Some cities are made to be nocturnal creatures; they do not really come alive until the artificial lights infuse them with existence. Paris is such a city, a huge, sleeping whore in the daytime, masking its real face behind a facade of staid business activity, and then turning frivolous and slightly naughty when the night falls. Or anyway, that is her reputation. Maybe, as in the case of many another fallen woman, the rumor exceeds the reality.

New York is another city that ought to exist only at night. During the day, it is nothing more than a grimy, bustling metropolis. The night people are the ones who really make that city the unique place it is. Whether they be the rich bitches flaunting what they have in the phony glamour of the discos or the dangerous street people who haunt the alleys and tenements, it is the people of the darkness who are the heartbeat of New York.

But then there's Los Angeles. A different kind of place. Los Angeles does not really exist after dark. That city needs the glaring, smog-diffused sunshine in order to live. Maybe it's because the City of Angels is more a dream than a reality, more the creation of movie makers than insurance salesmen. The sunshine disguises the hard edge of the hustling that goes on. Under its benevolent glow everyone looks tanned and successful, ready to take a meeting on the biggest break of their lives. It's all lights, camera, action. The whole city is "on."

It all changes at night, though. Like a middle-aged starlet exposed to the harsh reality of electric lights, Los Angeles suffers after dark. Its glamour fades. The worst part of it is that no one in the city seems to realize it and they go on pretending. The sunlit phony excitement seems to ripen as the golden glow fades. Sometime between midnight and dawn, it all goes bad. The rot is almost palatable.

That's Los Angeles.

**

"Hutch?"

There was no answer.

"Detective Hutchinson?"

Silence from the other side of the car.

"Hey, Baby Blue!"

"What?" Hutch said wearily.

"Well, finally. Thought maybe you were turning petrified there."

"Maybe I am. I feel petrified."

"What time is it?"

Hutch didn't even bother to glance at his wrist. "It's five minutes later than it was the last time you asked me. When the hell are you going to buy a new watch?"

"Soon. I just don't want to rush into anything." Starsky raised his arm and studied it, as if visualizing the ideal timepiece upon his wrist. "When I buy one, I want it to be perfect. I intend for my next watch to last a lifetime."

"A watch is a watch," Hutch said flatly.

Starsky gave him a disgusted look. "Sometimes you can be a real peasant."

"This is my final warning, Starsk. Buy a watch, or I'm going to start charging whenever I have to tell you what time it is."

"Terrific," Starsky mumbled.

The sleepy repartee dwindled away. If either of the detectives gave even a passing thought to Starsky's most recent watch, an inspired timepiece constructed of white gold and sporting seven dials that he'd almost learned to read, neither of them mentioned it. Hutch didn't even remember what he'd done with the broken pieces of glass and metal that he had so carefully collected from the parking lot at headquarters. Undoubtedly the remnants still bearing their grisly traces of dried blood were resting in a box or drawer someplace, just waiting to be discovered one day when he least expected it. By then, perhaps, the shattered fragments of jewelry would be just a half-forgotten souvenir of some terrible once-upon-a-time. Maybe. Hutch had a lot of memories shoved away in boxes and in the dark corners of his mind. Too many.

Starsky shifted slightly in the seat and pulled from beneath his butt a paper bag half-filled with French fries. "You're a lot of fun sometimes."

Hutch leaned forward and rested his chin on the steering wheel, staring glumly into the slowly-dying Los Angeles night. "Fun?" he muttered. "You want to talk about fun? Well, partner, let me say that spending ten hours cooped up in a car with you and your moveable delicatessen is not exactly my idea of a good time, either. In fact, it ranks just behind an attack of the stomach flu."

Starsky sampled a flattened French fry. "You know," he commented morosely, "if I was a sensitive kind of guy, I might be deeply hurt by some of the things you say to me."

Hutch pulled his jacket closed against the pre-dawn chill. "S'at so?"

"Yes, that's so." He was still eating. "But luckily, I have a very thick skin, so none of your sarcastic cracks bothers me at all."

"That's nice."

Finishing the last fry, Starsky crumpled the sack and shoved it into the already overflowing litter bag. He groped around on the seat again and came up with a half-finished Forever Yours bar. A Jack Homer expression crossed his face. He studied the teeth indentations in the chocolate. "Is this mine or yours?"

Hutch gave the candy—or maybe his partner—a scathing glance. "You're not serious?"

"I guess it's mine," Starsky said sheepishly.

"Good guess."

For several minutes the car was quiet, save for the sounds that accompanied the complete destruction of the candy bar and the subsequent disposal of the wrapper. "Hey," Starsky said finally, licking the last of the chocolate from his fingers.

"What?"

"Do you know how many hours we've spent on all-night stakeouts?"

"All together, you mean?"

"Right. The sum total."

Hutch thought about it for a moment, but his brain was too tired to work on the logistics of the problem, so he shrugged and gave up. "No. How many?"

"A lot of hours," Starsky said firmly. "That's how many."

