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PART ONE

Hold Out - Part Two

By

SunnyD

~~~~~ Starsky ~~~~~

   The world turned all topsy-turvy and my brain felt like someone ran it through a blender. I couldn't hear anything but this high-pitched whinin' in my ears, like a thousand mosquitoes buzzin' around my head. And I all of a sudden I realized that the rough, itchy stuff under my cheek was carpet.

   I hurt. Bad. A dozen congo drums pounded in my head, keeping perfect time with every beat of my heart--which was bangin' a lot faster than usual. But that was nothing compared to the pain in my back, which burned so bad I thought someone must've set me on fire. I wanted to move, to check myself out, see what was wrong, but my arms and legs felt like they weighed about a thousand pounds each, and I couldn't for the life of me figure out how to lift 'em.

   As I lay there, panting like I'd just run the mile, I fought to make my brain work, to remember what had happened and why. Back when I was a kid, when I'd lose something, Ma would always tell me to retrace my steps. 'Course, that's not exactly easy to do when you're kissin' the floor while someone jams a knife between your shoulders.

   And then I remembered. The guy with the gun, waitin' for me when I got outta the john. Our waitress coming out of the kitchen, walking right into the line of fire. Shoving her back toward the door, and then...

   Gunshots.

   When I concentrated real hard, I could hear voices over the buzzing in my head. The words all ran together, like they were speakin' another language, but I could hear anger. And the voice that cut through it all, loud and furious, made it a little easier for me to breathe.

   Hutch.

   I tried to get off the floor, pull my knees up under me and push with my arms. Who knew that something as simple as tryin' to stand would make my head crack open? The buzz in my ears turned into a roar and everything went dark around the edges. I slammed my eyes shut and told my stomach, which was tryin' real hard to climb outta my mouth, to stay put.

   Hands. Warm and gentle, touching my shoulder, my cheek. I hadn't even realized how cold I was until I soaked in their heat. I recognized them right away, even as hazy as I was. Those hands have gotten me through more hard times than I could count. A palm cradling my forehead while I puked my guts out during a killer case of the stomach flu. Two firm hands against my chest, restraining me, when all I wanted was five minutes alone with Crazy George Prudholm. Fingers squeezing my arm while I grieved over Helen, reminding me I wasn't alone.

   I struggled to say his name, but my tongue felt thick and clumsy. What finally came out sounded more like "Hush," but it didn't matter. He understood.

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

   He didn't really have to tell me. He always is. I've never had anyone in my life I could depend on like I do Hutch, ya know? I guess if my Pop hadn't died the way he did, I'd've been able to say that about him. I can still remember how it was when he was alive, how safe and protected he made me feel. When he was shot, it was like someone ripped the ground right out from under my feet, and Ma was no help. She was too busy leanin' on me to see that I was just as lost and alone, only trying damn hard not to show it. I love Ma a lot, but I can't say I've ever felt I could depend on her. And Nicky... Well, let's just say my little brother is the last person I'd want watchin' my back. He's always looked out for number one--screw anyone else who gets in his way.

   I can depend on Hutch. He's like a rock--no, a mountain. He doesn't move; you can always count on him bein' there, right where you left him. Not just through good times, but through bad times--and believe me we've had some doozies. Sure, we get pissed off at each other, and there are nights when I drive home glad I don't have to see his face for at least eight hours. But when the chips are down, when I need a friend, a partner, a...a constant... There's only one person I trust without question, without even having to think about it.

   And right then, I needed him bad. Somehow we'd landed ourselves in a helluva mess.

   Hutch lifted my head, and I thought I was gonna pass out from the spike that hammered into my skull. When he eased me back down, though, something soft had taken the place of the scratchy carpet under my cheek. I focused on making my mouth work.

   "Hey. We really goofed, huh? Huh? Huh?"

   My eyelids had a mind of their own, and they obviously thought it was naptime. When I finally did manage to pry 'em open a bit and got my hand working enough to reach for him, I was confused to find that Hutch was now behind me, poking around at my back.

   "Didya... Did you get the bad guys?" I hoped that the fact he was crawling around on the floor with me meant we were outta the woods.

   "More like they got us."

   Terrific. Something caught in my lungs, like I'd sucked in molasses insteada air, and I coughed. Felt like something inside me ripped into pieces.

   Something rattled and clanked, then I felt Hutch tear my jacket and shirt. Damn. I liked that jacket.

   "How do I look?" He wasn't talking, not even to tell me it was gonna be all right. That scared me. "How do I look? Huh?"

   When he finally told me it was a shoulder wound, I was relieved. Gettin' shot's no picnic, no matter where the bullet lands, but a shoulder wound sounded pretty routine. Hopefully when this was all over, I'd just be left with a new scar to impress the ladies.

   Suddenly Hutch leaned over me so he was talkin' right into my ear, his hand pushed into my back. "Don't go away, huh?"

   He's got a sick sense of humor sometimes, ya know? Like I'd been planning to get up and go dancing or something. Well, two could play that game--if I could make my tongue move.

