A closer look at "Shootout"
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Hold Out - Part One

By

SunnyD

   Life holds on
   Given the slightest chance
   For the weak and the strong
   Life holds on
   ~~ Life Holds On -- Beth Nielsen Chapman

~~~~~ Hutch ~~~~~

   "As I said before, a man is safe in the shadow of the flower of the Himalayas. The light of Asia shines in my inner being."

   I wasn't sure which was more incredible--the fact that he'd kept up the act for two hours or that he could maintain a poker face while faking such a cheesy accent. I shifted in my chair so I was leaning against the wall, tired, hungry, and sick to death of Harry Sample, wannabe maharaja and suspected rapist. Starsky, who'd been pacing the interrogation room like a caged tiger, shot me an incredulous look before leaning both hands on the small wooden table until he was in Harry's face.

   "Yeah? Well, your inner being better stand by. Because if you come up with a couple more answers like that, you're not going to be safe under the shadow of a Sequoia tree!"

   I dropped my head as Starsky and Harry continued their dance, mostly because I didn't want our suspect to see me smile. Starsky and I certainly didn't invent the good cop, bad cop routine, but we do play it a little differently from most. Instead of sticking to a certain role, we alternate, depending on our mood. Sometimes I'm the one growling and snarling at the suspect while Starsky radiates that innocent, little boy charm the ladies seem to find so irresistible. And other times I act the part of sympathetic ally while Starsky plays the brutal, no-holds-barred interrogator.

   Starsky had been a ball of energy all day, more than eager to be the bad guy once we got our hands on ol' Harry. Which was fine with me. I wasn't sure if it was the impending thunderstorm, or the fact that I'd had some trouble sleeping the night before, but a vague sense of uneasiness had troubled me all day--like my own private dark cloud looming over my head. So when we'd hauled Harry down to Metro for questioning, I'd been more than happy to melt into the background while Starsky ran the show.

   And he was in rare form.

   "You're Harry Sample, that's the name on the rap sheet!" Starsky's hand slammed down onto the open folder, rattling the small wooden table.

   Harry didn't flinch. "Perhaps. In a different life."

   Starsky scooped up the rap sheet and crumpled it in his fist, glaring at me and hooking a thumb at Harry. My cue to join the party.

   I pitched my voice soft and reasonable, a direct contrast to Starsky's bellowing. "Ah, Harry. You're irritating Detective Starsky, here. I wouldn't do that if I were you."

   I was really saying, "Go ahead, Starsk. Shake the little bastard up a bit."

   Harry turned that bland look on me but said nothing. Starsky read me loud and clear, though. Like the flick of a switch, he went nuts. He lunged across the table and grabbed Harry by his ridiculous robe, knotting his fingers in the silky material and shaking him like a rag doll.

   I didn't bother listening to my partner rant, just charged out of my chair and tried to get between him and Harry, who looked like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming truck.

   "Hey! Hey, come on. Starsky. Let go!" I struggled to pry Starsky's fingers from the robe, but he only tightened his grip. Then, just as abruptly, the fury turned my way.

   "You stay outta this!" Starsky grabbed my arms and heaved, sending me flying across the room to crash into the wall. All the breath whooshed out of my lungs and I reflexively clutched at him, but he shoved me so hard I slammed against the plaster a second time. "Stay outta this!"

   He turned, eyes scanning the room before landing on the hapless wooden chair he was supposed to be sitting in. Snatching it up, he glared first at Harry and then me, his eyes blazing with anger.

   I dutifully continued to play my part, even though the back of my head and my neck were still throbbing from Starsky's enthusiastic performance.

   "Not...not the chair. Starsk, not the chair." I held out both hands, non-threatening, coaxing.

   Gritting his teeth he raised the chair and smashed it to the floor. I turned away so I wouldn't have to watch, one hand braced on the wall, but I could still hear the clatter of a leg as it snapped off and rolled across the linoleum. Starsky flung open the door and stalked out of the room, slamming it so hard the resulting gust of air ruffled my hair.

   Dobey's going to kill him when he finds out about that chair.

   Still, he'd caught Harry's attention. You could've heard a pin drop in the silence that followed. Harry watched me with eyes like saucers as I massaged sore muscles. Starsky certainly hadn't pulled any punches. Felt like I hit that wall at about fifty miles an hour. I looked at Harry and shrugged as if to say, "See? I warned you," then followed my partner out into the hallway.

   He was at the vending machine, of course. No matter how much I nag him about his eating habits, Starsky refuses to change. He's the original junk food junkie--the more grease, sugar, salt, and fat a food has, the more he's sure to like it. I think the thing that irritates me the most, is that he's still in great shape in spite of treating his body like a garbage can. Maybe if he had to pay the price, got paunchy around the waist or couldn't sprint as fast as usual, he'd listen.

   I'm still waiting for that to happen.

   "That creep's holdin' firm."

   Starsky's tone was almost nonchalant as he pulled a package of peanuts from the machine--a far cry from the enraged, out-of-control man that stomped out of the room moments ago. Harry would hardly have recognized him--but then, that was the whole point.

   "No, I don't think so. I think you're starting to get to him." I took the package out of his hands without asking and tore open the cellophane.

   Sharing things is a habit with Starsky and me, something I never think twice about, like taking my next breath. Whether that means him stealing a swig out of my bottle of beer or me snagging his package of peanuts, there's an unspoken understanding between us--"what's mine is yours, and what's yours is mine." Within reason, of course. Women, well, that's a whole different ball game. I guess a lot of people might've gotten pissed off, me just helping myself like I did. Starsky just rolled his eyes and started hunting for more change.

   Maybe that's because the years as friends and partners have left very few walls standing between Starsky and me. We can be like a couple of kids at times: teasing, competing, and bickering. The thing is, it's all external, on the outside. Inside, we both know exactly how we feel. Yeah, sometimes Starsky irritates the hell out of me, and there are days I don't think I can take another minute of his greasy burritos and kamikaze driving. But when push comes to shove, who else would be there for me the way I know Starsky will? He's a solid wall I can always put my back against--whether that means holding me while I sweat, shiver, and puke my way through heroin withdrawal, or taking a bullet meant for me.

   And he knows I'll be there for him, no holds barred, no questions asked.

   "You know, you get pretty scary when you get mad." I tossed some peanuts into my mouth, wishing they were something a lot healthier, like a protein shake. Or just about anything out of my own kitchen instead of a machine.

   "Yeah?" His mouth curved a little as if I'd just offered him a compliment, but he kept fishing for change from his pocket. Starsky wasn't one to be distracted when a snack was on the line.

   "Almost broke my back in there."

   "Hm. Yeah, well, it must be all those Bela Lugoosi movies I saw when I was a kid."

   For a bright guy, Starsky can be terrible with names. When I first met him, back at the Academy, I'd made a big mistake. I'd heard that Bronx accent, and the way he mangled certain words, and quickly wrote him off, certain he'd never last long enough to earn a badge. I was young and idealistic, but too sheltered by my upper middle class, Midwestern family to understand that there were all kinds of smarts, and some of them don't come from books. It was just one of many lessons Starsky taught me.

   I still got a kick out of razzing him about it, though.

   "Starsky, it's Bela Lugosi."

   He shrugged, not in the least bit bothered by me correcting him. "Well, Lugoosi, Lugosi. I just hope he cracks soon. I'm starved."

   I couldn't resist the opportunity to ride him about his lousy eating patterns. Just another habit--I nag him about eating better and he moans that my diet is only fit for cows and other lower life forms. Underneath, I guess I really do worry about him taking better care of himself, and he probably wishes I'd lighten up a bit. Then again, it's all become so familiar, neither of us gives it much thought.

   We traded insults until Starsky had enough. "Isn't it about time you went back in there?" He jerked his thumb at the interrogation room door.

   "Yeah." I pressed the half-eaten peanuts into his hand.

   "Hey. What about tonight?"

   "Why don't we come back to my place, scramble up some eggs, huh?"

   I knew the suggestion was going to go over like a lead balloon, but the weather was lousy, my eyes were starting to feel gritty with fatigue, and I wasn't interested in pizza--Starsky's usual idea for a late dinner.

   Sure enough, my partner made a face like a little boy asked to eat spinach. "Hey, dinner, not breakfast." His expression brightened, a sure sign of trouble. "What about some Italian food?"

   I wrinkled my nose. "Nah, nah, I wanna go home. It's liable to rain."

   Starsky wasn't put off in the least. He oozed enthusiasm, still describing some new restaurant, even though I ignored him as I walked back into the interrogation room. I grinned, thinking it probably reminded him of the restaurant his grandmother lived over when he was a kid. Every single Italian restaurant we've ever been in reminds him of the one his grandmother lived over when he was a kid.

   The ironic thing was that no matter how tired I was, or how stormy the weather, I knew I'd probably end up giving in. I have a hard time saying no to my partner, especially when he's excited about something. Trying to hold him back is a little like trying to stop an armed felon with a water pistol--you can have all the determination in the world, but reality is still gonna win out.

   I set Harry up for Starsky's big entrance, playing the concerned friend. I deliberately drew his attention to the broken chair by standing it up against the wall. Encouraging his perception of my partner as a barely contained wild man, more than capable of physical violence, if provoked. Starsky and I had done the routine so many times it was like a script in my head. Still, I had to concentrate so I didn't let any amusement leak into my voice when Harry studied my face, trying to decide if I was pulling his leg. He still insisted he was innocent, but he was looking a little ragged around the edges.

   The door opened and Starsky stuck his head in, a wide grin on his face. We each played "bad cop" a little differently. I gritted my teeth and stabbed my finger a lot. Starsky broke things. But I'd never seen anyone who could equal my partner when it came to oozing danger with a smile.

   "Let me tell ya, Harry. Hutch and I don't have anything to do tonight. And if it's important to you, we are willing to take all night." He looked at me with raised eyebrows. "Right?" Then a frown. "Oh, you got a date tonight, don'tcha?"

   "Yeah." I stifled a grin and shrugged, then shook my head. "Whatever you wanna do."

   "See?" Starsky gave Harry one of his lopsided grins. "Hey! How about a cup of coffee?"

   Harry had started to cave from the moment Starsky turned on that exaggerated charm, but my partner's request for coffee tipped him over the edge. I knew we had him before my hand ever touched the doorknob.

   "Hey, hey, man. Hey, wait a minute. I mean, you're not gonna leave me alone with this guy, are ya?"

   Huh. Wonder what happened to the Maharaja Jeru?

   Starsky was really enjoying himself, buried in the part. He gave Harry a wounded look. "Hey. Whatsa matter? You don't like coffee?"

   "All right. All right, man. But ya gotta believe me..."

   Harry proceeded to spill his guts. Starsky and I traded a long look before I picked up the phone to call for a stenographer to take a statement.

   Once the game was over and reality set in, Starsky's mood took a nosedive. He propped his feet on the table and listened calmly to Harry's babbling, but there was weariness and resignation written on his face. Four years doing this job, yet in many ways Starsky had managed to hang onto the same pie-in-the-sky idealism we had at the Academy. We'd both seen the worst side of human nature, the bottom of the barrel. The difference was that I'd become increasingly resigned to it, while Starsky still hoped for something better.

   Harry was so wrapped up in spewing a confession, he barely noticed when I walked over and nudged my partner's shoulder. Starsky looked up questioningly, his mouth set in a grim line.

   "All right," I told him, though I rolled my eyes a little.

   His brow furrowed. "Huh?"

   "You. Me. The great little place near the docks that we're going to drive to in the pouring rain. All right."

   His face lit up like I'd just told him he'd won a million bucks. "Yeah?"

   I shrugged, but a smile found its way onto my lips. "Yeah."

   It figured I'd wind up giving in. But I didn't really feel like I'd lost.

