Did you hear me?"
He emerged from his trance. "I heard you."
"Good. We’d like to go over the itinerary with you again."
Carlisle peeled his legs from underneath him and extended them until his toes touched the floor. He got off the bed, patting his stomach as all three walked out to the kitchen and sat at the table.
"Before we do this, gentlemen, I’ve heard so many stories about the coffee and donuts popular with you policemen out here. Does either of you know where could we get some? I am famished."
"Coffee shop downstairs…" Starsky replied, and then looked hopefully at his partner.
"You know the Feds won’t go for that." Hutch reminded him. "We can’t even order room service."
"Yeah, I know, I know. Possibility of a security breach."
"Come now, you guys look like some pretty smart cookies. I know you can figure out a way to get something up here."
"A man after my own stomach." said Starsky.
"Starsky! We can’t take him out of this room, let alone past the guards outside."
Starsky gave his partner one of his patented, ‘that’s what you think’ faces and then ushered Carlisle back toward his room. "I don’t know about you, but my stomach’s doin’ flip-flops and somersaults over here. If I don’t get at least a donut and a cup of coffee, my brain’s gonna be toast."
"Oh, and that be a major departure from the norm for you, wouldn’t it?"
"Ha, ha. Very funny."
Carlisle stood in the doorway. "I don’t think anyone ever said that you and Mr. Hutchinson couldn’t go down for something, now did they?"
Hutch thought about that a minute, then he realized Carlisle was right, no one had. He followed Starsky out of the room, and then yelled back at Carlisle. "I’ll have Starsky bring you back a bear claw!"
"Good!" Carlisle yelled back. "I take my coffee black, no sugar!"
********
The hotel’s coffee shop was accessible from the lobby and the elevator let the two partners off at ground level. During the ride down, Starsky went on and on about the white lie he’d told the two agents to get them out of the suite, and Hutch was still rollicking with laughter. When they entered the restaurant they made an extra effort to compose themselves, but to no avail. They were so glad to be out of that room for five minutes that they even failed to notice the small legion of black limousines parked in front of the hotel across the street.
Hutch went over to the waitress standing behind the counter. "E…excuse me, miss? Ah…could I get three coffees please, two black, no sugar."
"No problem." she answered.
"Make one of those coffees to go. And two bear claws, please." Starsky added.
The waitress didn’t take long to fill their order and the two of them remained at the counter to enjoy their brief respite.
Outside, the limousine occupants filed out and made their way into the lobby of the Miyako. Bartok was the last to get out of the vehicle, and just as he was heading for the entrance, a filthy looking, toothless old bag lady carrying several mesh bags teeming her belongings came from out of nowhere. She walked into his path and held out her hand.
"Help an old lady? A dollar...some spare change?"
Bartok’s men were quick to act and seized her as she approached him. Too quick. Bartok stopped them.
"It’s all right, gentlemen. Those of you who have only been with me a short time will soon learn. Although some consider me cruel and heartless, I do have one caveat. I do not allow insensitivity or indifference when dealing with those less fortunate than ourselves. Release her, and as restitution for your ignorance, I would have you dig deeply into your pockets."
The men didn’t question the order they were given; they simply pulled out several bills from their pockets and handed them to the woman, which she graciously accepted.
Her face lit up with happiness as she shook the hands of both men. "Thank…you…I’m gonna eat now…I’m gonna eat real good."
Bartok was then led inside the hotel, leaving the bag woman to shuffle off across the street and into the very same coffee shop where Starsky and Hutch were finishing their coffee and donuts. The bag lady came in, and the putrid smell of something rotten wafted in with the mesh bags she carried. As she trudged up to the counter, she placed the bags on top. Starsky made a visible face.
"Aw, man-come on. Give a guy a break, willya lady?"
The waitress made a face also. "Hey! Hey! You can’t put that stuff there."
The bag lady didn’t seem the least bit concerned. "I just want me some coffee and…and a piece of that there pie over there…that’s all. I got money."
By now the waitress and the two partners were discreetly holding their noses.
"Ma’am, ma’am… Could you at least take those bags off the counter?" Hutch asked.
"Okay, okay, okay…" she agreed.
The woman removed the bags but relocating them only seemed to worsen the strength of the odor. Starsky picked up the bear claw and moved from his seat.
"Whew, man, let’s go back up, okay?" he whispered.
"I’m with you."
Starsky was the first one to dart into the waiting elevator, with Hutch a close second. Just before the doors closed, they looked out and saw the bag lady smiling and waving at them, while the waitress, still grimacing, prepared her order.
Content now, the woman took her bags over to a far corner of the shop. She returned to the counter for the coffee and the pie and brought them with her to a table. She sat down and eagerly devoured a large forkful of the pie. Just as she was about to sip her coffee, her eyes caught sight of whatever was going down in front of the hotel across the street.