   "What, now that I finally got a waitress?" Things were getting hazier and the mosquitoes were back in my ears.

   I think maybe I zoned out a little after that. I could hear Hutch speaking--yelling, really--and the voices of two men. But it was like they were talkin' at high speed and I couldn't keep up with the words. And the pain... Maybe the shock of gettin' hit had worn off, 'cause I was feeling worse every minute. I'd've done anything to make it stop.

   A few words did squeak through, though I'm not sure if it was because Hutch was so close to me, or because I could sense how angry he was. I heard "bullet," "back," and "dead cop." That was enough to tell me that Hutch had been holdin' out on me.

   Hutch and me don't normally lie to each other, but I guess there's a couple of exceptions. If we're messin' around, playing a joke, we might stretch the truth a little. Or, if it's a question of the other person's safety, we might just keep a few cards under the table. Knowing my partner, he figured what I didn't know couldn't hurt me.

   Now that I think about it, I bet he was stuttering when he said it, too.

   All of a sudden, Hutch was moving me. "C'mon, buddy." He draped one of my arms around his neck, and I realized he intended to carry me.

   "Where we goin'?" That's what I tried to ask. What came out sounded pretty pathetic.

   "Gonna take you someplace where you can be comfortable."

   Just getting off that cold, hard floor would be heaven. "Sounds nice."

   'Course, I wasn't thinkin' about the fact that getting someplace more comfortable meant Hutch carrying me across the room. He slipped his arms under me and lifted...

   A bomb exploded behind my eyes. Next thing I knew, my head thumped against something padded and my body was gently eased down onto some cushions.

   One time when we were kids, Jonny Gillespie got me on the merry-go-round at the park and wouldn't let me off. He just kept spinning it faster and faster, cacklin' like a chicken. Eventually, he got tired and slowed down enough so I could jump off. I laid there on the ground, my stomach doing cartwheels and everything around me whirling and pitching like I was still going in circles.

   Layin' there on the couch was like being back at the playground. I was so dizzy I couldn't tell up from down, and my stomach kept twisting and rolling. Hutch and me were both lucky I hadn't had dinner yet, 'cause we woulda been wearing it.

   In fact, I wasn't so sure the coffee I'd drunk earlier wasn't about to make an appearance. "Oh, Hutch...ah...I feel sick."

   I couldn't keep up with where he was. One minute I felt him lifting my legs up onto the couch, then he was gone, then he was back and stuffing a pillow under my head. I reached for him, finally managing to snag his leg. Maybe if I grabbed onto him he'd stay put.

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

   He was fiddling with my back again. "You got shot, remember?"

   "No kidding."

   "Huh?"

   "Huh?" I concentrated on forming the words. "I thought...oh, my head."

   It was hard to think straight around the pain that seemed to be everywhere--my back, my chest, my head... Heck, even my hair hurt.

   "You got a little crease." Hutch shifted my head on the pillow.

   I know he was trying his best to be careful, but I couldn't help moaning. "Hutch...oh, Hutch."

   His hands stayed gentle, so when Hutch yelled it took me completely by surprise--not to mention his voice cut straight through my aching skull.

   "Where in the hell is that girl? GET IN HERE WITH THAT STUFF!"

   I heard what most people wouldn't. Under all that tough-guy anger, Hutch was scared.

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

   He laughed, just like I'd hoped he would. "I'm sorry."

   Our waitress--Theresa, it turned out, was her name--came running. From that point on things slid in and out of focus. I wanted to listen to what they were saying, and I could tell from the tone of Hutch's voice it was important. But I hurt, and I was so tired. Hutch spread something over me, and I started to feel warm for the first time, but somehow that also made it harder to concentrate.

   Every time I started to slip all the way under, though, he'd press on my back, or slip something under me or around my neck, or move an arm or a leg. All completely necessary, sure, but even the tiniest movement made my head pound and my back feel like ground glass. I hung onto Hutch's leg and the sound of his voice, gritting my teeth to keep from makin' any noise. I knew he was doin' the best he could, and it would kill him if he realized how much he was hurting me.

   But when something cold hit the gash on my head, I couldn't stop myself. I winced, my whole body kinda jerking away from him.

   "Easy. Easy." His hand in my hair, soothing me.

   Hutch finally stopped fussin', and the cold cloth actually began to feel good on my aching head. I relaxed, let myself slide a little deeper, and their voices got farther away. I was drifting when I felt the couch move and Hutch's warmth leave my side, too far gone to do anything but wonder if he was okay, and wish he'd come back.

   Fuzzy as my brain was, I could still be afraid. Not for me--for Hutch. See, I can take just about anything if I know he's gonna be all right. A slug in the back's nothing compared to watchin' him suffer. I've been down that road, and I never want to go back.

   "Hutch."

   Something touched my shoulder and I raised my hand, searching for his. The fingers that slipped into mine were all wrong, slender and soft where Hutch's were strong and firm.

   Not Hutch. I know Hutch's hands.

   Theresa.

   A muscle in my back seized up, turning the ground glass into molten lava. I squeezed her hand without thinking and she tightened her own fingers.

   Not the hand I was searching for, but it'd have to do. I held on and prayed Hutch knew what he was doing.

