The heavy gates swung open with a rusty, creaking sound, and the white-haired man stepped through alone, carrying a bag with his few belongings inside. The guard gave him a pat on the back. "Taxi's waiting, Jim," he said. "Good luck to you."

It was the same thing he said to every prisoner who left the facility on parole and most of them at least smiled at him. But not this man. This man did not even acknowledge that he'd spoken. He simply walked away, toward the waiting taxi. He was bent with age and arthritis, and had difficulty getting in. The taxi drove away, and the guard watched it go, shaking his head a little as he threw the switch to close and lock the gates again.

What could a man that age do to start over? Jim had been at the prison longer than the guard had worked there. He was a fixture in the place. He had no friends among the other prisoners and no visitors. Seldom received mail or asked to make a phone call. He had to be in his 70s now, at the end of a long sentence. No one even seemed to remember what he was in for, and he never sat around the yard, like the others, and talked about his former life. He was just Jim, who had always been there and always would, it seemed -- until last week when he'd been unexpectedly paroled.

Sometimes, the guard reflected, it might be kinder to keep men like that in prison, where they'd be fed and have a place to sleep, rather than send them back out into the world. But he had other work to do, other prisoners to oversee, and it wasn't long until the vision of Jim walking away to the taxi faded in the pressure of other duties.

~~~

The oppressive heat was a given in Southern California, but in spite of the 30 years he'd lived in it, Ken Hutchinson had never gotten used to it. He wearily wiped sweat from his forehead and cursed the morning rush-hour traffic inwardly as he peered hopefully through the windshield for his exit. It was only a quarter-mile ahead, but in this damned traffic jam, it would probably take him half an hour or longer to reach it. The cell phone lying on the seat next to him rang and he cursed again, aloud this time. Snatching it up, he barked, "What?" into it.

"Morning, Captain," a cheerful voice said into his ear. "Stuck in traffic again?"

"Yeah," Hutch said. "So what couldn't wait until I get there? If I ever do."

"Chief wants to meet with you," the voice said. "Shall I tell him it'll be a while yet?"

Hutch peered through the windshield again and made a few mental calculations. "About 45 minutes, I'd say."

"Okay. I'll tell him an hour and that'll keep him off both our backs."

"Thanks, Minnie," Hutch said. He shut off the phone just as the traffic unexpectedly speeded up, just long enough to allow him to get to his exit and turn off. Glancing up at the freeway overpass, he could see the accident that had caused the clog, and shook his head in disgust. At least he was out of it now. It only took a few minutes to reach headquarters, park his car, and enter the blessed cool of the building. He made a mental note to himself to take his car in tomorrow to get the damned air conditioning fixed. He didn't want to spend one more morning roasting in traffic.

He was already loosening his tie and shedding his jacket as he entered the squad room and greeted a few of his men who were hanging around filling out reports and drinking coffee. Just as he reached his own office and tossed his jacket over a chair, one of the younger men, who'd just made detective, stuck his head in.

"Cap? Got a minute?"

Hutch sank into his chair and waved at another chair. "Sure, Jenkins. What is it?"

Jenkins shut the office door and sat down. He was obviously nervous. "It's my partner, sir."

"What's wrong with your partner, Jenkins?"

"Nothing, sir. He's a good officer, very conscientious. It's just that..." Jenkins stopped and shifted in his seat.

"Well, spit it out, man, I have an appointment with the chief in a few minutes," Hutch snapped, then regretted it. God, I sound like Dobey, he scolded himself, and the thought brought a grin to his face. The grin apparently reassured Jenkins, who returned it.

"I had hoped I could be partnered with Brinkman, sir," Jenkins said quickly.

"Brinkman?" Hutch searched his memory and the only Brinkman he could come up with in the division was a uniformed officer...a female uniformed officer. What the hell was her first name? Jennifer?

"Todd Brinkman, Cap," Jenkins said. "Made detective last month, just before I did. We were in the academy together, sir, and we're friends, and I had hoped we could work together. Sir."

Oh, that Brinkman. Hutch remembered him now. The division had grown since he and Starsky had been detectives there, and he had trouble remembering the several new officers that had been transferred into it since the last round of sergeant exams. He studied Jenkins, who was still shifting uncertainly in his seat, and had a brief flashback of himself and Starsky, sitting in this office all those years ago, asking Dobey to partner them. He smiled, a friendly, companionable grin. "What does Brinkman say to this?"

"Well, sir, he, uh, he asked me to speak for both of us. He's a little, um, afraid of you. Sir."

"Afraid? Of me?" The thought made Hutch laugh. "Oh, shit. I really have become Dobey."

"Dobey? Sir?"

"My captain. When I was on the streets," Hutch said. "A good cop. A really good cop. Best ever. But gruff on the outside. Damn, could that man bellow when he wanted to. Took me and Starsk a while to get over being scared of him, too."

"Starsk? Do you mean Lt. Starsky, sir? At the academy?"

"That's him," Hutch said. "He was my partner."