~~~~~ Starsky ~~~~~

   "As I said before, a man is safe in the shadow of the flower of the Himalayas. The light of Asia shines in my inner being."

   I couldn't believe the turkey. I mean, did he honestly think Hutch and me were gonna buy the mahareeshi crap he'd been spouting for two hours? We had him cold; I'd thought sure he'd be singin' his lungs out once we brought him to the station.

   When I'm wrong, I'm wrong. And it pisses me off. I got in real close so my face was just inches from his.

   "Yeah? Well, your inner being better stand by. Because if you come up with a couple more answers like that, you're not going to be safe under the shadow of a Sequoia tree!"

   Good thing Hutch let me be the bad guy, 'cause if I'd had to keep my temper on a leash I think I might just've chewed off my own hand. I'd read the hospital report on Katie Lange, every detail of what our buddy Harry had done to her. He was gonna crack, even if I had to pull out all the stops to make it happen.

   "You're Harry Sample, that's the name on the rap sheet!" I slammed my palm down on the file folder, but what I was really going for was the noise. Harry didn't like it when I got...physical.

   This time, though, he kept his poker face. "Perhaps. In a different life."

   I had to give the guy credit; he was a lot tougher cookie than he looked, wearin' a dress and all. Time to turn up the heat a little more. I gave Hutch the high sign--just a look and a tip of my head--but he was right with me.

   Hutch can be real scary playing bad cop, but I still think he works best as the good guy. Better than me, that's for sure. Maybe it's those golden boy looks, or the way he can make his voice sound calm and reasonable, but people trust him. Me, I still got enough of the street punk in me that they aren't all that surprised when I go off. But Hutch hits 'em totally off guard. They don't know he can be a shark until the teeth come out. And by then it's too late.

   I waited for Hutch to soften Harry up, and he didn't disappoint me. He kept his voice low, like he was sharing a secret with a buddy, but he also managed to look a little worried. "Ah, Harry. You're irritating Detective Starsky, here. I wouldn't do that if I were you."

   Irritated? I was tired, I hadn't gotten anything to eat since the health crap Hutch forced on us at lunch, and every time I thought of that nineteen-year-old girl, my head ached.

   I flung myself at Harry, snatching him out of the chair by grabbing hold of that crazy get-up he was wearing. "There's a nineteen-year-old girl in the hospital. She's in a coma. You did it to her, Harry! Or ya had her put there. And I'm not gonna let up on it until you admit it!"

   Hutch tried to force his way in between us, yelling at me to let go. I could feel Harry shaking a little, so I pushed things farther and turned on my partner.

   "You stay outta this! Stay outta this!"

   I threw him up against the wall, shoving him when he tried to grab me. I could feel Harry's eyes on me and I knew I was making him sweat. My headache disappeared with the adrenaline rush, and even though I was mostly just playin' my part, I gotta admit it felt good to finally blow off some steam. I picked up one of the wooden chairs, checking to make sure that both Hutch and Harry were payin' attention.

   "Not...not the chair. Starsk, not the chair." Hutch lifted his hands like he was trying to calm me down, almost making me believe it.

   The chair made a really loud, satisfying crash when it hit the floor. I yanked open the door and stalked out, slammin' it behind me. I stood in the hallway for a minute, breathing hard but otherwise feeling a hell of a lot better than I had a few minutes earlier.