~~~~~ Hutch ~~~~~

   "You don't know how close you came to bein' laid out with your partner."

   Actually, what I didn't know was if I could stand one more minute at the mercy of that loud-mouthed, twitchy punk. Joey obviously needed to prove what a big man he was on a regular basis, and my temper was quickly fraying. My eyes registered the gun aimed at my chest before I turned away, not wanting him to see my anger and contempt.

   "All right, Joey, I take it from here. Go to the bar, get yourself a drink, and relax. Go, Joey."

   Interestingly enough, Iceman's piece was leveled at Joey, not me. I couldn't help wondering about these two mismatched gunmen. Iceman, with his mysterious accent, refined manners, and absolute authority. Joey--a rude, not-too-bright bully who very obviously resented taking orders. Was this their first hit together, or was I seeing the quirks of a long-established partnership? If Starsky and I were going to get out alive, I needed to observe them closely for any sign of weakness.

   "How is he?" Iceman asked me.

   I made my reply flat and cold. "He's still alive."

   "Too bad all this had to happen." No sympathy colored his voice.

   "Yeah." If he expected me to be impressed, I wasn't. In my book a killer for hire is a sub-human life form. "Where do you want me?"

   "Take a table up front. I want you visible from the front door."

   The guy was sharp, I'll give him that. Outsmarting him wouldn't be easy. I knew exactly what he was up to, and I didn't like it.

   "So if Vic Monty comes in here, sees I'm a cop, he'll think he's safe." I raised my eyebrows--not exactly a sneer, but a challenge to let him know I understood his game.

   "You're so intelligent, you put it together." The guy even delivered sarcasm with a stone face.

   "Oh, it doesn't take much intelligence."

   "Go." Iceman gestured with the gun to a table near the door.

   What could I do? Starsky was lying on a couch, bleeding and barely coherent. Without back-up, surrounded by civilians, less than an hour from what could turn into a massacre--I had to plan my moves very carefully. I took a seat at the table, hoping Iceman would think me sufficiently intimidated. But my brain was running in overdrive.

   The storm had picked up outside. Occasionally, thunder rumbled and raindrops hammered on the roof. It would be too much to hope that ol' Vic would decide to stay in and order pizza. I glanced around at my fellow hostages. A muscled, football-player type hunched over the bar, and a mismatched couple sat stiff and silent at a table adjacent to mine.

   I sat at my table, staring at the clock and racking my brain for a plan. One that would not only stop the hit on Monty, but save our skins and land Iceman and Joey behind bars. The problem was, my mind kept wandering back to my partner. Every tick of the clock meant a longer delay until he got the medical treatment he desperately needed. I was no doctor, but I knew enough to recognize that the position of the bullet was deadly. Time was running out for Starsky, as much as it was for Vic Monty.

   An uncomfortable memory popped into my head, and I couldn't shake it. Lounging around my apartment, not long after Starsky and I made detective. We'd just wrapped up an exceptionally unpleasant case--a killer with a grudge against the police. Before we caught the guy, he'd blown away three good cops and critically wounded a fourth. The survivor, Pete Briscoe, was a buddy of Starsky's from his time in uniform. After booking our killer, we'd visited Pete in the hospital where he lay in a deep coma, surrounded by machines. Then we'd gone back to my place and started on a six-pack.

   I pried my eyes from the clock and shoved the memory back into its box. Starsky was still very much alive, and I had every intention of keeping him that way.

   While I worried over Starsky's health and Monty's imminent arrival, Joey had been entertaining himself by baiting the couple at the table beside me. Turned out the guy was a comic--Sammy something--and they'd been headed to Vegas in the morning. I only hoped they'd be able to make the trip. Joey's delight in ridiculing the man just served to reinforce my opinion of him as cocky and unstable. Definitely the weak link.

   When Theresa walked out of the office, I had to restrain myself from leaping to my feet. I searched her face as she crossed the room, relieved to see no evidence of alarm or panic.

   She propped her hands on the table, the ghost of a smile on her lips. "I think he needs you."

   It was a reflex--my body started moving without conscious thought. Then I remembered Iceman at the table behind me. I hesitated, half-expecting him to stop me, to order me to stay put, but the warning never came. I actually felt a rush of gratitude, as if he'd done me a favor, and that pissed me off.

   Theresa tagged after me as I made my way to the office, babbling that everything was going to turn out all right. I brushed her off a little impatiently, more concerned with my partner.

   Starsky was lying just as I'd left him, looking even worse, if that was possible. He must've heard my voice, because his hand immediately reached for me. I eased down onto the couch, careful not to jostle him.

   "Hey, buddy, how ya feeling, huh?"

   "Hey." His voice was as pale as his face, but that hand fastened onto my leg with as much grip as he could muster.

   A simple touch, but the vulnerability and trust it communicated made my throat tighten. I ran my own hand comfortingly up his arm. "Yeah, babe, right here."

   "What's happening?"

   His question cheered me just a little. If Starsky was asking questions, he couldn't be too far gone, despite his appearance.

   "Let me check this out." I gingerly moved aside my makeshift bandage to get a look at the wound, continuing to talk as a distraction. "Well, looks like we're sitting on a bit of a powder keg."

   Starsky made a mumbled sound of interest.

   "Yeah. Vic Monty," I told him, trying to rearrange the cloths. There was still way too much blood, but the flow seemed to have slowed.