"I didn't know that." Jenkins looked intrigued.

"I'll get the paperwork put in today, Jenkins," Hutch said, noticing the time. He was supposed to be in the chief's office in 10 minutes. "I don't see any reason why you and Brinkman can't be partners. But remember one thing."

"What's that, sir?"

"I have certain expectations of my detectives, Jenkins. And partners. I expect them to work as a unit, to watch each other's backs, and to get the job done. That's easier if you're friends. It's also harder in some ways. Don't wait for things to get bad before you come to me. Don't try to fly solo. I'm your captain, and I'm here to back you up. Okay?"

"Yes, sir," Jenkins said.

"Okay. Get out of here and go earn your pay. I'll have you and Brinkman partnered by the end of the week." Hutch waved him away, and Jenkins left, looking much happier than when he'd walked in. Hutch stood up again, put his jacket back on, rearranged his tie, and went to the chief's office.

It turned out that all the chief wanted was to tell Hutch he'd been asked to speak to a class at the academy about the Gunther case, which was the last one he and Starsky had been involved in together. That case had become textbook stuff for cadets to study in their coursework on organized crime, something that Hutch found both pride and regret in. Pride, that the names Starsky and Hutchinson were in the academy textbooks, together. Regret, that the case had brought their partnership to an end.

He wasn't surprised. He or Starsky usually gave a lecture on the case to every academy class, but he was getting a little tired of rehashing it year after year. One did not say "no" to the chief, however, and Hutch agreed to give the lecture the following week.

The rest of the day was largely uneventful, and Hutch was just getting ready to go home for the day when his cell phone rang again. He answered it with considerably more charm than he had that morning.

"Hi, Dad. It's Josh."

"What can I do for you, son?" Hutch said, genuine pleasure in his voice. Since the boy had taken a part time job a couple of months before, he'd hardly seen him or heard from him.

"I need a favor."

"Uh-oh. You didn't get some girl in trouble, did you?"

"Dad."

"Sorry. Just my attempt at humor." Hutch rolled his eyes and heaved a silent sigh. It got harder every year to talk to his own son. Nobody's fault, he supposed. The kid was growing up, and since the divorce, it wasn't easy to stay close. Thank God he didn't seem to have that difficulty with his daughter. Yet.

"I need a letter of recommendation for my college applications," Josh said, apparently choosing to ignore his father's "attempt at humor."

"And you want your old Dad to write it? Don't you think they might consider me a little biased?"

"Not you, Dad. Uncle Dave. Do you think he'd do it?"

"Why don't you ask him? Why are you asking me?"

"I want you to ask him for me," Josh said.

"I see. Okay, I'll ask him. What should he say in this letter? 'Joshua Hutchinson is a terrific kid who'd be an asset to your university and you'd be crazy not to accept him'?"

"Something like that," Josh said, laughing. "Maybe not quite so obvious."

Hutch grinned.

"And would you ask him to sign it with his full name? I mean, 'Lt. David Starsky,' not just 'David Starsky'? I think that would impress them more."

"Oh, definitely. Should he include a list of all the medals and awards he's won over the years, too?"

"Dad."

"Sorry." Hutch suppressed the chuckle that threatened. "I'll give him a call tonight. Okay?"

"Thanks. I better let you go, then. I have to get to work."

"Hey, Josh, before you go..." Hutch was feeling awkward again. For a moment, he'd felt almost comfortable talking with Josh.

"Yeah?"

"Can we get together this weekend? Dinner, or something?"

"Sure, Dad. Sunday, maybe? I'm off work. I've got a term paper due Monday, though, so I won't have much time."

"Sunday's fine," Hutch said, relieved. "Tell your sister, too, huh? I'll pick both of you up about one, and we'll go get a pizza or something."

"Okay. Bye, Dad."

Hutch turned the phone off and looked down at it for several moments, feeling regretful again. College applications. Good Lord. It seemed like only a few months ago that Josh had just been learning to ride a two-wheeler. Hutch remembered standing on the sidewalk, trying to carefully explain the concept of riding a bicycle, when Starsky had roared up in his latest hot-rod and simply taken over. Hutch had watched, certain that Starsky, Josh and the bike were all going to wind up wrapped around a tree, while Starsky ran along beside Josh and then, with a mighty push, had let go. And Josh had ridden off down the street by himself, totally unaware that "Uncle Dave" wasn't hanging on. And had come safely to a stop at the end of the block, flushed and proud, while Starsky had beamed just as proudly, giving Hutch a light punch to the shoulder and proclaiming, "See that? Kid's a natural."

I must be getting old, Hutch thought, stuffing the phone in his pocket and heading out the door. My kid's old enough for college.

Even so, he almost forgot to call Starsky about the letter. He was just turning on the news when he remembered. It was late, but Starsky had always been a night-owl, and Hutch had promised Josh, so he dialed the familiar number.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Hannah. It's Hutch. What are you doing up so late?"

"Hi, Hutch! My school carnival's going to be on the news, so Daddy said I could stay up and watch it. Channel 4. Turn it on, quick or you might miss it."

Smiling, Hutch obeyed, leaving the sound down. "Get your dad for me, will you, honey?"