Hutch managed, barely, to resist the urge to pound his head against the steering wheel. "You're a genius, Starsk, you know that? Somebody ought to certify you."

"Thanks for saying so." Starsky yawned hugely and a vague hint of burrito wafted across the car toward Hutch. "You don't care, maybe I'll try to get some sleep."

"Good idea," Hutch said, figuring that the sound of Starsky snoring was bound to be less annoying than the absurdities of his late-night conversation. Besides, if he didn't sleep, he'd probably start with the card tricks next and Hutch didn't think he was up to that. "Hey, watch out! " he added sharply as an Adidas-clad foot sideswiped his head.

"Sorry." Starsky dropped heavily into the back and tried to stretch his 5'11'' frame out comfortably in the somewhat smaller seat of the Torino. Despite his best efforts, one foot lingered in the front, dangling approximately three inches from Hutch's ear.

He closed his eyes, determined to ignore the dismal fact that the only part of him destined to get much sleep in this position was his cramped left arm. Already he could feel it getting numb.

Hutch spent a couple of minutes humming to himself. "Starsk?" he said finally. "You asleep?"

"Uh-huh."

"Oh. Sorry."

"What'd you want?"

"Nothing. Doesn't matter."

He opened his eyes. "You might as well tell me now."

"I just had an idea . . . ."

"Should I get out my notebook and write it down?"

"You want to hear what I have to say or listen to your own wisecracks?"

Starsky tried to massage some feeling back into his arm. "I'm dying to hear your idea, Hutch."

"What about taking some time off work and driving up the coast? Maybe spend a couple of days in San Francisco?"

"Like a vacation, you mean?" Starsky said thoughtfully.

"I guess if we took a couple of days off work and went to San Francisco that could be called a vacation," Hutch replied sarcastically. He rubbed the bridge of his nose wearily, thankful that Starsky, while he didn't have the hide of a rhinoceros as he liked to think, did have the ability to ignore remarks that he knew weren't exactly intended to sound the way they actually came out sounding.

Starsky flexed his fingers and his whole arm tingled. "Sounds okay with me, if you want to."

"Yeah, I want to," Hutch said simply. The quiet words masked his sense of desperation, an emotion that was becoming increasingly familiar. He'd been so damned sure that it was all behind him and that everything would be okay once Starsky was back at work. But things had been back to normal for six weeks now and Hutch still had that tight knot in his chest most of the time. "I really want to," he repeated.

"Okay. If we can get Dobey to go for it."

"Good." Hutch smacked the steering wheel lightly. "Go back to sleep."

This time, Starsky did manage to slip into a restless, dream-cluttered sleep.

**

Hutch kept his eyes on the shabby grey house perched at the top of the hill. All the lights in the place had been out since shortly after ten and if anything untoward were going on inside, it certainly wasn't obvious from where they were sitting a block away.

He was beginning to wonder if Tyler Monroe was even inside the house at all. Maybe Starsky's snitch had only been blowing wind. Hell of a life they had. Dependent for much of their information on all those people who lived their lives in the gutter—hustlers, petty criminals, petty people. Human beings (and he used the term loosely) who would sell their mothers for the price of a drink or a fix or whatever their particular vice might be. People who wouldn't hesitate for an instant to lie to a dumb pig who waved a bill in front of them and said "talk to me." Sure, they'd talk. But how much of what they said was pure bullshit?

Hell of a life they had.

Hutch sternly ordered himself to quit thinking along those lines. Self-defeatism, the Chief called such thoughts in those cheery memos on departmental morale that he kept sending around. Gotta clean up the old attitude, Hutchinson, he thought. After all, it's always darkest before the dawn. Every cloud has a silver lining. He who lives by the sword shall . . . nope, wrong maxim.

He quit thinking altogether and just watched the house like he was supposed to. Not paid to think anyway. Only paid to watch the house. Getting to listen to Starsky toss and turn and mumble in his sleep was a fringe benefit.

"No," Starsky said suddenly, clearly. "Hutch?"

He glanced around, but Starsky was mumbling again. Just a dream. Hutch leaned back against the seat, crossing both arms across his chest, and stared out through the windshield again. Yeah, just a dream. Well, he could certainly get into that. Had, in fact, experienced some of those same nightmares himself. There was one that he was particularly crazy about, in which he was being chased down an endless white corridor, pursued by a gigantic machine that looked just like the heart monitoring device they'd had Starsk attached to. Except that this one had four spindly legs and a leering face. So? Dreams were weird, as Doc McPherson once said.

Well, he hadn't actually said that. Hutch had said it and McPherson had given one of his damnable nods.

One of the curtains in the house seemed to move a little. Hutch picked up the binoculars for a better look. Maybe the action was going to spring their way for a change. They were overdue.

**

Starsky thought at first that the sudden explosion of noise and light and shattering glass was just a part of his dream. A too-familiar part. Noise and light and shattering glass. And the sound of Hutch's voice yelling at him. It had all happened before. He squeezed his eyes closed more tightly and tried to protect his head with both arms. "Nooo," he moaned.