   "Vic Monty?" His words were slurred, but still managed to communicate his surprise.

   "Those two guys out there are planning to surprise ol' Vic with his linguini." I picked up the pitcher of water and a fresh cloth.

   Starsky's eyes were shut but he was with me. "That's not too good."

   "Yeah, and then when they're finished with him, we're next." I poured the water onto the cloth until it was soaked, intending to wipe Starsky's sweaty face.

   "You really know how to cheer a guy up, doncha?" His eyes cracked open just a bit.

   I'd never been so happy to hear Starsky's sarcasm. "Well, I do my best."

   I'm not sure what came over me then. Maybe I was giddy with relief, or maybe I'd just let Starsky talk me into watching too many old cowboy movies. Instead of using the wet cloth to bathe his face, I held it to his lips. "Here, take a bite of that."

   He actually did as I asked, but his face screwed up. "Ugh." He spit it out and shoved my hand away. "That's awful."

   I chuckled a little at the disgust in his expression, so damn glad to see a spark of Starsky, and not the limp, passive man I'd carried into the office. "Yeah? Okay." I blotted the perspiration from his cheeks and brow.

   "What're we gonna do?"

   We. That was my partner, a fighter even when he could barely keep his eyes open. It didn't even cross my mind to deny him. I needed all the help I could get, and I hoped that giving Starsky a role in our plan would help him to hold out against the pain and blood loss until I could get him to a hospital.

   I stood and pulled out my pocket watch. "What time you got?"

   I flipped open the cover. The wall clock out in the restaurant read 11:35 when Theresa brought me to the office. I figured no more than two minutes had passed, and adjusted my watch accordingly. Realizing Starsky had never answered me, I looked down. Face tense with concentration, he was trying doggedly, but unsuccessfully, to raise his arm enough to see his own watch.

   My stomach twisted in sympathy, and I mentally kicked myself for not remembering how weak Starsky was. Maybe I just didn't want to. I quickly crouched down beside him. "Hey, buddy."

   "No, that's all right, 's all right."

   "Listen, here. Take my watch, huh?" I placed it carefully into his hand, chain first.

   "Okay." His fingers closed around it and he squinted at the time.

   "Now, I've synchronized it with the wall clock out there."

   "Yeah?"

   "Yeah."

   "What're we gonna do with it?"

   "All right, it's a long shot. But it's the only chance we got right now."

   "Yeah." Starsky's response was a faint mumble, but his eyes gleamed.

   "Um, Joey--the wild man out there? He's wound up tighter than a drum, he's ready to explode any minute." I picked up the metal pitcher, now mostly empty. "Think you can handle this? Heave it against that wall over there? Huh? Huh?" Starsky started to laugh, evidently seeing the irony in my request as clearly as I did. "Huh?"

   His face crumpled as the laughter triggered a spasm of pain.

   "Easy, easy," I soothed.

   "Give it to me. Jus' give it to me."

   I tucked the pitcher against his chest and he managed to curl his arm around it. "All right, now do it, and make a lotta racket."

   "Lotta racket, lotta racket," he agreed. "Hey, hey, listen." He chuckled a little. "You know this...this reminds me of a film I saw."

   "Yeah? What?"

   It should all have been so normal, so comforting. Starsky's always regaling me with the plot of one movie or another. If not for the demands of our job and his fondness for the ladies, I think he could easily turn into a couch potato. He's got a weakness for creature features, westerns and anything with Bogart in it. Listening to one more description of some late-night classic would be nothing new--except for the sweat drenching his face and his glassy eyes.

   "Yeah, there's a...you know, the bad guy. Ya...ya trip him and his gun slips out of his hand, you grab..." Starsky broke off, winded.

   I snickered, trying hard not to think about how weak and breathy his normally strong voice had become. If he was brave enough to be joking, the least I could do was reward him with laughter.

   He cracked an eye open. "Hey."

   "Yeah?"

   "You got any plans after this is all over?" He glanced up at me from the corner of his eye.

   "It's up to you."

   "After we get this all wrapped up? We'll go down and knock off a couple of banks in Bolivia."

   Starsky snickered at his own humor and I couldn't help but join him. It was a running gag between the two of us--Butch and Sundance, watching each other's backs and dodging the bad guys. We just happened to operate on the right side of the law.

   He sighed and squinted at my watch. "Okay. Wh...when do you want me to throw the first pitch?"

   I explained exactly what I needed from him, careful to keep my words clear and easily understood. Despite the jokes, I knew Starsky was battling pain and exhaustion, and I hadn't forgotten how fuzzy he'd been earlier. My plan was piecemeal at best, and timing was everything. Unless my partner and I coordinated our moves down to the minute, all I'd accomplish would be riling up my buddy, Joey, and possibly getting myself killed.

   When I felt certain Starsky was ready, I got up to return to my table. Frankly, I was amazed we'd been left alone for so long, without Joey bellowing threats or Iceman coming to investigate. I'd just reached the door when Starsky's faint voice stopped me.

   "Hey, Hutch. Hey. Next time you want scrambled eggs, don't let me talk you out of it. Huh?"