   Maybe I'd just discovered a new form of therapy for cops. Gets rid of all that pent up frustration and aggression.

   I just hoped Harry bought it, 'cause I wanted dinner and some z's, in that order.

   My eyes landed on the candy machine and my stomach growled, obviously protestin' the cruel and unusual punishment I'd been giving it. Candy ain't exactly in the same league as a plate of linguini, but it'd have to do.

   Hutch joined me a minute later, just as I got my hands on a package of peanuts. The last thing I wanted to hear was another of his "Starsky, you're killin' yourself with all that junk food" lectures.

   I mean, peanuts are healthy, right? Protein and all that. Okay, so maybe they're also fulla salt, but that's what makes 'em taste good.

   "That creep's holdin' firm," I told Hutch.

   "No, I don't think so. I think you're starting to get to him."

   Right outta my hands. Mr. Wheat Germ and Tofu grabbed the nuts right outta my hands before I could even open them, let alone put any in my mouth. Not that I really minded--I've been known to steal food from Hutch myself, now and then. It's gotten so I don't even realize I'm doing it anymore, which can be a real problem. I tried the same move with a lady once and…well…she was not too amused.

   I just looked for more change while Hutch started munching, glad that he wasn't complaining about sodium content and monowhatsits, and all that other health crap he reads up on. 'Sides, I knew Blondie probably wouldn't even finish eating 'em and I'd get the leftovers.

   "Hm. Yeah, well, it must be all those Bela Lugoosi movies I saw when I was a kid." God, I loved those old horror movies. I wondered if anything good was on the late show.

   "Starsky, it's Lugosi."

   I knew that. Sometimes I just say things wrong 'cause I know Hutch likes to correct me. Gives him a chance to show off that college education. And sometimes it even gets a laugh out of him.

   Hutch needs to loosen up, and I've made it my mission in life to see that he does. I get the feelin' he grew up with a lot of rules when he was a kid, that his folks were pretty straight-laced. My motto, on the other hand, is that rules are made to be broken--one of the reasons Ma decided to ship me off to Aunt Rosie and Uncle Al after Pop died.

   Hutch has got kind of a love/hate relationship with rules. At heart, he's as much of a free spirit as I am, willing to work outside the regulations to get results. But he can't exactly shake off all those years his parents taught him that bein' a good guy is following rules.

   Huh. Maybe that's another reason why he makes a better "good cop" than I do.

   "Well, Lugoosi, Lugosi. Just hope he cracks soon. I'm starved."

   "You might not be so hungry if you ate the right food."

   Just like I'd thought--I couldn't get a lousy package of peanuts without hearin' a Hutchinson lecture on my diet.

   "Oh. Well, maybe it's all that organic Japanese seaweed I had for lunch," I remind him. How can he eat that stuff, anyway? I felt like I was eating grass.

   "Couldn't be the can of sardines you had for breakfast."

   It wasn't a whole can. Just a few measly little fish. "Hey, isn't it about time you went back in there?" Translation: stop naggin' me.

   "Yeah."

   Sure enough, he stuffed his barely eaten peanuts into my hand. Which reminded me of dinner. "Hey. What about tonight?"

   "Why don't we come back to my place, scramble up some eggs, huh?"

   The really sad thing was, he was serious. Eggs, for cryin' out loud. For dinner. I made a face. "Hey, dinner, not breakfast." Suddenly I got an idea. Maybe I could talk him into trying a great place I knew about. "What about some Italian food?"

   Hutch wrinkled up his nose. "Nah, nah. I want to go home. It's liable to rain."

   Rain? What did rain have to do with gettin' a decent meal? I started telling him all about this restaurant by the docks, but he just headed back to the interrogation room.

   I hung out in the hallway, giving Hutch a chance to work. I could just picture my partner looking worried, telling Harry how dangerous I could be. How I'd send Hutch for coffee just so's I could have some quality time alone with a suspect. When Hutch finished, all I'd need to do was mention coffee and we'd have to scrape Harry off the ceiling.

   I hoped.

   Finally, it was showtime. I opened the door, flashed Harry my teeth, and stepped inside.

   "Well, Harry. It seems I got a little excited."

   I reached for the chair, forgetting that I was a little rough on it until the back came off in my hand. Oops. Dobey was gonna kill me. He hated when Hutch and me destroyed property, even for a good cause. I kind of ambled up close and fiddled with the necklaces hanging around Harry's neck, laughing. "Hope I didn't tangle your chains, huh?"

   From the way Harry reacted, you'd've thought I just tried to strangle him.

   I pretended not to notice and kept on being nice. Too nice. Just like Tony Campanella. See, Tony was a kid back in the neighborhood where I grew up. After Pop died, Ma was pretty wrapped up in her own grief for a while, and me bein' the oldest, well, she leaned on me. A lot. Too much hurt, too much anger, too much responsibility--guess I couldn't take it, and I went a little wild. I started hanging out with the wrong crowd, joined a gang called the Scorpions. Tony was about five years older 'n me, the president, top dog of the Scorpions. And I wanted to be just like him.

   No one crossed Tony. He was smart, and he had a real good eye for people, whether they were telling the truth or tryin' to put one over on him. But the thing I remember most about him, was that he scared the shit outta me when he got angry. He didn't yell. He didn't throw ya around or break things. He got nice. Real, real nice--putting an arm around your shoulders, slapping you on the back, smiling at you. Telling you in a soft, friendly voice exactly what he was gonna do to you if you were ever stupid enough to make that mistake again. And I'd seen him operate enough to know he meant it.

   'Course, when Ma got wind of who I'd picked for a role model, she freaked. Shipped me off to Aunt Rosie and Uncle Al before I knew what hit me. It took a lot of years before I could recognize that by doing that Ma had saved me, not abandoned me. Instead of becoming Tony Campanella, rotting in prison for armed robbery and assault, I wound up a cop.

   I just get to play at being Tony every once in a while.

   Ain't life great?

   "Let me tell ya, Harry. Hutch and I don't have anything to do tonight. And if it's important to you, we are willing to take all night." I realized I had the perfect chance to pay Hutch back for those cracks about what I eat. "Right?" I asked him, then frowned. "Oh, you got a date tonight, don'tcha?"

   I'd heard him on the phone after we realized Harry wasn't exactly dyin' to talk to us, canceling out on Abby. Figured he couldn't be too happy about trading an evening with his beautiful lady for one with his slightly cranky partner and a second-rate mahareeshi.

   "Yeah." Hutch lifted one shoulder, and if I'd managed to yank his chain, he sure didn't let me know. "Whatever you wanna do."

   "See?" I told Harry, then played my ace. "Hey! How about a cup of coffee?" I rested one arm on the back of Harry's chair and gave him that smile, the one that made guys' blood run cold, then looked at Hutch. "It's your turn." To Harry. "His turn."

   Harry looked like I'd just offered him poison.

   "You really want a cup of coffee?" Hutch played it just right, looking first at me with a serious, wary expression, then at Harry.

   "Yeah! Don't you want a cup of coffee, Harry?"

   He was about to crack. It was written all over his face, the way he looked at me like I was Bela Lugoosi.

   Lugosi.

   Whatever.

   Hutch kind of shrugged and stood up as if he was going to walk out the door. And all of a sudden ol' Harry didn't feel so safe in the shadow of the Himalayas.

   "Hey, hey. Hey, wait a minute." He stuttered, that phony serenity stuff out the window. "I mean, you aren't gonna leave me alone with this guy, are you?"

   Bingo.