"Starsk!"

Before he could react, two hands grabbed him, dragged his unresisting form over the front seat and shoved him out the door. He bounced and rolled with teeth-jarring force across the pavement, stopping only when he crashed into the curb. All he could see were two blinding headlights racing down the hill toward his car. As he blinked and tried to focus his sleep-heavy eyes, a barrage of bullets came from the speeding vehicle, smacking into the street inches from his head. "Oh, shit," he mumbled. "Ohshitohshitohshitohshit."

He scrabbled toward the brick retaining wall, instinctively reaching for his gun, but somehow not quite touching it, conscious only of the desperate need to get away. "Hutch?" he yelled hoarsely as he pushed himself up and rolled over the low wall. He landed on the other side, clutching at the grass to keep himself from sliding down the sharp incline.

Get your gun! his mind screamed. Damnit, do something!

The side of his face stung from cuts made by the chips of flying concrete and there was a painful stitch in his left side. "Hutch?" he shouted again.

"Keep down, Starsk!"

He heard Hutch's warning and heeded it. A split second later the roar of the Magnum filled the air once and then again. That was followed by the almost instantaneous breaking of glass and the high-pitched frantic squeal of brakes coming closer and closer to where Starsky was huddled.

He pressed even closer to the ground and closed his eyes again. "Nonononono," he whispered into the grass.

The car impacted against the wall and exploded. The blast shook the ground beneath him.

Starsky uncovered his head slowly and spit out a mouthful of dirt. "Hutch?" he said, then spit again. Raising himself slowly, he peered over the top of the wall. "Hey?"

"Yeah, okay, I'm here." Hutch climbed over the wall on the other side of the street and crossed toward him. The flames from the burning car cast strange, leaping shadows as he reached down with one hand and pulled Starsky up. They leaned against the wall, fighting for breath. "You all in one piece?" Hutch gasped out.

Starsky leaned forward to slap the dirt from the front of his jeans, hiding his face from Hutch's fire-brightened gaze. "The blast didn't hurt me at all," he said, his voice muffled. "But I think you broke three of my ribs when you threw me out of the car."

"Sorry about that."

Starsky straightened and their gazes met, acknowledging the moment. How many times, Starsky thought fleetingly, had they looked at one another in mutual recognition of the fact that, against the odds, they had survived. From that first time in the shattered Saigon cafe to now on this dark Los Angeles street. So many times that he'd lost count.

Hutch sighed. "I'll call it in." He walked over to the Torino. The door was open and he stretched across the seat, reaching for the mike.

Starsky watched him for a moment before turning again to stare at the flaming thing that had once been a car. Anyone inside never had a chance. Beneath the gasoline-stinking roar of the flames he could hear Hutch calmly calling for fire truck, back-up car, meat wagon. He realized with a faint stab of surprise that he was trembling. His hands clenched into tight fists as he watched Hutch scoot out of the car and walk back over to him. "Think that was Monroe?" Starsky asked, nodding toward the wreck.

"Yes."

"I guess he didn't want to talk to us very much."

"I guess. Damn." There was no emotion except weariness in the word. One more corpse. A punk, sure. A rapist and a pusher and probably there had been a killing or two in the checkered thirty-two years of Tyler Monroe's life. Now he was just one mere corpse in the checkered career of Kenneth Hutchinson, cop.

The cop shook his head.

Lights were coming on in the houses up and down the street and a few doors opened a crack. "We're cops!" Starsky yelled. "Go back to bed." It wasn't until then that Starsky really noticed the shattered windshield on his car. His face dropped. "Goddamn!" he shouted. "Will you look at that? I almost just got that thing in perfect running condition again and now look at it." His gaze went vaguely heavenward in pained supplication. "Why won't they leave my car alone?"

Hutch was reminded of an old song where some guy kept wondering why everybody was always kicking his dog around. He patted his partner's shoulder. "Take it easy, Starsk."

"How can I take it easy? Look what he did to my car." Starsky heard his voice crack and he turned away quickly. There was a moment of silence. "Damnit, Hutch," he whispered. "I froze back there. I froze and couldn't even get my fuckin' gun out." The sound of sirens drifted up the hill toward them. "I was scared."

Hutch, staring at the approaching lights, didn't answer.

"Did you hear what I said?" Starsky asked him in a roughened voice. "I said I was scared."

"Who the hell wasn't?"

"But you performed; you did what you were supposed to do."

"So does a trained seal," Hutch replied bitterly. "But I don't see anybody throwing me a fresh fish. Forget it, buddy. Everybody gets a little gun-shy once in a while. Doesn't matter."

Starsky gave him a strange look, filled with a kind of yearning doubt; he wanted to believe. "What does matter, Hutch?" His voice was quiet, almost lost in the raucous shouting of the sirens. "Can you tell me what the hell matters?"

Hutch sighed. They stared at one another for a fragment of painful eternity. "We survived, babe," Hutch said finally. "That's always the bottom line. Survival."