   I stood there, awed by his courage, blessed by his friendship, and terrified by what the next few minutes might bring. I wanted to say something, anything, to let him know what I was feeling, but the words couldn't squeeze past the lump in my throat. In the end I kept silent, trusting that Starsky already knew.

~~~~~ Starsky ~~~~~

   I drifted for a little while after Hutch left, caught in a gray place that wasn't exactly asleep or awake. The girl, Theresa, slipped in and out. One minute I'd feel her fingers touch my shoulder, my back; the next a cool cloth would wipe my face. It'd be hard to say which was worse--the jackhammer in my head or the tiger gnawin' on my shoulder. I'd tried real hard, for Hutch's sake, to keep track of what was happening around me. Without him, though, it was awful temptin' to let go.

   I'm not sure what brought me back, an unusually loud clap of thunder or a particularly nasty cramp in my back. All I know is one minute I was in the Twilight Zone, and the next I was whimperin' like a baby and clutching Theresa's hand hard enough to break her fingers.

   "Shh. Try to relax. It's going to be okay..." She trailed off and chuffed a weak laugh. "I don't even know your name."

   I mustered an answer between gulps of air. "Dave...Dave Starsky."

   "I'm Theresa. It's nice to..." She faltered, and laughed again, but it didn't sound like she thought anything was funny. "I can't believe this is happening. I'm so sorry, really, no one was supposed to get hurt. They promised me, promised no one else would get hurt."

   "Hutch?"

   Man, I couldn't believe how pathetic my voice sounded. Whine like that out on the street and the wiseguys'd laugh themselves silly.

   "He's okay, he's sitting out front." She ran the cloth across my forehead, then the back of my neck, her touch gentle.

   "He wanted scrambled eggs, ya know. Talked him into Italian instead. 'S never gonna let me forget it." I ran outta breath, then sucked in air too fast. It caught somewhere in my chest, and I started hacking like I was gonna cough up a lung.

   "Easy, easy. Deep breaths." The cloth disappeared and all of a sudden I had a pair of arms around me, supporting my back and ribs. She was a lot stronger than she looked, and boy, was I glad. Every time I coughed, it felt like my insides were comin' apart.

   "Scrambled eggs, hm? I'll tell you what. When this is all over, you bring your friend back and I'll make sure he gets some of Angelo's veal, on the house. He'll see you were doing him a favor." She kept her voice light, but I could feel her tremble.

   The grin I wanted to give her turned out to be just teeth. "Got yourself a deal...darlin'."

   I heard water sloshing in the pitcher and then the cushions dipped. "You and your friend--have you been partners long?" Cool wetness across my face, down my neck, soothing away the heat.

   "More'n four years. He's a good cop. The best."

   The hand on my arm tightened, and when I slit open an eye her face looked pale. "If he's smart he'll forget he's a cop tonight. It'll only get him hurt or..." She bit her lip and clammed up.

   My stomach, which had pretty much settled once Hutch got me to the couch, started doin' flip-flops like there was a whole gymnastics team inside it. I like to think I know my partner, and it wasn't too hard to imagine what was goin' on inside that blond head.

   Hutch and me are cops. Yeah, I know, tell ya something ya don't know, right? What I'm trying to say, is that unlike the other unfortunate slobs caught up in that mess, we knew the score. I still wasn't sure what the hell was goin' down out there, but I figured me taking a bullet was just the warm-up. The real fireworks hadn't started yet. And once they were over, once those goons got whatever they came for...

   We'd all seen their faces.

   Hutch was probably out there right now, cookin' up some crazy scheme. Alone, no one to watch his back. I hoped to God he hadn't tried anything yet.

   "Dave? Are you all right?"

   Theresa's voice cut through the buzzing in my ears, and I realized I was gulping air like one of those poor fish Hutch likes to catch. I managed a nod while I forced myself to relax.

   "'M okay." I squeaked the words out in between gasps. "Just...need to see...Hutch."

   All the panting for air triggered spasms in my back muscles and I couldn't help moaning. Something soft brushed across my forehead, pushing the hair back outta my eyes. Took me a minute to realize it was Theresa's fingers, easing the pain.

   "Shh. Take it easy. I'll get him, okay? Just hold on."

   The cushions moved and she was gone. I fought hard to stay awake, to listen for some clue about what was happening out in the restaurant. Felt like a big, fuzzy quilt was on top of me, pushing me down, muffling everything around me. Then Hutch's voice was there, nearby, and I automatically reached for him.

   "Hey, buddy, how ya feeling, huh?"

   My fingers found the solid warmth of his leg and I grabbed on. "Hey." My mouth felt dry and full of cotton.

   A hand stroked up my arm--Hutch's hand, the fingers rough-gentle. "Yeah, babe, right here."

   "What's happening?"