"Okay. But don't make him miss me on the news."

"I wouldn't dream of it," Hutch said. He waited, and in a few moments, Starsky came on the line.

"Better make this fast, buddy, or there's going to be one very unhappy little girl here," Starsky said by way of greeting.

"It's nice to hear your voice, too," Hutch said dryly. "Would you rather call me back?"

"Nah. I can see the boob tube from here, and anyway, I got the VCR set to record it. What's up?"

"Josh needs a letter of recommendation to send with his college apps and he wants Uncle Dave to write one for him."

In the background, Hutch could hear Hannah's squeal, "There I am! See it, Daddy? I'm on TV!"

"I see it, sweetheart," Starsky said. "You look terrific."

Hutch could see it, too, Hannah and several of her classmates singing. She did look terrific. "Damn, she's getting big," Hutch said, watching. "When did she grow so much?"

"She's 10 now," Starsky said. "Didja expect her to be wearing diapers or somethin'?"

Hutch laughed. "No. I guess I haven't seen her lately. She's going to be a heartbreaker, Starsk. Have you thought about getting a large, mean dog to keep the boys away?"

"Are you kiddin'?" Starsky demanded. "Her dad's a cop, for chrissake. I don't need a dog. I got a gun."

The segment ended, and Hutch turned the TV off. He didn't want to watch the rest, anyway. The news always depressed him.

"Okay, sweetheart. Now you gotta go to bed," Starsky was saying.

Hutch could hear Hannah's voice over the wire. "Okay, Daddy. Good night. 'Night, Hutch!"

"Tell her I said 'good night,'" Hutch said.

Starsky repeated the message to his daughter, then said, "Okay, Hutch, what's this about Josh wanting a letter? Why the hell's he want me to write it?"

"He thinks 'Lt. Starsky' at the bottom will impress them," Hutch said. "He specifically requested that you sign your full name and title."

"And write it on academy stationery, I suppose."

"Probably."

"Okay, sure. No problem. Goddamn, Hutch, that kid's going to college? How the hell you gonna pay for that?"

Hutch laughed. "I'm not. His grandparents started him a college fund when he was born. Jill, too. And Josh has been working. He'll be okay. I might have to help a little, but I won't have to cough it all up."

"Shit. I guess I better hope Hannah turns out to be brilliant and gets a scholarship. Ain't no rich grandparents in this family."

"Are you on 'daddy duty' all by yourself tonight? Where's Nancy?"

"Workin'. They put her on graveyard shift. Nursin's worse than bein' a cop, buddy. Good thing I got regular hours these days or the babysitting fees'd kill me."

"Yeah." Hutch stretched out on the couch, feeling more alone than he had for a while, even with his best friend on the other end of the phone. The emptiness of his apartment had seemed to echo tonight, more so than usual, since his thoughts had been on his son since talking to Josh earlier. And hearing Hannah's voice and being reminded that Starsky was not alone, not divorced, not watching his child grow away from him, had made it worse. Oh, he was glad Starsky wasn't alone...but it made his own situation stand out more.

"Hutch? You still there?"

"Yeah, just thinking. One of my detectives asked me to partner him with a pal from the academy today."

"Oh, yeah? Who?"

"Jenkins. Wants to be partnered with Brinkman."

"Good match," Starsky said. "Didja say yes?"

Starsky always seemed to remember ever cadet he'd ever taught, Hutch reflected. Any time Hutch needed information on a new officer in his division, he could ask Starsky, and if the officer in question had been in one of Starsky's classes, he remembered him and could fill Hutch in. Every time.

"Yeah. I said yes."

"Good boy. You won't be sorry." There was a brief silence, then Starsky asked, with a gentler tone, "You okay, Hutch? You sound kinda down."

"I am kind of down," Hutch answered. "Old age, I guess."

"Aw, you ain't old, Hutch," Starsky chided him. "You're younger than Dobey was when he had your job."

"Not by much."

"Missin' the streets? I could remind you of a few incidents that would make you glad for your nice, safe office."

Hutch smiled a little. "It's not the streets I miss. It's..." he stopped.

"What?"

Hutch sighed. "I gotta go do the damn Gunther lecture next week."

There was another brief silence. "I see," Starsky said.

And he did see. Hutch knew. Starsky understood how he felt about it. Even though Hutch had brought Gunther down, dismantled his organization beyond repair, sent the man to prison -- and Starsky had recovered, after nearly dying from those bullet wounds -- the department would not agree to let Starsky go back on the streets. He'd been given a choice. Desk duty, or permanent disability. His heart had been affected. Not enough to keep him from leading a normal life, or expecting a normal life span. But too much to allow him the kind of activity a cop on the streets went through, day after day.

After Starsky's months of convalescence, he'd accepted a job teaching at the academy. And Hutch had taken the lieutenant's exam, and from there had been promoted to captain, taking over when Dobey retired. Gunther had not won. He hadn't killed Starsky or Hutch. But he had been the reason they were no longer partners. And for that, Hutch would never forgive him.

"Hey, partner," Starsky's voice came over the wire, softly.

Hutch smiled a little. Starsky still called him "partner" and probably always would, in spite of the 20 years it had been since they'd truly been partners.

"Yeah, buddy?"

"He didn't take away 'me and thee,'" Starsky said. "Nobody could do that."

"Yeah."