**

It took nearly an hour to get the whole mess cleared away. They reached a mutual and unspoken decision that Dobey could wait a little longer to learn the bad news that Tyler Monroe was dead and therefore useless to them. Hutch had a familiar, uncomfortable feeling that too often they determined the worth of a person solely by his usefulness to the system, meaning themselves. The Captain, they knew, was not going to be pleased by this turn of events.

Dawn was turning the sky pink before Starsky, peering through the shattered glass, drove Hutch home. The city was about to come alive again. Or most of it was anyway. A new day, filled with promise, was about to begin.

Starsky and Hutch didn't much care. They were both quiet during the ride, the constant static of the radio playing a soft background to their solitary thoughts. Starsky left the engine idling in front of Venice Place as Hutch got out. The detective, looking like a bruised and shattered knight, leaned in through the window. "Hey."

Starsky, a streak of dirt slashing across his cheek like a wound, looked at him with bloodshot eyes. "Huh?"

"Is it still okay about the trip?"

"What trip?"

"The drive up the coast we were talking about before."

He rubbed one hand across his face, smearing the dirt. "Oh, yeah. Sure. Sounds good."

Hutch smiled. "Okay. See you in a couple of hours. Stay awake until you get home."

"Will do. Sleep tight."

Hutch watched until the Torino had disappeared around the corner and then he went into the building. It seemed almost more than he could manage to put one foot in front of the other and climb the stairs.

Once inside, he greeted his plants with somewhat less enthusiasm than usual. They returned the greeting with a discreet and welcome silence. It was at times like this that Hutch was glad he lived alone. If he had been expected, then, to make conversation with someone, to cheerfully discuss the minutiae of his day, he didn't think he could have done it.

What, after all, could he have said? "I just spent ten hours sitting in a car with a man who smells like a cheap Mexican restaurant and who thinks he does a great Bogey imitation." That was sure great conversation, wasn't it? Or how about: "Somebody tried to kill me tonight, but I got lucky and killed him instead." Great. "And by the way," he could add whimsically, "my partner froze tonight and couldn't get his gun out. See, he almost died awhile back and this was the first time he needed his gun since then and he couldn't get it out of the holster."

What woman would want to sit and listen to that, even if he felt like telling it to her? The memories of his marriage were still too clear in his mind, made more poignant, perhaps, by the fact and circumstances of Van's death. He had no longer loved her by the time she died, but they had once shared a life, or at any rate a brief passion, and that had to mean something. Didn't it?

But on nights like this he could only remember with brutal honesty all those nights he'd come home weary to the bone, wanting only to strip off the blue uniform, hit the shower, and then the bed. Van would want to talk. Inevitably, they would end up screaming at one another. At first the arguments ended in bed, where their lovemaking would seem even better than ever. There came a point, though, where that didn't work anymore. It got so bad eventually that when Starsky would arrive to pick him up for their next duty shift, the fight would still be going on. Or else there would be only an icy silence in the kitchen. Starsky would eat toast and pretend not to notice. Of course, it was hard for him to remain oblivious after the infamous morning when Van, whose aim always left a great deal to be desired, threw the coffeepot at Hutch. The pot missed its target, though, and collided instead with Starsky's skull. It took seven stitches to close the wound.

It was better this way. Now there was only the comfortable solitude of his apartment and the disinterested gaze of his African violets. It suited him. There was, of course, no guarantee against an occasional attack of loneliness. But he had friends, male and female, to fill the corners of his life. And Starsky, of course. Overcome with a sudden need for conversation at three A.M., he could always call his partner. Starsk would bitch and moan about being disturbed, but once that was over, he would listen. More than just listen; he would understand. Hutch was reminded of a former lady friend of his, an educated, classy broad (not unlike Van, now that he thought about it) who once asked him how he could put up with a clod like Starsky day in and day out. He had only laughed. Bed was no place for a discussion of his relationship with his partner. Besides, he didn't know why Starsky and he were so damned close. Except that how many guys would let their partner's wife bounce a coffeepot off their heads and never mention it?

Hutch peeled off his clothes and stepped into a hot shower, letting the warmth flow over him, unkinking his cramped, chilled body. After a full five minutes, he turned the water off, dried himself with a huge Turkish towel, and pulled on clean pajamas. Seconds later he fell, already asleep, into bed.

III

Tyler Monroe was dead, but that didn't mean the police department was finished with him quite yet. There was still the paperwork. Necessary, Starsky supposed, but a pain in the butt to get through nevertheless. It was his least favorite part of the job. Unless you counted all the dying. Of course, in this job, more dying invariably led to more paperwork. As the night follows the day.

Starsky jerked the page from the typewriter and glanced toward the clock again. Eleven-fifteen. Hutch should be out of court any time now. He was testifying in one of the cases he'd handled while Starsky was still recuperating. He'd gone off in a disgruntled mood; court appearances were his least favorite part of the job.

Anyway, the report on last night's fiasco—Dobey's word—was done. Starsky signed his name to it with somewhat more flourish than the dismal facts deserved and got to his feet to take it into Dobey's office.