   I gritted my teeth and struggled to concentrate, while Hutch fiddled with my bandages and brought me up to speed. Vic Monty? All I wanted was to drag my partner out for a little R&R over a plate of linguini and instead I'd landed us in the middle of a major hit. Some days it just don't pay to get outta bed.

   "You really know how to cheer a guy up, doncha?" Ma used to say that sometimes you gotta laugh or else you'll cry.

   "Well, I do my best."

   I don't know what got into Hutch then, but he had me bite on a wet cloth, like something straight out of an old John Wayne movie. I was punchy enough that I actually let him put it in my mouth, 'til I realized what he was doing and spit it out. Tasted like wet socks. Hearing Hutch laugh was worth it, though.

   "What're we gonna do?" I asked him.

   WE. Not YOU, Hutch. Long as I'm still breathin', we're in this together.

   Hutch put down the cloth he'd been using on my face and stood up. "What time you got?"

   Good question. I got a great watch--not only will it give you the time, it has a built-in alarm and it's waterproof to a depth of 500 feet. 'Course, a watch is no damn good if you can't see it. Somehow my arm had gained about fifty pounds, and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't seem to lift it. Not that it really mattered, since my eyes refused to stay open long enough to see anything.

   Hutch eventually caught on. "Hey, buddy."

   I could hear the guilt and worry in his voice as he crouched down next to me. Last thing I needed was for him to think I couldn't pull my own weight in this plan.

   "No, that's all right. 'S all right."

   "Listen, here. Take my watch, huh?"

   A long chain trickled into my palm, followed by the smooth, roundness of Hutch's pocket watch. "Okay."

   Then Hutch told me his plan. A longshot, he called it. When he was finished, I was sure he'd been watchin' too many movies. First that whole "bite the bullet" routine, and now we were gonna try the oldest trick in the book on a couple of pros who got paid to whack people. Some longshot. More like a lost cause--not that I had any better suggestions.

   And my part in this great plan? Throwin' a metal pitcher against the wall. Me. The guy who couldn't even lift his arm enough to see his watch. I started to laugh.

   Big mistake.

   My back and my head evidently didn't get the joke.

   "Jus' give it to me. Give it to me." I curled one arm around the pitcher.

   "All right, now do it, and make a lotta racket."

   "Lotta racket, lotta racket," I repeated, just so Hutch'd know I was takin' the plan seriously--even if it did have a snowball's chance in hell of working. "You know this...this reminds me of a film I saw."

   "Yeah? What?"

   See, that's why Hutch is my friend. He didn't really care about some old movie from the late, late show. But he was willing to listen, 'cause he cares about me.

   'Course, he's not always as patient if I'm not slowly bleedin' to death.

   "Yeah, there's a...you know, the bad guy. Ya...ya trip him and his gun slips out of his hand, you grab..." I quit, too tired and winded to keep explaining.

   I listened to Hutch snicker a little, under his breath, and I thought about friendship. How after a short (thanks to Ma) membership in a street gang and a tour in Vietnam, I hadn't even touched the tip of the iceberg. What I got with Hutch--knowin' he'll put his life on the line for me, and being just as willing to do the same for him--I guess most people will never understand, let alone experience it. Heck, if Hutch jumped off a cliff, I'd probably be right there behind him. Or maybe I'd go first, just to see if I could break his fall. Which reminded me...

   I pried an eye open. His face was kinda blurry, but I could see those baby blues, watchin' me. "Hey."

   "Yeah?"

   "You got any plans after this is all over?"

   Hutch smiled a little. "It's up to you."

   "After we get this all wrapped up? We'll go down and knock off a couple of banks in Bolivia."

   He got it, just like I knew he would. Butch and Sundance. Huh, more like Stanley and Ollie. I risked a little laugh and this time my back let me off the hook. It was good to hear Hutch snickerin' right along with me.

   "Okay, wh...when do you want me to throw the first pitch?"

   "Okay. Five minutes. Five minutes. Now that's gonna give me enough time to get back to that table and get into position without those guys knowing that anything's coming down."

   I squinted at the watch, tryin' to make sense of numbers that kept dancin' around. "That's...fourteen minutes before...twelve."

   "Fourteen to twelve. Okay."

   He got up to leave, and all of a sudden I was a scared little kid. I didn't want him goin' out there with the bad guys and the guns. I wished he could stay with me, where it was safe.

   Except it wasn't.

   And I had this terrible feeling looming over me like a dark cloud. A feeling that once he walked out the door I'd never see him again. And I wanted him to know...

   But he did.

   "Hey, Hutch?"

   We got a kind of radar when it comes to each other. Saved both our butts on more than one occasion. I could feel him stop in the doorway and turn back to me.

   "Hey. Next time you want scrambled eggs, don't let me talk you out of it. Huh?"

   After another few seconds I heard him leave.