Bartok’s men were up to something all right, and while there was no sign of Bartok, several of them were filing out of the building and crossing the street to the main lobby of the Imperial. She watched with interest as they entered and disappeared from sight. She got up then, leaving the unfinished food and her bags behind.
The waitress shouted after her. "Hey lady, you can’t leave that stuff here!
The waitress’s admonishment went unheeded, for the activities of the visitors outside had distracted the woman’s attention. She exited the coffee shop and entered the Imperial through a side door. Watching the men closely, but guardedly, she employed a large potted plant in the lobby as cover to watch them as they approached the desk clerk.
The clerk looked up. "Can I help you gentlemen?"
Grimes stepped up, his face as devoid of emotion as a brick wall. "We need access to the penthouse floor."
The clerk looked up, fully aware the area was off limits. "I’m sorry, sir, but the penthouse floor has been reserved until next Friday morning."
The clerk’s trembling hand reached under the desk, fumbling for the alarm trip button. As he searched, one of Grimes’s men came at him from behind and cold cocked him with the butt of his gun, the clerk’s body slumped to the floor and Grimes stepped over it when he came around the desk. His sole purpose appeared to be gaining access to the contents of the clerk’s desk drawer. Upon discovering a concealed section inside, he pulled out what he was looking for, a duplicate log. He flipped through it single-mindedly and a self-satisfied look came upon his face when he found what he was looking for.
Grimes kneeled down and whispered into the unconscious clerk’s ear. "It appears the penthouse is no longer reserved." He dropped the logbook on the floor and stepped out from behind the counter. "All right, he’s in Penthouse B, twenty-second floor. Let’s go." He led the way toward the elevators.
As they crossed to the elevator, an unknown photographer caught their movements in a quick series of freeze frame images.
The bag lady hastily tucked an object into the pocket of her dingy coat and hurried out of the hotel and over to a nearby telephone booth. Digging into deep pockets again, she found what she was looking for, a dime. She slipped it into the slot and dialed anxiously.
"Hello, Allan?"
"Yes, this is Allan. Maxine?"
She turned and closed the telephone booth door. "Yes, it’s me. I think I’ve got something." She removed two blackened caps from her teeth.
"What? Are you okay?"
She hunched closer to the phone as if fearing someone would hear her. "They’re here, Allan. I got pictures."
"Good, good, have you seen Carlisle yet?"
"No, not yet. He’s up in the penthouse. But I know who the good guys are, and I know who the bad guys are. And that’s half the battle. You were right, getting close to him is not going to be easy."
"Never said it would be. What’s your next move?"
"I’m going back to the apartment. I must change into something more appropriate. I’ve got to get a job."
"A job?"
"Trust me, Allan, it’ll be a gas. I’ll talk to you later."
"Okay. Let me know what happens."
Maxine hung up the phone, hunching her body over to once again to become the old woman. Bagless, she inconspicuously shuffled off in the direction of the craftsman house.
********
It was early Thursday evening and in a reserved portion of the Miyako hotel dining room, a huge meal had been served and subsequently cleared away. Grimes’s men had eaten heartily and they stood around the room fidgeting with nervous energy, ready for some kind of activity to burn off the meal. Crandall Grimes, a toothpick resting in his teeth, leaned over to exchange a few words with Bartok.
"Sir, the men are restless and I daresay stuffed like pigs, would you grant your permission allowing them access to the bar downstairs?"
"Hmm. They’ve had a long flight and a difficult assignment ahead of them. I see no reason why you and your men shouldn’t be able to enjoy a bit of entertainment in the meantime. Tell them to keep to themselves and not to overdo it. Oh, Grimes, do remember…"
"Yes, sir?
"You’re in charge down there. Don’t let things get of hand."
"I won’t. Thank you sir." He bowed to Bartok, and then turned to his men.
"You heard him. Downstairs."
The men readily followed him down the carpeted stairs and into the lobby. As they approached the hotel’s bar, Grimes opened the door, and the loud thump of a dance song blared into the hallway. As they piled into the room, and the solid oak door shut behind them, there was absolute silence.
"Remember, behave yourselves and don’t overdo it. I’ll keep an eye on things out here." Grimes notified them.
Despite the warning, in minutes the orderly gathering became a free for all, as some of the men went to the bar for drinks and others went to the club section to watch the entertainment. Hours passed while the men threw caution to the wind and overdid the drinking. Grimes, who was now watching the dancers himself, became so engrossed in their captivating beauty that he no longer paid attention to his men.