~~~

The motel's neon sign flashed red and orange light through the window, but the old man bent over a stack of papers at the desk paid no attention. His seedy surroundings were only temporary, and he much preferred this room to the cell he'd been forced to call home for the last 20 years. Certain carefully concealed foreign accounts would provide him with quarters more in keeping with his tastes as soon as he could retrieve the money, and he'd already made some phone calls arranging to meet with those who had been watching over his business interests while he was in prison. Those phone calls had not been entirely welcome on the recipients' ends, but the old man in the motel room was not concerned with whether those underlings were happy or not. He knew he still had the connections necessary to back up his wishes with muscle, and so did they.

It had taken almost a month, but he had found the information he needed. He looked down at the papers on the desk.

Captain Kenneth Hutchinson. Lt. David Starsky. Both still alive. For now. But the old man had a score to settle, and they wouldn't be for long...

~~~

Hutch wet his lips nervously and straightened his tie before opening the classroom door and striding in, trying to look confident. Rows of fresh-faced young police cadets turned and looked at him expectantly as he nodded and made his way to the lectern at the front of the room.

They were all so young. Hutch cringed inwardly. Some of them were barely shaving, for crying out loud. And soon they'd be out on the streets, putting their lives on the line. As dangerous as being a cop had been when he was on the streets, it was nothing compared to the gangs and drug wars going on out there today. And a heartless city was sending mere kids out there to deal with it...

Just about then, he caught Starsky's eye. Starsky was sitting in the back of the room, chair tipped back dangerously against the wall, rooting for him silently. Hutch stopped his thoughts from running away with him, cleared his throat, and began the Gunther lecture.

Afterwards, he was absurdly pleased with the intelligent questions the kids -- no, the men -- asked. They asked how he'd known where to look for the information he used to bring Gunther down. They asked about police methods of 20 years ago compared to today's. They were admiring without descending to hero-worship of an officer legendary enough to be in their textbooks. But then, this was one of Starsky's classes. And somehow Starsky managed to be everyone's favorite instructor, in spite of his well-deserved reputation for toughness. He turned out cadets who were ready to face the danger and the frustration of being a street cop. And those same cadets remembered Starsky fondly long after they'd left the academy.

But then came the question Hutch dreaded, the one someone always asked.

"Captain," asked the only female cadet in the class, "what was it like to hunt down the man who had shot your partner? Isn't it difficult to keep your emotions in check in a situation like that?"

Hutch lifted his eyes to meet Starsky's, and in an instant was transported back to that intensive care unit. In his mind, he was sitting in that chair on the other side of the glass, watching as his partner's life slipped away, as his world crumbled...

"You don't," he answered honestly, still looking at Starsky. "The only thing you can do is try to keep those emotions under control, rather than let them control you." He had to pause to collect himself and he saw that Starsky was having a similar reaction. It was part of the reason both of them hated giving this lecture every year -- the memory of how close they'd come to losing each other was still fresh, even now. "My partner was dying," he went on, after a moment. "There wasn't anything I could do to help him. But I could go out and find the man responsible for hurting him. I could put that man away. I was dying, inside, too. But I couldn't give in to it. I had to channel that grief and pain into action."

The cadet who had asked the question had tears in her eyes, but her voice was steady as she said, "Sir? Is it true that partners are closer than family sometimes, then?"

"Yes," Starsky answered for Hutch, rising and moving to the front of the room. He joined Hutch at the lectern and put his arm around Hutch's shoulders. "It's true, Morrison. If you're lucky enough to get a good partner like Hutch, you're gonna find yourself with a lifelong friend. You don't get much closer than somebody who'll lay his life on the line for you. This man is closer to me than my brother."

"Even though you're not partners anymore?" Morrison asked.

"We're still partners," Starsky said, tapping his own chest. "In here. Where it counts."

~~~

"I need a beer," Hutch said after the class had left. "Wanna join me?"

"Sounds good," Starsky said, picking his jacket up off the chair. "I'm done for the day. Are you?"

"No, but I'm taking off anyway," Hutch said. "My bomb's in the shop. Give me a ride home?"