~~~~~ Hutch ~~~~~

   Going back out into the restaurant was harder than I thought it would be. Every time I walked away from Starsky I left another piece of myself behind. I wanted to be right there by his side when he reached for me, not stuck in a front row seat for Vic Monty's execution. I was wired, counting the minutes until I could make my move to take out Joey and Iceman. It took every ounce of my questionable acting skills to keep those feelings from showing on my face.

   I held up my hands, keeping them in plain sight, as I walked slowly back to the table Iceman had assigned me. He and Joey still lounged at an inconspicuous table off to the side where they had an unobstructed view of the office, the hostages, and the front door. I sat down, stealing a quick look at the wall clock. Minutes, just minutes, and I could finally DO something instead of sit on my ass, faking cooperation.

   I hoped Starsky was up to the task I'd given him. Whether he knew it or not, I was very aware of how much I was asking. He was weak as a kitten, barely able to stay conscious, let alone concentrate. He could pass out before the five minutes were up, aggravate his injuries trying to toss the pitcher--he might not even have the strength to slam it against the wall. The plan had a snowball's chance in hell of working, but I had to give it a try. And Starsky needed to be a part of it. Because if the worst were to happen, if my friend Joey got the chance to waste me as he'd been threatening... Starsky would never forgive himself if I bought it without him doing his damnedest to stop it.

   Sammy the comic's sidekick, a redhead built like a brick house, got up and walked over to sit with Iceman and Joey. My eyes watched them, watched the clock, but my thoughts drifted to a recent memory.

   I'd just recovered from my ordeal at the hands of Forest and his goons, and I was still pretty shaky. The overwhelming need for the heroin was gone, but just like someone on a diet, I'd get cravings that were hard to resist. Starsky and Huggy were my lifelines during those days, and it was a thankless job. My patience was practically nonexistent, my temper explosive. If my words had been fists, Starsky and Huggy would've looked like the casualties of a few rounds with Muhammad Ali. Starsky, I'm sorry to say, bore the worst of my anger and frustration. The sad fact is, no one can hurt you as badly as the one who loves you the most. And in this boxing match, there was no referee to keep me from hitting below the belt.

   Finally, after what seemed like forever but was only a couple weeks, I crossed through hell and came out the other side. I'd been released for active duty beginning the following morning, and I'd never been happier at the thought of hitting the streets. I was still a little weak, a little shaken, a little wary. But I could look in the mirror and see Ken Hutchinson, not an addict ready to sell his soul for a fix. For the first time, I was clear-headed enough to look back on the previous two weeks. And what I saw made me cringe.

   I showed up on Starsky's doorstep that night with a pizza and a load of guilt. I had to hit the bell three times before he answered, but his eyes lit up when he saw what was in my hands.

   I listened to the redhead come on to Joey in a pitiful attempt to save her own skin, the memory clinging to the corners of my mind like a cobweb. I had no doubt Starsky would throw that pitcher if it killed him. Which was exactly what had me worried.

   Humiliated by Joey and rejected by her buddy Sammy, Red ended up parking herself in the chair next to me. Listening to her whine about her hard luck with men set my teeth on edge. My partner lay in that office, hurting more than he'd ever let on, yet willing to give everything he had to save all our skins. Red, on the other hand, had jumped ship the moment the water got a little rough.

   "Maybe you have to give a little." I wasn't sure why I bothered, since all I really wanted her to do was shut up. On the other hand, no one deserved the kind of treatment Joey dished out.

   "Give a little. That's funnier than Sammy," she sneered, but then I heard her sigh. "It's not so funny when it's true, is it?"

   My eyes shifted from the clock to the open office doorway and back again, Red's voice just an annoying buzz in the background. One minute to go. I prayed that Starsky was ready, that luck would be with us and somehow my pitiful excuse for a plan would work.

   It had to.

   Then another voice cut through my thoughts, drawing my attention. The linebacker had been camped out at the bar, talking quietly to Theresa. But whatever they were discussing had obviously gotten under the guy's skin. One look at his clenched fists and stiff back told me he was headed for trouble. And it was nearly time for Starsky to make his pitch.

   "Whatever happens in the next minute, try to stay out of the way, huh?" I got ready to move. My partner was going to deliver a distraction or the big guy was gonna blow--either way I had to be ready, and I couldn't afford Red interfering.

   "Jimmy, don't!"

   Theresa's cry settled the matter. Jimmy, aka the linebacker, charged toward Joey and Iceman. No weapon but his fists, operating strictly on anger, he might as well have been wearing a sign that read "shoot me." And his timing couldn't possibly have been worse.

   I lunged into his path, grabbing hold of his arms and shoving him up against the wall. "Go back and sit down! Cut it out!"

   "Let go!" He shoved me away, his strength, fueled by anger, enough to send me staggering back several steps.

   I swung hard, fist catching him in the belly and doubling him over. Joey seized the opportunity to bash him over the head with his piece, and Jimmy dropped to the floor, dazed but still conscious.

   "Hey!" Wild-eyed, Joey leveled his gun at my head.

   Starsky, God bless him, chose that exact moment to do as I'd asked. Joey's head jerked toward the noisy crash of the pitcher and I lashed out, knocking his arm aside. His finger reflexively tightened on the trigger, squeezing off a round that emptied harmlessly into the wall, narrowly missing an elderly couple coming through the front door. The woman's screams could've awakened the dead.

   What in the hell were they doing in an Italian restaurant at that hour anyway? They belonged at home, watching Lawrence Welk reruns over a glass of warm milk.

   Iceman grabbed his twitchy partner's gun arm with his free hand, his own weapon never wavering from my chest. I don't think the guy ever broke a sweat.

   I listened with only half an ear as Joey ranted at Jimmy, the same old attitude, the same old threats. My little plan hadn't been much, just a glimmer of hope in the darkness surrounding Starsky and me, and now that was gone as well. We were down to the wire, what Starsky and I would call "who do we trust" time. Except the man I trusted most in the world was bleeding to death, barely able to lift his head, let alone back me up.