   Harry didn't just crack, he splintered into little pieces. Yammering on about how it wasn't his fault, he was stoned, she came at him...

   Yeah. Right. Five foot four and a hundred and ten pounds soakin' wet. Poor kid's gonna need therapy for years, if she even pulls through.

   Suddenly playing cat and mouse didn't seem fun anymore and I wasn't even sure I was hungry. If Harry was an isolated case, it might not have been so bad. But the truth of the matter was, for every Harry we pulled off the street and locked up, there were ten more waitin' to take his place.

   And that gets pretty damn discouraging after a while.

   I vaguely heard Hutch calling for a stenographer as Harry continued to unburden himself like I'd turned from cop to priest. A finger tapped my shoulder, and I tipped my head back to see Hutch's face.

   "All right."

   He kinda rolled his eyes, but I could see a smile twitching at the corners of his mouth. "You. Me. The great little place near the docks that we're going to drive to in the pouring rain. All right."

   I couldn't believe my ears. "Yeah?"

   "Yeah."

   And just like that, all the doom and gloom lifted off my shoulders and I was hungry again.

~~~~~ Hutch ~~~~~

   "You are gonna love this place. I mean, I want ya to look at the atmosphere, huh? You ever seen anything so old?"

   Starsky was like a puppy with a brand new bone--if he'd've had a tail it would've been wagging wildly. I was caught between feeling charmed by his enthusiasm and irritated that I'd just waded through a downpour to eat a meal I wasn't really hungry for.

   "Think we can find a table?" I ran my dripping hand over my equally wet face--not much improvement.

   "All right, here's a table right here. Come on. C'mon, c'mon, c'mon." Starsky led us to one of the many empty tables covered in a traditional red-and-white checkered cloth.

   I considered making a snide remark about the lack of clientele, but restrained myself. It was past eleven o'clock, after all--most folks were home in their beds, listening to the rain pattering on the roof, not sitting down to dinner. I deliberately refused to think about the health repercussions of eating a heavy meal right before bed.

   Starsky continued to jabber as we seated ourselves at a table. "Take a good whiff--doesn't it smell terrific? And it tastes just as good, trust me. These little hole-in-the-wall restaurants are always the best places to get authentic Italian food--expensive joints like Venuti's can't touch 'em."

   Venuti's was a popular, upscale restaurant. I knew for a fact, you couldn't even get a plate of spaghetti there for less than twenty bucks. I couldn't help myself--I had to say it.

   "Starsk, have you ever been to Venuti's?"

   He stared at me, thoughts derailed, his mouth slightly ajar. His eyes narrowed for just a moment before the sunny smile reclaimed his face. "Nah. But you don't need to've eaten there to know this place is way better, Hutch. I mean, just look around ya."

   He waved to the waitress and she made her way over to our table. She was very pretty--long brown hair and big brown eyes. Knowing my partner, the checkered tablecloths and drippy candles weren't the only part of the "atmosphere" he found so fascinating.

   "It's almost closing time; we really don't have much left." She seemed tense, uneasy. I chalked it up to the end of a long day.

   Starsky flashed one of his grins at her. "Well, whatever you got I'm sure it's good--even if it's not on our menu."

   She rolled her eyes a little, but a tiny smile touched the corners of her mouth. I'd tossed similar lines at a pretty lady myself, but I owed Starsky for that crack back in the interrogation room about my date.

   "You'll have to excuse my friend here." I ignored Starsky's slightly puzzled, slightly annoyed stare, acting the perfect gentleman. "What would you recommend?"

   Remember when I mentioned that Starsky and I compete? Well, one easy way to show my partner up is in things like manners and etiquette. Don't get me wrong--Starsky's not a complete slob or anything. But let's face it, his roots are a lot…earthier than mine. My folks have money. A lot of it. Which didn't really mean much when it came to the truly important things in life, but it did insure I grew up with a certain knowledge and comfort level for things like caviar, formal dinner parties, and the ballet. Poor Starsk, on the other hand, is like a fish out of water. And it's impossible not to rub his nose in it a little, now and then.

   Of course, Starsky has his own areas of…expertise. Talents and abilities I couldn't pick up back on the farm in Minnesota. He's got innate street smarts you can't obtain from anywhere but experience. He's hands down the best driver in the Department, split-second reflexes and intuition combining so he practically makes that striped tomato jump through hoops. And even though I already knew how to box, it was Starsky who taught me how to brawl. Pretty invaluable, since the bad guys don't exactly fight by the rules.

   The waitress paused before answering me, probably to consider what they had left in the kitchen. "Veal Piccata. Linguini with clams…"

   I stole a quick peek at Starsky before answering. "I'll have the veal."

   "I'll have the linguini with the clams." He was still cheerful, untroubled by my little dig.

   She nodded. "Veal, and linguini. Do you want some wine with it?"

   I knew I probably shouldn't, it was late and I was already tired, but it sounded too good to pass up. I figured there was a good chance they even made their own, and that's usually the best kind. "Ahh…vino de casa."

   "Vino de casa." She hustled off to the kitchen, that distracted, strained expression back on her face.

   Starsky watched her go, his brow wrinkled. "What's, uh…vino de casa?"

   "They make it themselves," I explained, leaning forward a little to brace my arms on the table.

   "What?" He looked at me blankly.

   "Wine. House wine."

   "Oh! Hey," Starsky gave me a lopsided grin and settled back in his chair, gazing contentedly around the room. "Hey. I told you you'd like this place. You know what it reminds me of?"

   "Yeah. The restaurant your grandmother used to live over when you were a kid." I let my eyes wander, taking in the two men seated at a table in the corner and the jukebox over my shoulder.

   Starsky's mouth dropped open with surprise. "How'd you know that?"

   "Starsky, every time we walk into an Italian restaurant it reminds you of the restaurant your grandmother lived over when you were a kid," I told him dryly.

   He wasn't offended, just showed me another crooked grin. "Yeah, I guess it does."

   The two cups of coffee Starsky downed during Harry's statement must have kicked in. I pointed him toward the john and went to pick out a little dinner music. If Starsky was gonna be so concerned with atmosphere, I figured I might as well contribute.

   I dropped in my quarter and was scanning the songs and whistling under my breath, when something hard buried itself in my spine. I've been a cop too long not to immediately recognize the feel of a gun.

   "Don't move." My head snapped up and I turned to stone. The voice was low and very calm. "I've a gun in your back. Now put both hands on top of the machine." I hesitated for a split second and the gun dug painfully into my flesh. "Both hands on top of the machine."

   I brought my right hand up very slowly and propped it on the jukebox beside the left. My thoughts were chasing each other in circles, trying to make sense of what was happening. Was it a robbery? A disgruntled employee? And most importantly, did he realize he was pointing his gun at a cop?

   "That's right. Just keep both hands--don't make any moves." A hand reached under my leather jacket, unerringly found my piece, and slipped it from the holster. Well, that answered one question anyway.

   My mind leapfrogged to Starsky. I wanted to believe that the guy hadn't seen my partner, but his knowledge of my weapon made that unlikely. If he'd observed enough to somehow gather I was a cop--or at the very least, armed--he probably knew I wasn't alone.

   Another nudge from the gun. "Now, let's take a walk. Let's go to the men's room. Turn around." When I didn't move fast enough, he pressed harder. "Turn around."

   Damn. Whoever this guy was, he had us cold. Starsky would never know what was going down until it was too late.

   I turned very slowly and began walking, careful to keep my hands slightly away from my sides and in plain view. From the corner of my eye I saw my captor; recognized him as one of the two men who had been sitting at the corner table. An older man with graying hair and an immaculate suit. His companion, younger and much scruffier, was lounging in a chair facing the bathroom, a gun trained on the doorway.

   What happened next still haunts my dreams, unfolding in slow motion over and over, so I'm forced to relive each terrifying detail. In reality, however, it was all over in the blink of an eye. Starsky came through the doorway, faltering slightly when he spied the guns. It might've all ended there, but our pretty waitress chose that moment to come out of the kitchen.

   My partner never hesitated. He lunged for the girl, shoving her back toward the relative safety of the kitchen. I tried to charge forward, but a hard push from the older gunman sent me flying. I hit the floor hard enough to make my teeth snap together, rolling until I smacked into the wall.

   A gunshot.

   Two.

   I struggled to sit up, a corner of my mind recognizing that two more people had entered the restaurant, I still had a gun aimed at my head, and the waitress was screaming. It was all white noise, unimportant for the moment. The only thing that mattered, that filled my eyes and made my heart lurch in my chest, was Starsky.

   Crumpled on the floor, like a broken doll.

   Not moving.

   Breathing?

   The gunman's voice. Still calm. Matter-of-fact. "You're not gonna make it, friend."

   Would Starsky?

   Would any of us?