Starsky grinned. "Again? What's wrong with it this time?"

"Air conditioner."

Starsky shook his head mournfully. "You'll never learn, will ya? Why the hell you don't buy a decent car, instead of sinking money into that piece of shit..."

"I've got child support to pay," Hutch retorted, keeping his face straight, though he found a great deal of comfort and fun in the old argument over his taste in cars.

"It'd be cheaper to buy a decent car than to keep paying to have the old one fixed," Starsky said, leading the way to the parking lot and his own almost-new -- and bright red -- car. At least it didn't have a white stripe, but only because Nancy had threatened to poison his food if he did such a thing.

Hutch grinned at the thought, and Starsky promptly demanded he share the joke.

"I was just remembering the argument you and Nancy had when you bought this about the paint job," Hutch admitted.

Starsky grinned, too. "Aw, I was just teasin' her," he said. "I wouldn't really have had 'em paint a stripe on it like the Torino had. I'm a family man now," he added, virtuously.

Hutch rolled his eyes as Starsky gunned the motor and drove out of the lot.

Huggy's was gone, though Huggy himself was now the proud owner of a seafood restaurant in west L.A. But Starsky had a favorite watering hole not far from the academy and it wasn't long before they were both sipping cold beers.

"I'm taking the kids out for pizza Sunday," Hutch said. "Wanna come?"

"Real pizza or that vegetarian crap you like?" Starsky asked suspiciously.

"Real pizza," Hutch said. "The kids won't touch the 'vegetarian crap.'"

"In that case, I accept. I'll bring Hannah, too. She'd love to see Jill and Josh."

~~~

But when Hutch stopped his rental car in front of his ex-wife's home to pick up his son and daughter, only Jill was ready to go.

"Josh is working," Jill said apologetically. "They called him in, and he's trying to buy a car to take to college and..." she trailed off, seeing the disappointment on her father's face.

"I could help him buy a car," Hutch said, feeling left out again. He hadn't even known Josh was saving for one.

"It won't hurt him to earn the money himself," Abby said. "I'd much rather he did, in fact."

"You're right," Hutch said. "As usual."

Jill winced a little, and Hutch noticed with a guilty pang. That kind of exchange had preceded most of his and Abby's fights when they were married, though this time he had really meant it. Abby was right. Josh should earn the money for a car and take responsibility for it. So Hutch produced a smile for Abby and put his arm around Jill. "Come on, honey. Starsk and Hannah are meeting us there."

"Have fun," Abby called after them.

"Thanks. I'll have her home before dark," Hutch said teasingly.

"See that you do, young man," Abby answered in the same tone, and Hutch could feel Jill relax under his arm.

"I wasn't going to start a fight with her, Jill," he said quietly as they went out to the car.

Jill stared at him with so much surprise he was tempted to smile, but he suppressed it. "How did you know?" she demanded.

"You're my daughter," he said. "I know every expression on your face, honey."

She sighed. "I just got so tired of you guys fighting before the divorce, and now I hate it that you're divorced."

"I know." He held the door open for her, something he noticed men didn't seem to do anymore, but he'd never gotten out of the habit. Jill didn't comment, she simply slid into the seat and reached for her belt. Hutch got in on the driver's side and put his belt on, too, knowing Jill would scold him if he didn't. "It's been five years, honey," he added, starting the car.

"I'll never get used to it, though," she said. "Even though half my friends' parents are divorced, too. We all hate it. Weekend visitation. Your parents fighting over whose turn it is to have the kids at Christmas. Stepparents."

"When did we ever fight over Christmas?" Hutch asked mildly. "And you don't have stepparents."

"No, but I'm bound to, someday. Everybody seems to."

"You might have a stepfather, because your mom's too pretty to stay single forever, but you don't have to worry about a stepmother," Hutch said, a little bitterly.

Jill looked at him speculatively for a moment before saying, "You sound awfully sure."

"I am. Twice burned, honey. I'm done. I won't be going through it again."

"Maybe I'll never get married," Jill said with a sigh. "It's too complicated."

"I hope you won't be scared off getting married just because your mom and I didn't make a go of it," Hutch said. "Look at Starsk and Nancy. There's a happy marriage."

"Yeah. I guess so."

~~~

Starsky and Hannah were waiting for them and had already procured a booth and ordered sodas for everyone. Hannah was delighted to see Jill, whom she'd always considered an honorary big sister, and chattered happily to her about Girl Scouts, her school play and her piano lessons, allowing Starsky and Hutch to talk to each other without having to entertain the kids.

"No Josh?" Starsky asked quietly.

"He's working," Hutch answered. "Too busy earning money for a car to spend an afternoon with his old man. No Nancy?"

Starsky shook his head. "Worked 7 to 7 yesterday. She's sleeping it off."

"God, Starsk, look at us," Hutch said.

"What? What's the matter with us?"