   In the moment of confusion, as Joey manhandled Jimmy off to be locked in the cellar, I walked over to Theresa. She was all I had left now, my only hope for pulling our butts out of the fire before we got burned right along with Monty. I just hoped that seeing her boyfriend roughed up would snap her out of the fantasy world she'd been living in.

   We either stopped the hit on Monty, or we died with him. Simple as that.

   I grabbed her around the waist, my back to Iceman, restraining her from following after Jimmy. "Theresa, stay out of this."

   She struggled a little. "He's hurt!"

   "Listen, there's no more time to make choices--you understand? Either you're gonna help me, or you're not." I hadn't the time, or the patience, to soften my words.

   She resisted for only a moment, then her shoulders slumped. "What do you... What do you want me to do?"

   "Is there a gun in this place?"

   "I don't know." She glanced away, nervous.

   Iceman must have noticed. "Theresa, get away from there. Get these people some food."

   I leaned in close and talked fast. "While you're in the kitchen, check the wine cellar. Find out if the old man has a gun, and if he does, where he keeps it."

   "Theresa!"

   "Yeah." She hurried off, rattled by the steel in Iceman's voice.

   He glared at me, gun aimed at the ceiling but finger on the trigger. "I told everyone to sit down. What are you whispering about?"

   I was so damn tired of taking orders from both of them. It wasn't easy to hide my irritation, but I tried. I put on the innocent face Starsky and I show Dobey when we're in trouble. "Well, before your trigger-happy pal got so excited, I thought I heard something fall back in the office."

   He nodded, staring at me with those flat, reptile eyes.

   "I'd like to go check my partner out."

   Again, the slight smile, as if my concern for Starsky amused him. "All right. But first, that empty holster--get rid of it. Now."

   I stretched my lips into a smile, but let my contempt seep through. If Iceman thought I could actually turn an empty holster into a weapon, maybe I should feel flattered. Funny--it just pissed me off. I unsnapped the holster and tossed it onto the bar. At least he was allowing me to see Starsky. I'd play his game--for now.

~~~~~ Starsky ~~~~~

   Funny things go through your head when you're forced to think about your own mortality. I could feel how weak I was getting, and it was harder and harder to keep my mind from wandering. Alone. Hurting. Scared.

   So tired.

   I could sense death, the same way I can recognize danger when Hutch and me are tracking bad guys through a dark alley, or warehouse, or some roach-infested dive. An impression, a feeling that makes those little hairs at the back of your neck stand up. It wasn't beside me, not yet. But it was in the room, hangin' around just outta sight.

   So tired.

   I'd stare at Hutch's watch, waiting for that minute hand to hit the nine, for my cue to throw the pitcher... And next thing I knew my brain would've strayed someplace completely different.

   Hutch. Me. All the jams we've gotten ourselves into--and back out of--over the last four years. Lotsa jams. One thing about Hutch and me, we don't do things halfway. Drives Dobey nuts.

   The thing is, Dobey probably thinks I've corrupted Hutch. I mean, look at us. You got Hutch, whose clothes look like he stepped outta the pages of a high-class fashion magazine most of the time--not to mention the fancy manners and boy-next-door good looks. And then you got me. I dress strictly for comfort--hell, I wouldn't know an iron if it bit me in the ass. And though I got plenty of brains and street smarts, I get completely confused if I see more than one fork and spoon. And attitude? Well, I've always had more than my share.

   So most people probably think I'm responsible for teachin' Hutch to give the rulebook a drop kick into the trashcan. That I took a nice, respectful team player and turned him into a renegade just like me.

   Oh, man, are they ever wrong.

   You see, behind that innocent face and underneath all the "sirs," beats the heart of a guy just as willing as me to do whatever it takes to finish the job. I'm tellin' ya, he comes up with schemes I never would've dreamed up in a million years.

   Why do you think he's my best friend?

   Guess we're just...what do you call it? Kindred spirits. Just goes to show that the outside of the package don't mean squat.

   I jerked myself back from sleep, prying my eyes open and checking Hutch's watch. 11:42. Four minutes to go.

   The numbers started running together and I blinked hard, twisting a little to see the watch better.

   Pain knifed through my back until sparks burst in front of my eyes, and the wasps were back in my ears, buzzing so loud I couldn't think. Somebody was makin' this really annoying whimpering sound, and I wished they'd shut up. After a couple minutes I was kinda embarrassed to realize the somebody was me.

   A memory popped into my mixed-up, loopy brain. Hutch and me. An abandoned warehouse full of boxes and old packing crates. And a couple of drug dealers making a big score. A time, like a million others, when Hutch was there for me, no matter what.

   A flash of lightening, followed immediately by a rumble of thunder, brought me back. 11:44. I carefully set Hutch's watch on the floor and reached for the pitcher. Felt like it was filled with cement, but I got a good grip and waited, watching the second hand creep slowly around the dial.

   11:46

   Gritting my teeth against the pain, I leaned up on one elbow and gave it everything I had. I enjoyed a split second of satisfaction when the pitcher crashed into the wall and toppled to the floor with a clatter. Then white-hot agony shot through my back and down my arm, and my head exploded like a firecracker. I felt myself falling into a long, dark tunnel, and I was more than happy when it swallowed me up.

PART THREE