~~~~~ Starsky ~~~~~

   I was so glad to finally be outta that interrogation room, it didn't even matter to me that it was rainin' buckets. I knew Hutch didn't really want to go to Giovanni's, that he was doing it for me, but I figured once we got there he'd see how great the place was. So, I guess maybe I overdid it a little, raving about how terrific the atmosphere was, how great the food would taste, and how glad he was gonna be that he came.

   I'm sure people think I make a fool outta myself sometimes, clowning around. Most of the time I don't really care, that's just who I am. I mean, I got no choice but to take my job very seriously. The least I can do is kick loose and have some fun when I have the chance. And if I manage to drag Blondie along, get him to shake off a little of the Hutchinson restraint--it's even better.

   But that night, Hutch sure wasn't makin' it easy.

   "Take a good whiff--doesn't it smell terrific? And it tastes just as good, trust me." I could see the way he was looking at all the empty tables, like maybe other people knew something I didn't. "These little-hole-in-the-wall restaurants are always the best places to get authentic Italian food--expensive joints like Venuti's can't touch 'em."

   He gave me that look, the one with the raised eyebrows that says, "You're full of it, and we both know it." "Starsk, have you ever been to Venuti's?"

   "Nah. But you don't need to've eaten there to know this place is way better, Hutch. I mean, just look around ya."

   I spied a waitress clearing off another table and motioned her over. Even tired and frazzled after a long day, she was pretty. I could see right off that if she'd smile, she'd be a knockout.

   "It's almost closing time; we really don't have much left."

   I grinned up at her. "Well, whatever you got, I'm sure it's good--even if it's not on our menu."

   She ignored me, but her mouth twitched a little. I was just congratulatin' myself, sure that I'd have her grinning in no time, when Hutch went all Miss Manners on me.

   "You'll have to excuse my friend here. What would you recommend?"

   He wouldn't look at me, just gave the waitress his whole attention and politely waited for her to answer.

   What did I say? I replayed it, but it still seemed okay to me. I knew Hutch was probably just getting even with me for riding him about having to break his date, but it still left me off balance.

   I know I'm good with the ladies--always have been. I distinctly remember the first time I realized it. Sixth grade. Sheila Carmichael. We were lab partners for a science experiment and it came time to write up the report. I said she should do it because her handwriting was so much neater and easier to read than mine. She said I should do it because I'd sat on my lazy butt and left her most of the work during the experiment. Which, by the way, was completely untrue.

   Well.

   Mostly untrue.

   Anyway, we were walkin' home from school, squabbling over who would do the dirty deed, when I decided to try something different. I turned to her and smiled. Told her if she really wanted me to write that report, I would. That I was just lucky to've gotten a partner who had brains and beauty, and if she really thought it was fair, then I would.

   She stared at me for a minute, and then her eyes got all soft and she smiled back. Not only did she wind up writin' the report, she agreed to go to the Spring dance with me.

   Yep, it's that Starsky charm. Get's 'em every time.

   But even though I don't have any trouble relating to women one on one, I'm not always so great at the mechanics. Oh, I can handle dinner and the theater all right, so long as the restaurant doesn't have more than two forks and the theater happens to be the Rivoli around the corner. Which shows all those great old movies like "The Maltese Falcon" and "Casablanca."

   Yeah, I'm a sucker for Bogart. So what's it to ya, schweetheart?

   Hutch, on the other hand, just oozes class and good taste. To see the guy on the streets, roughin' up suspects and chasing down bad guys, you'd never guess that he listens to opera and reads stuff like Shakespeare. For fun. He doesn't want people to know his family is loaded, and I respect that because it's not who he is. And most of the time it don't make a hill of beans worth of difference that he was raised Park Avenue and me, Coney Island.

   But he can't resist shovin' it in my face a little every now and then. I don't like it, but it doesn't exactly bother me either. I know how he feels about me in every way that really counts. And I score my own points over his lousy housekeeping habits and his obsession with desiccated liver.

   The waitress thought for a minute. "Veal Piccata. Linguini with clams…"

   Hutch glanced at me before ordering the veal. I knew what he was thinking, and I didn't disappoint him. I told her I'd like the linguini, knowing I'd filch a little of my partner's veal, too.

   She asked Hutch if he wanted wine with the food--Hutch, not me. Obviously, she'd decided he was the one at the table who'd know what to order, and she was right. To me, red is red and white is white. Hutch is the one who gets down to specifics, so I leave that to him.

   "Ah…vino de casa."

   I looked at him after the waitress bustled off to get our food. "What's vino de casa?"

   "They make it themselves."

   "What?"

   He didn't tease me, just answered patiently. "Wine. House wine."

   "Oh. Hey!" It dawned on me then that if Hutch had loosened up enough to order wine, he must be having a good time. "Hey. I told you you'd like this place. You know what it reminds me of?"

   "Yeah. The restaurant your grandmother used to live over when you were a kid."

   I gaped at him. It was exactly what I'd been thinking, but I couldn't figure out how he read my mind. "How'd you know that?"

   Hutch shook his head. "Starsky, every time we walk into an Italian restaurant it reminds you of the restaurant your grandmother lived over when you were a kid."

   He was right. I got a lotta great memories of goin' to visit my grandma. She had this purse that I woulda sworn was bigger on the inside than the outside. That thing had anything you could ever want or need in it. If I felt like drawing a picture, Grandma would reach into that purse and pull out a pack of crayons. If Ma needed a safety pin to fix a tear in her skirt, that purse would cough up three different sizes of 'em. She had a little plastic folding cup for gettin' a drink when there wasn't a water fountain. And an endless supply of gum. Nicky and me were convinced it was magic, and that Grandma had special powers she kept secret from us. Now I realize the only magic Grandma had was love, and lots of it.

   Memories wrapped around me like a warm blanket and I couldn't help smiling, even if Hutch was bein' a smart ass. "Yeah. I guess it does."

   Suddenly nature called and I shifted in my chair, looking around for the bathroom.

   "I think it's over there." Hutch tipped his head toward the kitchen.

   "What?"

   "The john."

   His ESP was gettin' to be annoying. I leaned toward him. "Anybody ever tell you you're a regular shaft of sunlight?"

   Hutch snickered and we both stood up. I know ladies have the habit of going to the john in packs, but Hutch and me don't usually buddy up when we take care of business.

   "Where are you goin'?" I asked him.

   "Play some music."