The captain glowered at him. "Just heard from the D.A.," he said.

Starsky tossed the report in the general direction of Dobey's in-box. "Yeah?"

"Wilberforce got off."

"What?" Disbelief and anger mingled in Starsky's tone. Hutch had seemed so confident when he left for court. "He got off? Cap'n, we had that son of a bitch cold. Hutch's testimony . . . ."

Dobey opened a desk drawer, forgot what he was looking for, and slammed it closed again. "He never got on the stand. The judge threw the case out."

Starsky slammed his hand against the wall. "That bastard killed his wife," he said, "and now he's on the street? Why?" This case was one he and Hutch had spent hours discussing on the phone while he was still in the hospital. It was "his" case, too.

"Some technicality. Again. Some legal foul-up."

"Not in Hutch's bust. That was a good, clean bust."

"How do you know?" Dobey said sourly. "You weren't even there."

"Hutch told me all about it."

"Such faith in your partner is touching. But Wilberforce got off." That seemed to say it all.

Starsky made a hopeless, helpless gesture and stalked out of the office. He threw himself down into his chair and began unbending paperclips, one after the other, glaring at the door.

The swinging door crashed open suddenly and a hapless clerk jumped back just in time to avoid being knocked flat by the six foot, one inch form of Ken Hutchinson. The blond detective yanked his chair from under the desk and dropped into it, a barely-contained bundle of energy. He stared at the neat pile of straightened paper clips on the desk. "What's that?" he asked.

Starsky carefully twisted the curls from another clip and added it to the stack. "That's a pile of paperclips," he said softly. "Eleven of them."

Hutch shook his head. "Detective Starsky."

"Yes, Detective Hutchinson?"

"Can I ask you something?"

Starsky gestured expansively. "You're my partner, right? Ask me anything."

"Why the hell are you sitting there straightening paperclips?"

Starsky added number twelve to the pile and smiled pleasantly. "Because it makes as much fucking sense as anything else we do around this place."

Hutch nodded. "I can't argue with that."

After a moment, Starsky swept his collection from the desk into the wastebasket. "Isn't there a story," he began irrelevantly, "about some guy cleaning out this barn or something, but he never gets finished, 'cause every time he gets rid of one pile of shit, another one appears?"

"The Augean Stables. Hercules."

"Yeah . . . well, that's us, buddy. We keep shoveling and it don't do one damned bit of good."

"You have a point." He rubbed the top of the desk, not looking up. "I made a good bust on Wilberforce."

"I know, man, I know. The system screwed up, not you."

Hutch consciously relaxed his muscles and settled back into the chair. "Did'ja talk to Dobey?"

"Huh?"

"About some time off."

"Oh. No."

"Look, if you don't want to go, we can just forget it," Hutch said.

"I want to go; how many times do I have to say it? I just didn't get a chance to ask him yet."

They glared across the desk at each other. "Hell," Hutch muttered, crashing to his feet. "I'll ask him myself."

"Fine," Starsky said shortly. "You do that. I gotta get this file back to DMV." He left the room.

Hutch sighed, absently picking up a paperclip and straightening it. A second later, he noticed what he'd done and scowled. "Damn." He dropped the clip into the wastebasket and went into Dobey's office without knocking.

The captain's mood suited his own. He frowned as Hutch sat down. Neither of them mentioned Wilberforce. "What's up?"

"Captain, we need some time off."

Dobey was shuffling papers on his desk. "Who doesn't? Next month, all right?"

Hutch shook his head. "No, next month isn't all right. Starsky and I need the time now."

The captain stopped what he was doing. "What's wrong?" he asked, fixing Hutch with a steely gaze.

"We just need to get away," Hutch said evasively.

"Need? Not want?"

Hutch was staring at the floor. "Need." He bit his lower lip. Maybe what he was about to do constituted a breach of confidence, but he had to do it anyway. "Cap'n, if I tell you something, will you keep it to yourself?"

"I'm not known as a blabbermouth, Hutchinson," Dobey said dourly.

It was a full minute before Hutch spoke, sixty seconds during which his eyes darkened and he glanced at the closed door to the squad room. "Starsky froze last night," he said softly. "He never pulled his gun."

Dobey picked up a pencil and slid it through his fingers. "I knew a guy once," he said absently, "toughest bastard I ever saw. Then one day he got shot. Bad. Almost died. But he pulled through and came back to work." He paused. "The guy only lasted a month. He was scared. Too scared to pull his gun. He became an insurance salesman."

Hutch was watching him now, his eyes narrowed. "That's not Starsky."

Dobey looked at the pencil closely, examining the eraser as if he'd never seen one before. "Of course, some guys don't get scared. Some get mean. An over-reaction, I guess."