"We used to do things. We used to be in the thick of the action. And now, we're a couple of middle-aged, middle class guys watching everybody else do things."

Starsky grinned. "I don't see that as a problem, babe. I mean, the action was kinda dangerous sometimes, remember?"

"Yeah," Hutch agreed unwillingly.

"I'd rather drive my kid to her piano lesson than get in a shootout with a drug dealer," Starsky said. "Wouldn't you?"

"I don't miss being in shootouts," Hutch said firmly.

"Then what's wrong, partner? You're really going through some shit, aren't you?" Starsky said, lowering his voice, with a glance at the two girls. But they were oblivious to their fathers, Hannah rapt at Jill's description of her first date a few weeks before.

Hutch sighed. He wasn't even sure himself. Finally, he said, "I miss you. I miss us."

"And the Gunther lecture always brings it back," Starsky said understandingly.

"Yeah."

"Aw, Hutch." Starsky sighed and ran a hand over his hair. "I know. Me, too. But time marches on, buddy. And I'm still here. That ain't gonna change. We don't work together anymore, that's true, but I'm still here, anytime you want me. All you gotta do is call. You get lonesome, you want a beer, you wanna talk, whatever, babe. Just call, huh? Even if it's 3 in the mornin'. What are partners for?"

~~~

The old man waited impatiently, glancing at the bus station clock and cursing the underling who was late. He'd waited 20 years already, and now that he was so close to his goal, his patience was exhausted.

But the man finally appeared in the doorway and stood there uncertainly, looking around, even letting his eyes rest on the old man, but clearly not recognizing him.

"Moretti," the old man hissed at him.

Moretti's head snapped around and he gaped at the old man on the bench. "Mr. Gunther? Is that you?"

"Of course it is, you idiot," Gunther snapped. He knew he'd changed in the last 20 years, and this young pup had hardly been more than a boy last time he'd seen him, so he could hardly blame him for not recognizing him. It irritated him, anyway. He rose and indicated with a jerk of his head that Moretti should follow him.

Once they were in the motel room and Gunther had motioned the other man to a seat at the small, creaky table he used for a desk, he shuffled through his papers and produced a handful of photographs. These he handed to the younger man. "I have a score to settle, Moretti," he said. "A 20-year-old score. And you," he paused meaningfully, "are going to see to it that it gets settled. Right this time."

Moretti looked down at the photographs. The top one was a posed studio portrait, and showed a blond man in his late 40s, a woman a little younger, and two kids, a blond boy and a girl with slightly darker hair. He looked at the next one. The same blond man, much younger, standing with a dark-haired man with curly hair. The third was of the dark-haired man, coming out of the police academy. He raised his eyes to Gunther questioningly.

"Don't recognize them, do you?" Gunther asked bitterly. "Their names are Starsky," he indicated the photo in Moretti's hand, "and Hutchinson," he pointed to the family shot. "Those two decimated my organization, Moretti. They were a thorn in my side for a couple of years before that, and they finally finished it and sent me to prison."

"I'm surprised you didn't put a contract out on them," Moretti began, freezing at the sudden rage that appeared on Gunther's face.

"I did, you moron!" Gunther slammed a fist into the table, making it rock dangerously. "Two of my men ambushed them in the police parking garage and shot Starsky, but somehow the son-of-a-bitch survived. And before I could order a second attempt, Hutchinson," the way he pronounced the name, he made it sound like a swear word, "somehow collected enough evidence for an indictment. It's not going to happen again, Moretti. I want them eliminated. I want them eliminated permanently. And if you fuck it up," he paused again, leaning forward menacingly, "it will mean your own life."

"Sir," Moretti said slowly, "there's almost nothing left of the organization. I mean, after you, uh, went away, Dickerson and Ingalls tried to repair the damage --"

"You think I don't know that?" Gunther demanded. "For 20 goddamn years, I've had to rot in that stinking prison, knowing those two incompetents were all that was left to rebuild my organization. But I've kept track, Moretti. A couple of my men are out of prison now. Another one is due to be released next month. And I may be old, but I can still do what needs to be done. We will survive. But before I can concentrate on my business, I want to see Starsky and Hutchinson dead. Do you hear me?"

~~~

The garage had finally called to say his car was fixed, and Hutch was waiting, none too patiently, for the courtesy driver to show up. It was another hot day and it was too early in the season for this much heat. It probably meant a nasty storm was brewing. Hutch peered up at the cloudless sky. Maybe not...

A car horn arrested his attention, and he pulled the curtain back a little more. The courtesy car had arrived. He picked up his jacket, barely remembering to put it on before opening the door. The sight of a holster and gun might give the driver pause, and Hutch didn't feel like showing his badge and doing a lot of explaining this morning.

He slid into the passenger seat and managed a polite smile.

"Morning, Mr. Hutchinson," the driver said. "Sorry I'm a little late. Freeway traffic."