When the second set ended, an announcer came on stage and approached the microphone. "Gentlemen, I want to thank you for coming and welcome you all to the Club Miyako. Right now on our stage, I’d like to introduce you to two of our newest dancers, will you please welcome…Cleo and Renee!!!
The announcer left the stage and much applause ensued as dance music began to play and two very striking women, one black; the other Asian, came onstage and started their routine. They wore scanty costumes accompanied by fishnet stockings and high heels. Their routine was not professional, but for a roomful of drunken men, it proved very entertaining.
When their set ended, the men got loud and rowdy again, clapping and yelling for more. Maxine smiled as she went offstage. It confirmed in her mind that even though these men were trained killers, they were still men and therefore predictable.
Grimes, now aware of the complexity of the situation and realizing the possibility that he wouldn’t be able to control his men in their agitated states, walked through the crowd and over to the bartender. His manner was agitated, but calm.
"I need to see your boss. Right now."
The bartender sensed that the man meant business. "No problem, I’ll go get him." He walked into a back room and returned shortly with another man. He was a short, rumpled character with a badly trimmed mustache and a scraggly beard. By the look on his face it was evident he was used to having money thrown at him on a regular basis.
"I’m the owner, Ed Fleischmann. Sam here said you wanted to see me."
"Mr. Fleischmann, I need to get my men out of here. I know of only one way. I want to make you an offer."
The man looked faintly interested. "What have you got in mind?" He backed off noticeably. "My girls don’t do those kind of favors, if that’s what you’re thinking."
"That’s not it at all, my friend. I want to hire your dancers…just for tonight."
"My dancers? If I do that who’s going to entertain the rest of my customers?"
Grimes pulled out a thick wallet and pulled out several bills of high denomination. "Here, this should take care of any inconvenience." The man’s eyes widen noticeably at the sight of the cash.
"Which of the girls would you like to hire?" He offered eagerly.
Grimes glanced at the stage where Cleo Garvey, Renee Chao and another dancer, Geri Hawkins, were getting ready to go back onstage. "Those three over there will do fine. Have them come up to the Mr. Bartok’s penthouse immediately. They’ll be paid handsomely for their trouble."
Fleischmann nodded and Grimes left the bar area then walked out to the middle of the club floor. Despite his men’s unruly conduct he had only to snap his fingers to get their attention. They follow him out of the club and back up to the penthouse without a word.
********
When the last set ended, Fleischmann walked over to the dancers as they went backstage to get dressed to go home. He stopped all three women as they were heading out of their dressing room door.
His greeting was syrupy sweet. "Hello, ladies, how are you?"
Renee blanched. "We’re fine, Fleischmann. What’s up? You’re not one for shooting the breeze."
"I got a another job for you."
"Another job? Come on, Fleischmann, we got homes to go to." Renee responded.
"Yeah, it’s 10:30,our shifts over." Cleo reminded him.
"C’mon, it’s an easy gig. You’ll get your base pay, plus, there’s a generous bonus in it for all three of you."
Renee’s mercenary feelers were up. "How much?"
Fleischmann smiled, he knew he had her. "There’s a thousand for each of you for a night’s work."
The girls were stunned by the amount, and they gathered around him like bees to honey.
"A thousand? What do we have to do? Something nasty I’ll bet." Renee said.
"Not at all." he assured them. "All they want you to do is dance, just like you do every night."
"Just dance, huh?" Renee questioned.
"Yeah, just dancing." Fleischmann said, stroking his beard lasciviously as he eyeballed Renee. "That is unless you’d like to join me in the backroom instead."
"No thanks, Fleischy, I’d just as soon take my chances with the wolves upstairs. Come on, ladies." Renee declared.
"So you’ll do it?" He inquired, smiling.
"Why not? What’s the room number?" Renee answered.
Fleischmann pulled out a pen from his inside jacket pocket and wrote down the room number on a slip of paper then handed it Renee. He watched her as she tucked it into the cleavage of her blouse.
"See you tomorrow, Fleischy. We’ll let you know how it turns out."
Fleischmann nodded knowingly and disappeared into his office.
Cleo smiled, it looked like she was about to be welcomed into the maw of the beast and she was relishing it.
********
The three women got off the elevator and Geri, younger than the other two by a few years and a staid Midwesterner, looked around warily.
"Renee, are you sure we’re gonna be okay? I mean being up here with these guys?"
"Don’t worry about it, Geri, just do your thing, okay?" Renee took out her compact and carefully reapplied her makeup. "You’re real quiet over there lady. What’s up with you?" she asked.
Cleo stopped at the penthouse door. She could hear the men inside, laughing loud and having a good time.
"Oh, just preparing myself for the worst…you ladies ready?"
"I’m always ready. Let’s go." Renee pressed the doorbell twice.
The door opened and Grimes let them in. "Come in ladies, your audience awaits."