Hutch shook his head. "Starsky's not scared and he's not going to turn into some kind of punk with a badge," he said fiercely. "I'm just saying he needs some time away. To sort of put everything back into focus." He looked at his hands, surprised to find them gripping the arms of the chair with knuckle-whitening force. Finger by finger, he relaxed each hand. "Hell, I need the time as much as he does. Just a few days, Cap'n." His face suddenly reflected the bewilderment he was feeling. "You know, we've never even talked about what happened? About him almost dying? We just shoved it aside and hoped it would go away. But it hasn't." He shook his head. "It hasn't gone away," he repeated. "I think we need to talk."

For a long moment Dobey was silent, his gentle-tough cop face thoughtful. "All right," he said finally. "Take next week."

Hutch expelled his breath slowly. "Thanks."

Dobey cleared his throat. "You're my best men. I don't want to lose either one of you." His voice turned gruff again. "When you get back, you both better be ready to work your butts off."

"We will be," Hutch promised. He got up. "See you later."

Starsky was sitting at the desk, holding but not drinking a cup of coffee, and staring at the wall. Hutch watched him for a moment and then sat down. "What time should I pick you up in the morning?" he asked.

Starsky jumped a little. "Huh?"

"If we're driving up the coast tomorrow, I think we should get an early start. Eight o'clock, okay?"

"Eight? Yeah, I guess—" Starsky set the coffee mug down with a bang. "You'll pick me up? No way."

"What?"

"I'm not going to San Francisco or anyplace else in that damned pedal car of yours. We probably wouldn't even make it to the city limits."

"Come on, Starsk. Belle will give the trip some class. Besides, your tomato will be in the shop."

Starsky just glared at him.

After a minute Hutch shrugged. "All right," he said. "I'll rent something."

"Terrific."

"Gentlemen," Dobey said from the doorway, "you're not on vacation yet. Don't you have a beat to cover?"

Both conceded that they did and left the squad room quickly.

Dobey watched them go.

**

IV

It had been their noble intention to adjourn to their respective apartments right after work so that they could both get a good night's sleep and be fresh for the next day's journey. However, as has too-oft been quoted, the best laid plans . . . .

Well, it was logical to grab a quick dinner, right? After all, they each had to eat. So why not go by the Pits and sample whatever the special was? It was a hamburger, of course, as always. No problem. The complication came a little later when Huggy Bear, the host extraordinaire, decided to turn the evening into an impromptu bon voyage party for the soon-to-depart cops.

It was a great party that went on into the wee hours.

Consequently, when Starsky's alarm went off the next morning he was not exactly inclined to jump from the comfort of his bed and start packing. What he did was roll over, moan, turn the alarm off, and go back to sleep, pulling the midnight-blue sheet up over his head to close out the hideous sunlight pouring into the room.

Unfortunately, the sheet proved to be inadequate protection against a pan full of cold water. He came up from under, sputtering and coughing. "What the hell?" His partner stood by the bed, a canary-swallowing grin on his face and an empty pan in his hand. Starsky wasn't a detective for nothing. "You poured water all over me," he deduced instantly. "What kind of thing is that to do to a sleeping man? I coulda drowned."

"I've been waiting downstairs for over twenty minutes. Thought you were supposed to be ready by eight o'clock?"

"Ugh," Starsky said, heading for the bathroom.

"Are you packed?"

"Almost," came his reply from the other room.

Hutch looked around skeptically. He finally saw a suitcase lying open and gapingly empty, save for one lonely sweat sock tucked neatly in the corner. He sighed. "Why don't I just finish up for you?" he suggested.

There were some muffled sounds from the other room that he chose to take as acquiescence. He opened the closet and mulled over the selection carefully. By the time his partner emerged from the bathroom, showered, shaved, clad in Levis and a blue work shirt, and almost awake, Hutch had packed a small, but carefully coordinated collection of slacks, shirts, and socks. He added some undershorts. "Everything the well-dressed tourist needs," he said with satisfaction.

Starsky ignored him and walked over to peer at the contents of the bag. He nodded, then proceeded to add his cut-offs, three T-shirts rolled into balls, and another pair of Levis. And a camera. And a small toilet kit on top. "Close it up," he ordered breezily.

"What am I, your valet?" Hutch muttered.

But Starsky was already in the kitchen, chug-a-lugging orange juice from the bottle. "All right," he said briskly, "let's hit the road, huh? I like to get an early start when I travel." He grabbed the suitcase and led the way downstairs.

"Surprised you didn't order me to carry your bag," Hutch said, still disgruntled.

Starsky reached the sidewalk and came to a dead stop. "My god."

Hutch's jaw set firmly. He had anticipated this.

Starsky walked slowly around the bright red Volkswagen looking like a man who had a lot to say if only he could remember how to talk. "This . . . is . . . a . . . bug," he finally managed to get out.

"It gets great gas mileage," Hutch said.

"What?"

"I said, it gets great gas mileage. There is an energy crisis, or haven't you heard?"

Starsky didn't answer. He crammed his suitcase into the back seat and very carefully got into the passenger seat. "I will not drive this . . . automobile," he enunciated precisely.