   "Oh!" I reached into my pocket for change, but Hutch stopped me.

   "That's all right, it's free." Since he had his fingers in his own pocket, I figured he meant it would be his quarter.

   "Oh."

   I left him to peruse the jukebox while I disposed of all the coffee I'd drunk back at the station. I whistled softly as I washed my hands, my stomach grumbling that the food had better be ready soon. I wondered which I'd like more--my linguini or Hutch's veal. That's what was on my mind as I walked out the door.

   Right before everything went straight to hell.

   The first thing I noticed was the punk sitting in a chair, his piece pointed at my chest. Almost immediately after that, I saw Hutch walking toward me, covered by a second guy holding two guns--one of them Hutch's Python. All that ran through my brain in a split second. Before I could process it, before I could consciously decide what to do, the kitchen door swung open and the pretty waitress stepped out.

   I reacted, plain and simple. Hutch and me are cops, we take the risks that come with the job. But there was no way I was gonna let that girl take a bullet. I ducked to the left and shoved her as hard as I could toward the kitchen, hoping she'd stumble back through the doors. I guess maybe in the back of my mind I thought I could drop and roll, get outta the way.

   I never had a chance.

   I vaguely heard two gunshots as something slammed into me so hard I flew into the air. I crashed into a tray and slipped to the floor, barely feeling the impact. My arms and legs felt like lead, and everything narrowed down to pain--in my head, in my back, pulsing through my whole body. A high buzzing sound filled my ears, like a buncha wasps, and I slid into a dark tunnel. Far away, I could hear our waitress screaming.