"I know all about the freeway," Hutch said, thinking the driver couldn't be much older than Josh. What a dead-end job...

The driver whistled softly to himself, a tune Hutch didn't recognize, as he pulled out into the street. Hutch stared out the window, not really paying much attention to where they were going, until he realized they'd missed their turn for the freeway ramp and had entered one hell of a sleazy neighborhood. He turned his head to say something to the driver and found himself facing a gun barrel.

The driver pulled into an alley and stopped the car. "I got a little present for you from an old friend of yours," he said, an evil glint in his eye.

"Hold on a minute, pal," Hutch said, keeping his voice steady and his eyes on the driver's face. "I think you might have me mixed up with somebody else."

"I don't think so," the driver said. "Get out of the car."

Hutch obeyed -- he didn't seem to have much choice -- and as soon as he opened the car door, two more men appeared from behind a pile of trash. Both held guns. Guns equipped with silencers.

The driver reached into his pocket and produced a silencer of his own, which he screwed onto the gun in his hand. He grinned. "Do you remember a man named James Gunther?"

Gunther! Hutch swallowed. It had been a long time since he'd been in a spot like this. The reassuring weight of his own gun, safely in its holster under his arm, brought his adrenaline level down to a steady pulse instead of a wild rush. If he could just keep them talking, just for a few minutes, think of a distraction...

"Surely you remember James Gunther," the driver said. "He remembers you. He sent us, in fact. To finish the job he started 20 years ago. Only this time, we came for you first. Your friend Starsky is next."

Starsky...oh, God, not again. Never, never again...

That was the impetus Hutch needed. In a sudden move he hadn't had to use for years, he drew his gun, shot the driver and hit the dirt, hearing the whiz of the bullets from the other two men's guns as they barely missed him. Rolling onto his back he shot twice in quick succession, hitting one and missing the other, but the next two shots hit the second man, too. The first wounded man squeezed off another shot and only Hutch's quick reflexes saved him. The bullet drove into the ground inches from his head.

He scrambled to his feet, covering all three men and reaching for his cuffs. Thank God he'd learned to obey regulations and had them on him. Even captains had to make an arrest sometimes. The driver was dead, so Hutch handcuffed the other two together and pulled his cell phone -- an invention he cursed as often as not -- from his pocket. Dialing headquarters, he barked at the dispatcher, "This is Hutchinson. Send an ambulance, a coroner's wagon and two marked units to Blaine and Sixth, the alley halfway down the block. I've just been ambushed."

"Yes, sir, Captain," the dispatcher said. "Are you hurt, sir?"

"No. I'm fine. And call the academy after you've done that. Get Sgt. -- I mean, Lt. Starsky and tell him to meet me in my office in half an hour. Tell him it's urgent."

He put the phone away and gazed down at the men on the ground. One was in too much pain to pay any attention to him; the other gazed back with blazing hatred in his eyes.

"You missed," Hutch said to him. "The kindest thing I could do right now is finish the both of you off. Because if the legal system fails and you go free, Gunther will get you somehow. And even in prison, I doubt you'd be safe. He doesn't like failure much."

The man didn't reply. Hutch put his gun away.