"Okay, fine, I don't mind." Hutch got behind the wheel, restraining himself from grunting at the effort it took to get his legs tucked into place. "I'll just keep thinking about all the money I'm saving."

The first fifteen minutes of their vacation passed in total silence. Starsky finally sighed a sigh of exquisite martyrdom. "If only it wasn't so . . . red," he said.

Hutch, stopped at a traffic signal, shot him a glance of total amazement. "I can't believe you just said that."

"Why not?"

"Because I picked this particular car because it was red. I figured you liked red cars, damnit. Your car—"

"My car," Starsky broke in gently, but firmly, "is candy apple red. This car is fire engine red." He was quiet for the next five miles. "But thanks anyway," he said.

Hutch kept his eyes stonily on the road ahead. "What?"

"I said, thanks anyway. For getting a red car."

"Yeah, well."

Starsky settled back in the seat, looking like a man determined to enjoy himself despite all those forces operating against him. "When do we stop for lunch?" he asked cheerfully.

Hutch reached for a map on the dashboard. "You're in charge of plotting the route," he said. "Food, fuel, and rest stops are when I say so. I know you. A stop every fifteen minutes. Unless you want to drive?"

Starsky looked at his partner, really looked at him for the first time that morning and whatever words he had been ready to say promptly fled his mind. "My god," he said for the second time.

"What now?"

"Your face."

Self-consciously, Hutch lightly fingered his upper lip. "Oh. Yeah."

Starsky was still staring. "You shaved it off."

Hutch was beginning to be embarrassed by the conversation concerning his newly-shorn condition. "It was a spur-of-the-moment decision," he said shortly.

Starsky tilted his head for a different perspective. "It looks kind of . . . naked. I was just starting to get used to it."

"Why don't you read the billboards, Starsk."

"You know, I don't think it's fair."

Hutch sighed. "What?"

"Shaving off your moustache without telling me. Warning me. I mean, it's the kind of thing partners should talk about."

"Starsky?"

"Yeah?"

"Shut up."

Starsky snickered. The only noise in the car was the crackling of paper as he opened the map and buried his face in it.

**

Starsky fell asleep before they reached Santa Barbara and didn't wake up until they were on the outskirts of Atascadero. Hutch didn't mind; he'd always found solitary driving relaxing. As they left Los Angeles farther and farther behind, he could feel some of the tightness in his chest easing.

"I'm hungry," were the first words out of Starsky's mouth when he woke up.

"We'll stop in Atascadero."

"Okay," Starsky agreed cheerfully. The nap seemed to have restored his good humor and he apparently had decided to forgive Hutch for both the red car and the missing moustache.

Atascadero was a nice enough little town. There was a lake and a zoo and a winery. They decided, however, to bypass all of those pleasures and went directly to the small cafe just opposite the Rancho Tee Motel. There were more people than one might have expected having lunch there and so it was nearly five minutes before the waitress led them to a booth and handed them menus.

Hutch decided on the chef's salad and Starsky a cheeseburger with fries. "—and raw onion," he said loudly to the disappearing waitress.

"Thanks," Hutch muttered.

"Huh?"

"Never mind." Hutch unfolded the paper napkin and spread it on his lap. A moment later he picked it up and folded it again. "Hey, Starsk," he said suddenly.

His partner didn't glance up from the placemat, which was printed with a profusely-illustrated account of Atascadero's history. "Huh?" he said again absently.

"I've been meaning to tell you something," Hutch said, watching a small boy make a mess of a plateful of spaghetti. "While you were off work, I was going to see Doctor McPherson for awhile." There. The words he'd been trying to say for weeks were finally said. He didn't know exactly what kind of reaction he'd expected from Starsky, but he had at least expected some reaction. He looked at his partner.

Starsky was still reading. "Oh, yeah? Nice guy."

"You know him?"

"Just from the candy machine." For the first time, Starsky looked up. "He's a Payday freakie."

Hutch nodded. "Well," he said awkwardly, "I just thought you'd like to know. Thought you had a right to know."

After a minute Starsky smiled. "Yeah. Okay. Thanks for telling me."

click illo for larger image

The food arrived then, putting an end to the conversation. Lunch was good, even if Starsky did insist upon having some horrible concoction of ice cream, hot fudge, a brownie, and whipping cream for desert. When they finished eating, Hutch decreed a brisk ten minute walk around the town before they hit the road again. It sounded like a good idea at the time, but he was soon given cause to regret it.

Among the shops in the town was a small, expensive-looking jewelry store. Like a homing pigeon, Starsky moved toward the shining window display. Hutch followed him quickly, but by the time he got there, it was too late. Starsky was in love.

"Look at that," he said sounding a little breathless.

"That," of course, was a watch. Not just any watch. A GMT Master Chronometer, according to the sign. Stainless steel, with a matching bracelet. "And a rotating bezel," the salesman said a moment later.

"Oh, yeah?" The watch was already on Starsky's wrist.

"It's too expensive," Hutch stage-whispered from the doorway. He refused to venture closer, fearing that might lend credence to this foolishness.