   One thought managed to wade through the molasses in my brain as I fought not to pass out.

~~~~~ Hutch ~~~~~

   All I could do was watch, helpless, while the punk who'd just shot my partner roughly patted him down and pocketed his gun. Starsky didn't protest the manhandling, his body limp and motionless. Our waitress had dropped to a crouch beside my partner, her horrified eyes darting between Starsky's chalk-white face and the gunman's emotionless mask. She abruptly stood and strode toward the older man still covering me with his piece.

   "They said only Monty'd be shot. Only Monty!"

   The widening pool of blood around my partner held my gaze like steel to a magnet, but her words penetrated the fog of shock and fear smothering me. No wonder our pretty little waitress had looked so tense. Whatever was going down at the restaurant, she was smack dab in the middle of it.

   Nothing seemed to faze my captor, his voice stayed low and even. "It couldn't be helped. And remember, you have to think of your mother."

   So much blood. It soaked the already crimson carpet, turning it almost black. Starsky could be bleeding to death while we all stood around staring at each other. Without even making a conscious decision, I began moving cautiously toward him.

   "Stay where you are." The old guy--I'd started thinking of him as "Iceman"--twitched his gun in a not-so-subtle reminder that he was in charge.

   I locked eyes with him, but though I slowed my movements I continued to rise to my feet. For the moment, I didn't care why there were hired killers staking out an Italian restaurant or what part our waitress played in the whole mess. Starsky needed me. End of story.

   "I don't care what your business is here tonight. I'm going to my partner." I raised my hands a little, trying to appear non-threatening, when what I really wanted to do was beat the hell out of both of them.

   He looked at me for a long moment. "All right. Go ahead. Go ahead." He tipped his head toward Starsky, a faint twist to the corners of his mouth, as if I'd somehow amused him.

   I hadn't moved more than two steps when the punk darted into my path, his piece leveled at my head and a smirk on his ugly face. "Aaaah! I say we waste him."

   Something deep inside of me snapped, and like a dam bursting, anger bubbled up and spilled over. Starsky lay there hurting, alone. No two-bit hood with a quick trigger finger was going to keep me from him.

   I gritted my teeth against the words that really wanted to come out. "If you're gonna blow me away, you'd better do it now."

   His eyes glittered and the smirk turned into a grin. I glared at him and curled my fingers into fists, wishing I could bury them in his jacket and slam him against the nearest wall until the self-satisfied leer slid off his face.

   "Joey. The man in the kitchen, he must've heard the shots. See if he ran away." An order, not a request. When Joey didn't move, a little bit of impatience crept into Iceman's tone. "Joey. The kitchen!"

   Joey shot him a black look, and for a split second I wondered if he actually had the guts to challenge Iceman's authority. Instead, he backed down and did as he'd been told. I filed the observation away for future reference even as I was dodging checkered tables in a rush to reach Starsky's side.

   Blood had pooled beneath his head and was spreading in a widening circle behind him. I dropped to my knees and slipped one hand under his cheek and the other at the back of his skull, very gently lifting. "Hey, buddy. Hey, buddy." Close up, the amount of blood looked much worse. "Oh my God."

   I pitched my voice soft and soothing, wanting him to know he wasn't alone, that I was with him. His eyes, glassy and unfocused, insisted on fluttering closed, but he tried to respond, one hand clumsily fumbling for a hold on my leg, my arm, my jacket. It took him several tries just to say my name, slurred so badly it was barely recognizable.

   "It's okay, buddy, I'm right here."

   My stomach did a long, slow roll when I saw the furrow one of the bullets had plowed along my partner's temple. Change the angle just a bit and it would undoubtedly have penetrated bone instead of deflecting off it. Starsky would have a monster headache and most likely a concussion, but that seemed a small price to pay in exchange for keeping his brains intact.

   "Hey, Hutch." The words were weak and muffled.

   I lowered his head and reached over my shoulder to tug a checkered cloth off a nearby table. "C'mere," I muttered, more to myself than to Starsky, my nerves jangling and my heart hammering against my ribs. I positioned it under his head to cushion his skull from the hard floor, hoping it would also act as a crude bandage to soak up the excess blood. "Okay."

   "Hey. We really goofed, huh? Huh? Huh?" Starsky gulped air in short, sharp bites.

   I skimmed my hand down his back and something warm, wet, and sticky pulsed against my hand, staining my fingers bright red. My own breath locked up in my chest and I scrambled over him to take a better look at the damage.

   Only marginally aware of what was going on around us, Starsky kept trying to talk. "Didya... Did you get the bad guys?" He punctuated the question with a deep, raspy cough that shook his whole body.

   "More like they got us."

   Between the steadily oozing blood and his clothing I couldn't see the extent of the injury. I glanced around for something to help me cut away Starsky's jacket and shirt, my eyes landing on a cart just outside the kitchen doors with a drawer that appeared to hold silverware. As I stretched out my hand, I couldn't help doing a quick double take of the blood coating my fingers. Keeping the other anchored on Starsky's shoulder to reassure him, I yanked open the drawer and pulled out a knife.

   "Take it easy. Take it easy, now."

   The blade sliced cleanly through cloth, enlarging the bullet hole until I could rip the fabric and completely expose the wound.

   "How do I look?" Starsky's breathing hitched and stuttered, but he persisted. "How do I look? Huh?"

   Cold fingers scampered up my spine and I stared numbly at the area of torn flesh. Thanks to a brief flirtation with medicine, I possessed enough knowledge to recognize three things. First, the bullet had lodged, not passed cleanly through as I'd hoped. Second, it had impacted much lower than I'd guessed, in the back, not the shoulder. And third, it was stuck in a position frighteningly close to both Starsky's spinal cord and his left lung.

   My brain raced along at a hundred miles an hour, even though my body felt frozen in place. I couldn't let Starsky know just how badly he was hurt. The most important thing was to keep him quiet and calm until I could get him to a hospital. That meant padding the truth a little to prevent him from worrying.

   "Well...wu...wu...one of 'em bounced off that thick skull of yours."

   I snatched a handful of napkins from the bottom of the cart, mentally cursing the fact that I stutter when I'm upset. And Starsky knows it. If he hadn't been half out of his head from shock and blood loss he'd've been grilling me in a minute. "The other one found your shoulder." I pressed the wad of cloth tightly against the wound and tried hard to keep my voice light and unconcerned.

   "The shoulder?"

   "Yeah."

   "'S that all?" His papery thin voice rose with surprise and relief.

   "That's all." I forced a little chuckle though my heart twisted painfully in my chest. Starsky and I don't lie to one another, and even though I believed in my motives, the words still left a bad taste in my mouth.

   I leaned in close, taking the chance to put pressure on both injuries at the same time. The gash on his head had begun to clot, but I could already feel warmth on the palm pressed to his back. Starsky needed a hospital, and he needed one right away.

   "Don't go away, huh?" I murmured into his ear, very aware of my audience once I'd finished caring for my partner.

   "What, now that I finally got a waitress?"

   Every breath an effort, words blurry, spasms of pain, yet my partner still managed to crack wise. Starsky is my best friend and I love him more than any other person on the face of this earth. That's a given, something I don't have to think about. There are times, though, when I'm forcefully reminded just how much I respect the man, as well.

   The door to the kitchen burst open. "I locked the old man in the..." Joey faltered as he stared down at us, his dark eyes ice cold, "...cellar. He ain't gonna go nowhere."

   The queasiness in my gut grew with his words. Whatever business these goons had, it didn't appear that shooting a cop was going to scare them off. They weren't getting ready to make a run for it. They were settling in for the long haul.

   "Hey, I gotta get him to a hospital." I directed my words to Iceman, clearly the guy in charge.

   Though our pretty little waitress's face showed a mixture of horror and pity, Iceman's could have been carved from stone. "You just said yourself it's only a shoulder wound."

   People sometimes make the mistake of thinking that out of the two of us, Starsky is the one with a temper. And to be fair, it's true that he can be more emotionally...volatile than me. He's an odd mix, you know? He keeps his personal anger and grief close, so close that sometimes even I have to pry it out of him with a crowbar. When it comes to his feelings about other people and what's going on around him, however, he wears them on his sleeve for the world to see. So when something pisses him off--an almost daily occurrence in our line of work--he doesn't hesitate to show it. Whether that means breaking lamps and kicking over coffee tables or slamming a suspect up against a brick wall.

   Compared to Starsky I can come off looking like our new friend Iceman. My family was never comfortable with displays of strong emotion, whether anger or what Starsky likes to call "soapy scenes." So I learned to be pretty good at locking down my feelings. Until Starsky, anyway. Maybe being around my partner has loosened me up, encouraged me to be myself and not worry about other people's opinions. God knows, Starsky doesn't seem to give a damn what other people think of him. Or maybe it's just that when I opened the door to Starsky, I let him all the way in. Even showed him the messy, cluttered rooms you never let company see because they're too embarrassing. I'd never done that before. Every other friend I'd ever had only made it as far as the hallway, or maybe the living room where everything is kept nice, and neat, and presentable.

   Anyway, I'm not nearly as cool-headed as some would like to think. And certain triggers can make me angry enough to lose my legendary self-control and blow my top. Starsky hurt or in danger is number one on that list.

   Iceman's words, mocking my clumsy attempt to comfort Starsky in the middle of so much pain and fear, infuriated me.

   "Look. I don't know who you are, and I don't know why you're here, and right now I really don't care. What I do know, is that my buddy here has got a bullet in the back. And unless I get some help for him, now, you're gonna have a dead cop on your hands. Do you understand?"

   Amazingly, Joey, the guy who minutes earlier wanted to "waste" me, was the one to react to my warning. His eyes fastened on Starsky as if he were really seeing my partner for the first time.

   "Hey a, hey a... Hey maybe he's right, maybe we oughta get outta here while we can, huh?"

   True to form, Iceman refused to let my words rattle him. "It's too late to back out now, Joey."

   Starsky's hand reached back, searching for mine, his body wracked with pain. I grasped it firmly almost wincing when his fingers closed in a crushing grip.

   "Easy," I murmured, hating the feeling of complete helplessness.

   Iceman elbowed our waitress. "Is there any place we can put him?"

   "Uh...there's an office back there, it has a couch in it." She pointed over her shoulder toward an open doorway, unable to take her eyes off Starsky.

   "Take your partner into the office." Iceman gestured with his gun, then turned to his partner. "Joey, if there's a back entrance, take care of it. And if there's a phone, pull it out. Go!"