"But I don't intend to finish you off," he continued. He heard sirens in the distance. "I'd rather let you take your chances. And who knows. Maybe I'll get to Gunther before he gets to you. Then you'd owe me one, motherfucker."

~~~

The marked units arrived to deal with the men, and Hutch drove the courtesy car to the garage to pick up his car. Just as he thought, their driver had been ambushed, too. But he'd been lucky. The fake driver had only hit him over the head and left him at the side of the road. He'd flagged down a cop and reported it only moments before Hutch had driven up.

"I'm so sorry, Mr. Hutchinson," the driver said, holding an ice pack over the lump on his head and looking a little green around the gills.

"It's not your fault," Hutch said, and patted his shoulder. "I hope they didn't hurt you too much."

"No, I'll make it all right," he said.

Hutch retrieved his own car, paid the bill with his credit card and winced more than a little at the total, before heading for the station. Starsky was already waiting in his office. He took one look at Hutch and shot out of his chair.

"Holy shit, partner, what the hell happened to you?" Starsky demanded, grabbing Hutch's arm as if to steady him.

"I'm okay, Starsk, take it easy." Hutch shrugged out of his jacket and started to hang it on a hook. It was the first time he'd taken a good look at it. It was filthy and torn and there was even some blood on it. No wonder Starsky'd been worried. Hutch smoothed his hair with his free hand and tossed the jacket over a chair. He told Starsky what had happened and watched as his partner's eyes widened and his face went dead white.

"Gunther," Starsky said slowly. He rubbed at his eyes. "Didn't he get life?"

"Yeah," Hutch said dryly. "And 'life,' unfortunately, means 20 or 30 years, tops. I'd say it's a safe bet that he's out on parole."

"And out to get us," Starsky said. All the light had died out of his eyes. The sight of that worried Hutch as much as the thought of Gunther did.

"Hey," Hutch said quietly. "We'll get him. I got some power now, remember? I can send men out there to find him. He won't get us first."

"He almost got you this morning," Starsky said.

"But he didn't. And now we're on our guard, buddy. We'll be alert for him now."

"Hutch, you know even if you send guys out there to get him, he's still got connections. He knows where to look for us. And he ain't got a damn thing to lose by burning us."

"We have a few connections, too," Hutch said grimly.

"Not any more," Starsky said, slumping in his chair wearily. "Oh, God, Hutch..."

"Hey," Hutch sat down next to him and put a hand on his arm. "Don't."

But Starsky raised stricken blue eyes to him and said, slowly, "Hutch, think about it. Before, it was just us. We didn't have wives and kids who could be hurt to get to us. And it was 20 years ago, buddy. Huggy ain't got his ear to the ground no more. Sweet Alice is dead. Mickey's dead. We ain't been on the streets for one hell of a long time. And we don't have nobody out there any more."

"No, but I've got a whole slew of detectives out there," Hutch jerked his head toward his office door, "who do. I'll put every man on it if I have to."

"You can't do that."

"Can't I? Watch me. Things are different now. Detectives don't cruise the streets anymore unless we have a drug sting going on or something. They investigate cases after the uniforms have made the collars or at least mopped up the blood. A big dog like Gunther, putting a contract on a couple of cops who put him away, that qualifies as a reason to put a whole bunch of detectives to work on the case in my book."

"And what about our families?"

That stopped Hutch for a moment.

Starsky's voice shook a little as he said, "My God, if he knows enough to waylay the guy bringing your car home from the shop, Hutch, he knows you got a coupla kids. He knows about Hannah --" his voice failed completely on that word.

Hutch wordlessly put his arm around his buddy's shoulders.

~~~

It only took a couple of phone calls for Hutch to realize what he and Starsky had put Dobey through time and time again. The chief told him that unless they had more proof than a two-bit hood's word for it that Gunther had put a hit out on them, there wasn't much they could do. The parole board acknowledged that Gunther had been paroled, but wouldn't give him an address for the man.

Starsky sat in the chair across the desk and listened without comment as Hutch tried every avenue he could think of without success. Finally, Hutch put the phone back in its cradle with much more force than necessary and swore vehemently.

"Call Jenkins and Brinkman," Starsky said quietly.

Hutch stared at him. "You gone crazy, pal? They just made detective."

Starsky nodded. "Yup. I know that. And they got something to prove. And they're good, Hutch. I trained 'em. I know. Call 'em, buddy."

Hutch shrugged helplessly and called the dispatcher. "Patch me through to Jenkins and Brinkman. This is Hutch...Hutchinson."

In a moment, Brinkman's voice came through the phone. "Yes, sir, Captain?"

"I need you two to come in. Now. And meet me in my office," Hutch said. He could almost see the two men exchange glances of What the hell are we in trouble for? so he added, "I need your help, fellas."

"Sure, Cap. Be there in 10 minutes."

It was actually less time than that before the two young detectives arrived. Both greeted Starsky with warmth and took the seats Hutch waved them to with more than a little trepidation on their faces. Hutch looked at Starsky to fill them in.

And Starsky did, no holds barred. He told them everything, winding up with, "When we were on the streets, we used to bend the rules sometimes. We had to sometimes, to get the job done. I ain't gonna tell ya to do that. But I can speak for my partner over there, if you do, and if you can justify it, we ain't gonna see a thing. You dig?" he added, lapsing into the slang of his youth for a moment.

Neither detective smiled. Both simply nodded, after a momentary exchanged glance.

"We drove our poor captain crazy, didn't we, Hutch?" In spite of the circumstances, Starsky grinned at the thought.

"Yes, we did," Hutch agreed fervently. "I never really realized what we were putting poor Dobey through."

"Yeah," Starsky said. "So ya see, guys, legally speaking, there isn't a whole lot we can do. Gunther hasn't made a move personally. We got nothin' on him. Nothin'. For all we can prove, the old guy's out of the joint and tryin' to go straight."

Hutch snorted, and Starsky nodded in agreement.

"Yeah. And pigs can fly. But what we need from you is his location. Who he's been in contact with. Who he might have workin' for him. Anything we can get. But it's gotta be on the sly, okay? Unofficial. Can ya do that for us?"

"It's not an order," Hutch clarified. "I can't order you to do this. I'm asking. Not as your captain. As a fellow officer who needs a favor. If you say 'no,' it won't reflect on my treatment of you in any way."

"You can trust Hutch on that," Starsky put in. "He's a man of his word. He's fair."

The two detectives looked at each other for a moment and Hutch could almost hear their silent communication. Finally, Jenkins nodded. "Okay. We'll give it our best shot. I really hope we can turn something for you, Cap."

"Thanks, Jenkins."

~~~

Part 2