The girls sauntered in, cautiously taking in their surroundings. Cleo noted that it was very dark, except for a few lights on in the anteroom, giving it a nightclubby effect. Standing in the doorway of the room, they saw a makeshift stage in front of them. As they moved into the living room, the sound of their patiently waiting audience got louder.
"Come on girls, let’s get this over with." Renee said.
The two women took off their coats and walked through curtains of the makeshift stage area. A phonograph and speakers sat nearby on a table. Geri volunteered for the job of putting on the records.
"Don’t forget to turn it way up." Renee instructed.
"Come on girl, what are we waiting for? Let’s boogie!" Cleo shouted to Renee.
Geri put a record on. It was some generic disco tune with lots of guitar and rhythmic drumming. Cleo and Renee stepped through the curtains and onto the stage. The men went wild, standing up and jockeying for the best view. Some of them were very inebriated and were trying to rush the stage.
"MAN, THEY’RE CRAZED!" Renee shouted to Cleo over the din, as they continued with their number.
"HELL, FORGET CRAZED! THEY’RE LOADED! HERE THEY COME!" Cleo grabbed Renee’s arm and pulled her towards the end of the stage.
As the men made a mad dash for them, they quickly ran away behind the curtain. Out front, Grimes made an attempt to get his men under control.
"I will shoot the next man who moves." He warned, and it looked like he meant it. He set off backstage and approached the three women who were huddled together in a circle, wondering what they should do next.
He approached them. "Ladies, ladies, I apologize for my colleagues. They sometimes forget themselves when they’re allowed recreation. Won’t you please continue your performance?"
"No way, man, they’re crazy…we’re going home!" Renee replied.
"I can’t let you do that. Those men out there have been promised entertainment. They will not react calmly if I have to tell them that you’re not going to perform."
Renee grabbed her coat. "That’s your problem mister. You can keep your money, we’re going home."
Cleo knew that leaving was not in the cards for her. She did some quick thinking. "Look, you guys go, I’ll stay behind and dance for them."
Geri balked. "No way, you’ve gotta come with us." She grabbed at Cleo’s arm.
Cleo took her hand and patted it. "It’s okay, Geri, I’m going to stay…but on one condition." She turned to Grimes. "You have to promise that Renee and Geri will still get their pay and the bonuses."
It sounded like a good deal to Grimes. "You got it." He pulled out his billfold and handed the two women their money.
The other two girls were clearly surprised. "You don’t have to do this, you know." Renee said, tucking the money into her favorite hiding place.
"I want to. Now you guys go ahead."
"But how are you going to get home?" Geri asked, sounding very concerned.
Cleo smiled. "Hey, don’t worry about me, I’ll catch a cab."
"Okay, Cleo, we’ll see you tomorrow night then!" Renee said. She and Geri then grabbed their things and headed out the back way.
"You be careful!" Geri called back.
"I will!" Cleo waved as the two girls left. When they were gone, Grimes planted his hands on Cleo’s shoulders and guided her back toward the stage entrance.
"Ready?"
She nodded. He went to the phonograph and put on the record. As the music started up, Cleo paused and took a very deep breath.
"Ready."
She went out and began dancing, hesitant and uncoordinated at first, then gradually she found the rhythm of the music. The men magically calmed down, as her body movements seemed to mesmerize them. Then as before, the catcalls and yelling began again, as the liquor and testosterone in their bodies took over. Again they started to rush to the stage, forcing her off.
Grimes ran up on the stage. "Gentlemen, gentlemen, you must control yourselves! She is not going to dance for you if you’re going to rush the stage!" Grimes yelled.
There was no calming the horde now as they ran past Grimes and after Cleo. She started to scream as some of the men pawed at her costume and grabbed at the netting of her hose.
********
The commotion from the nearby suite was enough to awaken several occupants on the same floor. Some of them opened their doors slightly to see what was going on. But only one of them, an older woman wearing a bathrobe and a sleeping bonnet, came out to see what was going on.
Oh my, what’s is that? She thought.
Cautiously she came out of her room and went over to the door where the noise was coming from. All she could hear was loud music, a lot of male voices and a female screaming. She rang the doorbell several times and when no one answered, she scurried back to her room and closed the door. She picked up the phone in her room and dialed the hotel operator. A man’s voice answered and she spoke in hushed tones.
"Hello? This is Mrs. Thelma Norton in suite 303. Can you send someone up here? I think a woman’s being attacked!"
"I’ll call the local police for you ma’am. They’ll send a unit over right away."
"Thank you. Thank you very much. Tell them to hurry, won’t you dear?"
"No problem, ma’am."
The woman hung up the phone and returned to her bedroom, shutting the door tightly.