   It wouldn't get Starsky the medical help he desperately needed, but it was better than leaving him on the floor, and it would give me a chance to cobble together a little more first aid. His eyes had slipped shut again, and I was pretty certain he'd missed most of what was happening around him. I got to my knees and started to slip an arm under his shoulders, worrying about how I was going to haul him into the office without causing agonizing pain and maybe more damage from the bullet.

   "C'mon, buddy."

   "Where we goin'?" The weak question confirmed my suspicions about his awareness.

   "Gonna take you someplace where you can be comfortable. C'mon." I very carefully slipped his arm around my neck.

   "Sounds nice."

   "Come on."

   He was a dead weight. Starsky's a little smaller than I am, but he's solid as a rock. As badly as he was injured, a fireman's carry was out of the question. Once I had his arm slung around my neck I slid my hand under his legs and slowly rose to my feet.

   He moaned, an involuntary reflex that spoke of such intense pain, I had to blink hard against the tears that flooded my eyes. Another involuntary reflex.

   "Sorry, Starsk. I'm sorry. Hang on, buddy. Hang on."

   I panted for air as I staggered across the restaurant, which seemed to have doubled in size. Starsky's head lolled and his free arm hung loosely by his side. The only indication he was alive was the soft grunts of pain that each step I took wrenched from his lips.

   As I passed the waitress, I barked instructions. "I need some clean towels. Tablecloths. Water."

   As we got to the office Starsky muttered something incoherent, then gagged, as if choking.

   "Take it easy, buddy. Take it easy." I eased him onto the couch, flinching as his head thumped onto the armrest.

   Joey made no attempt to help me as I struggled to position Starsky comfortably. He stood in the doorway and smirked at us. "Listen, I could put your friend out of his misery for him."

   "Get the hell out of here." I glared at him for only a moment, more concerned with Starsky than a mouthy punk determined to prove he was a tough guy.

   "Don't forget, cop, when you come out I wanna see your hands in the clear, huh?"

   I ignored him and he left, satisfied that he'd laid down the law. I picked up Starsky's legs that were trailing off the couch onto the floor, and placed them onto the cushions. The movement provoked another round of gagging and he squirmed.

   "Come on, easy. Don't move." I turned him onto his side, trying to ease the weight on his back.

   "Oh, Hutch...ah...I feel sick."

   A green terrycloth towel lying on a nearby table caught my eye, and I snatched it up, quickly returning to Starsky's side. "Just a second." I gently lifted his head so that I could wedge a pillow beneath it.

   Starsky's protest was little more than a puff of air. "Hutch..."

   Snagging the cloth, I lifted his head again so that I could press it against the gash. Starsky's flailing arm told me what he couldn't say--that every shift of his body increased the pain.

   "One more time. One more time," I murmured.

   He convulsed with more dry heaves. "Oh, Hutch...Hutch..."

   "Take it easy. Take it easy."

   Hard to say if I was talking to Starsky or myself. I just wanted him to hear my voice, to know I was doing everything in my power to help him. I kept a hand on his shoulder as I scrambled around to sit beside him on the couch. The hand that had been floundering found my leg, curling around it as if I was a life preserver. My chest tightened painfully as I realized he'd been reaching for me all along. One of his legs had slipped back off the cushions. I tucked it back up, then leaned over to get a look at the bullet wound in Starsky's back.

   "Hey...wha' happened? Would you tell me...what happened?"

   Starsky's question was music to my ears. At least he was with it enough to care about what was going down--up until that moment he'd been alarmingly passive.

   "You got shot, remember?" I tugged the cloth away from the wound, dismayed to see that the bleeding hadn't let up. If anything, our trip across the restaurant had aggravated it.

   Starsky mumbled something, but the words were so badly slurred I couldn't understand them. "Huh?" I tried to use the blood-soaked tablecloth to clean off the wound, but it wasn't working very well.

   Starsky's attempt to repeat himself trailed off into a groan. "Huh? I thought..." His face scrunched up. "Oh, my head."

   "You got a little crease."

   His head had shifted off the pillow and blood was trickling down his cheek. I grimaced, as once again I had to cause more pain by shifting him back into position. His skin felt cool and clammy under my palm.

   Starsky's fingers tightened on my leg. "Hutch...oh, Hutch."

   My frustration multiplied. My partner was rapidly bleeding to death--I could feel warmth as his life literally trickled between my fingers. I had no doctor, no first aid equipment, and no hope in sight of obtaining any in the near future. I'd be damned if I was gonna lose Starsky over a five-dollar plate of linguini.

   "Where in the hell is that girl?" I muttered, lifting my head to glare at the door. "GET IN HERE WITH THAT STUFF!"

   "Hey...Hutch, you...you sound like Dobey."

   Starsky brought me back, actually made me laugh when I would've sworn it was impossible. "I'm sorry."

   Our waitress burst through the door, carrying a bundle of cloths and a pitcher of water. "Here are the things you wanted."

   She set them down on the desk, within easy reach for me. I grabbed a clean napkin and laid it in place against the wound in Starsky's back while she hovered over us, wringing her hands nervously. I wrapped my fingers around her wrist and tugged, placing her palm over the cloth.

   "Take your hand, keep pressure on that." I heard my own voice, sharp and terse, but I couldn't bring myself to feel regret. In spite of my worry over Starsky, I'd kept my ears open, and I'd heard enough to guess why our waitress had looked so frazzled when she came to take our order. "What's your name?"

   She perched on the arm of the couch, just behind Starsky's head. "Theresa."

   Sweat trickled between my shoulder blades. I jerked first one arm, then the other out of my leather jacket and tossed it aside. "Theresa," I growled. "Some mess you got us into."

   She stared at me, all wide brown eyes. "What are you talking about?"

   I stood up and grabbed a trenchcoat and a tablecloth from the pile, spreading them over Starsky's chilled body in an attempt to combat the shock.

   "'Monty. It was only supposed to be Monty,'" I mimicked. "I heard ya." I sat down and picked up another napkin. Starsky, as hazy as he was, fumbled until both hands latched onto my leg. "You're talking about Vic Monty, aren't you? Gangland boss. You set him up, huh?"

   "No!"

   I didn't buy it for a minute. "You set him up, didn't you?"

   She proceeded to give me a song and dance about how Vic Monty had her brother killed. As if it mattered. As if there could be any justification for her actions when my partner was lying between us with a slug in his back that could possibly end his career as a cop, if not his life.

   "Your brother was family, huh?"

   I grabbed another tablecloth, figuring I could use it to form a kind of tourniquet to slow the bleeding. Starsky flinched from a particularly strong spasm of pain, his fingers digging into the flesh of my thigh.

   I put one hand on his shoulder and gave it a cautious squeeze. "Take it easy. Take it easy. I'm right here," I soothed. His eyes were clamped shut, his jaw tightly clenched, sweat beaded on his forehead.

   While I tried to set Theresa straight on the repercussions of setting up someone like Vic Monty, I worked the rolled-up tablecloth around Starsky's body. When I'd finished, it threaded under his left arm and tied around his neck in a kind of sling that I hoped would keep pressure on the wound. The fingers clamped onto my leg acted like a barometer for the level of hurt I was inflicting, tightening down almost unbearably no matter how careful I tried to be.

   "This is no personal vengeance killing. Vic Monty's an important gangland boss, and those two men out there are hired, out-of-state killers. What you have done, is to put us right in the middle of a shooting war."

   I nearly lost my temper when she argued with me. It was hard to believe someone with connections to the Mafia could be so naïve. I could only imagine the price tag that came with the two men in the next room. Did she really think her people would go to all that trouble and expense for a dead kid who was probably just another numbers runner or drug pusher?

   I pressed my lips together to keep from saying something I'd regret, and concentrated on wetting a cloth to clean the gash on Starsky's temple. His eyes were shut, his breathing ragged. If not for those fingers gouging into my leg, I'd've thought he was unconscious.

   "Easy, Starsk. Easy." I slowly shifted him toward his back so that I could reach the cut. "Easy now, I have to pick up your head."

   The arm I moved could have been attached to a rag doll, and Starsky's eyes didn't even attempt to open when I tipped back his chin so I could slip the cloth under his temple and press it to the gash. The moment the fabric made contact, however, his whole body jerked and his face screwed up into a grimace.

   "Easy, easy," I soothed, reflexively flinching as if I'd just inflicted pain on myself. In a way, I had.

   Maybe the cold water felt good, because my partner relaxed a little and eased up on my leg. I held the towel in place and glared up at Theresa.

   "And besides killing people for a living, I got a feeling those two guys out there might lie a little, too. You understand?"

   "Hey, cop. Come out here."

   Joey's order, yelled from the other room, affected Theresa like a jolt of electricity. She leaped to her feet but I caught her wrist and dragged her back, tightening down when she struggled to break free. I was a little rough with her, but chivalry was the last thing on my mind. The only hope Starsky and I had for getting out of this nightmare alive rested with her. I had to make her see the truth, to get her on our side. She was an insider--she knew the layout of the restaurant and the men who had taken us hostage. And most importantly, she knew when Monty was due to arrive.

   I laid all the cards on the table. Starsky's life wasn't the only one hanging in the balance. Even if the hit went down as planned, two professionals like the ones in the next room would be sure to clean up any loose ends. I'm pretty good at getting a feel for people, and though her gullibility frustrated the hell out of me, I sensed that at heart Theresa was a good person.

   "Don't be stupid. You're safe. They won't touch you, you're family," I told her. "But do you think for one minute after they've killed Vic Monty they're gonna let any one of the rest of us walk out of here alive? Now what time is he gonna come?" I watched an agony of indecision flicker across her face; pushed harder. "What time?"

   "Midnight!" Eyes wild with fear, her voice breaking, she was a far cry from the lady who had taken our order just...

   Had it really been only fifteen minutes ago?

   "Hey, cop, I'm not gonna tell ya again. Now come on out here!"

   "Okay. Okay." I sucked in a deep breath and backed down, feeling tremors racing through her where my hands still clenched her wrists. I loosened my grip, but didn't let go. "Listen, you stay in here. You keep him covered and warm, and keep his face cool. If he needs me, you call me."

   She nodded, shoulders curling as she relaxed. "Yeah."

   I turned her loose, suddenly painfully aware of Starsky's blood on my fingers. I picked up a towel and wiped my hands, stealing a quick glance at my partner's pale face before walking out of the office. The last thing I wanted to do was leave him, but I had no choice. It had to look like I was playing their game--for now anyway.

   I'd wait. My time would come, eventually.

PART TWO