"With a twenty-four hour hand that will give you the time in two different zones simultaneously."

"Terrific."

"Oh, great," Hutch said. "You're often in two time zones simultaneously, right?"

The salesman glanced disdainfully toward him. "Pressure-proof down to 165 feet."

"For all the deep-sea diving you do, Starsk."

Starsky deliberated briefly, considering his already creaking credit card. "Okay," he said, "I'll take it."

Hutch groaned and went out to the car to wait, unable to witness the sight of a man committing financial doom so he could know what time it was in two places at once.

It was almost thirty minutes before Starsky emerged from the store, the watch gleaming on his wrist. "Took long enough," Hutch muttered, starting the VW noisily.

"Had my name engraved on the back." Starsky tried to show him, but Hutch wouldn't look. "No extra charge," he added.

"Ha. Can you still afford to take this vacation or should we just go home?"

"Ahh, come on," Starsky said, "lighten up. It's a terrific watch. You're the one that's been on my back to get one."

"Yeah?"

They were back on the highway, heading north again. Starsky watched the scenery go by for a while. "What'd you talk about anyway?" he asked suddenly.

"Huh? Oh, you mean with McPherson." Hutch shrugged. "Nothing much."

Starsky shifted in the seat a little. "It's all private stuff, I guess."

Hutch was quiet for a time. "It was mostly about the job. Why I became a cop. Why I stay a cop." He maneuvered the small car around an eighteen-wheeler. "Just stuff." He gave a short laugh. "Life. Death. Infinity." Hutch wasn't trying to evade the question—hell, hadn't he told Dobey that one of the reasons for this trip was so that they could talk about what had happened? But it wasn't easy to get started.

"Why do you stay a cop?"

"I don't know. Habit? Maybe."

Starsky checked the time in California and New York. "They told me about my heart stopping. That I was actually dead for a little while."

"Yeah."

"Musta been . . . scary."

There was another pause. "I was scared," Hutch said.

Starsky sighed.

"And I was mad. Dobey was going to give me a new partner."

"He was?"

"I told him I didn't need a new partner."

"Shit, I guess not." Starsky managed to sound vaguely indignant. "He could've waited until the body was cold, at least."

Hutch glanced in the rear view mirror. "I would've quit."

"If I'da stayed dead, you mean?" Starsky nodded in agreement. "Yeah. I know what you mean."

They smiled faintly at one another and then Starsky returned to watching the passing scene. There was much more to be said, of course. They had just begun. But that was enough for a start.

**

The coastal town of San Manuel was celebrating its Founders' Days.

A red-white-and-blue banner stretched across the highway announcing the festivities and inviting all the passersby to join in the fun. Starsky thought it sounded like a terrific idea.

"We're supposed to be going to San Francisco," Hutch protested.

"We're on vacation. What difference does it make if we get there today or tomorrow? Come on. It said there's going to be barbeque and a dance and, everything. Even an art show. You'd like that."

Hutch sighed, wondering if everybody raised in New York City had the same almost childlike enthusiasm for the mundane activities of small town America. "Oh, all right." He pulled off the highway and turned the car in the direction of San Manuel.

It was a pretty town at first glance, tossed almost carelessly on the edge of a white sand beach, surrounded by huge craggy rocks and twisted cypresses and pines. The narrow streets were crowded with natives and tourists cheerfully jostling one another. The tourists were distinguishable by the cameras and shopping bags they carried; most of the natives, in the spirit of the celebration, were bewhiskered and dressed in pioneer clothes.

"See?" Starsky said after a few minutes. "Aren't you sorry you shaved off your moustache? You woulda fit right in."

"Would you please look for a motel that isn't filled up? I want to park this thing before I squash somebody."

"Ha. More likely that somebody will step on this bug and squash us."

They drove for a few more minutes, entering what was obviously the older part of San Manuel, where the architecture was strongly Spanish.

The Mission Motel had a small vacancy sign hanging out. Hutch pulled into the circular drive and a few minutes later they were ensconced in the last remaining room.

Starsky picked up a newspaper in the lobby and began to read through an agenda of events. It was decided that a walk down to the wharf should be first. Starsky grabbed his camera and they took off on foot.

San Manuel seemed, to Hutch anyway, like a city suffering from a mild case of schizophrenia. The place was hovering somewhere between the past and the present, early Spanish mingling with pop art modern. And to add to the confusion, there was a heavy layer of big business encroaching on all sides. The Old Town, even clogged with sightseers, still reeked of atmosphere. The stone streets were lined with clay buildings. There was an encompassing smell of ethnic food hanging over the streets that set Starsky's nostrils twitching. Hutch ended up carrying the camera while his partner consumed several local delicacies.

The so-called New Town was very artsy-craftsy. Bearded artists mingled with bare-footed girls in patchwork skirts, sometimes with babies strapped on their backs. Most of the artwork on display was mediocre, at best. At least the paintings were. The crafts were better. Woodcarvings. Some clay pieces. Leatherwork. The revival in the old-fashioned crafts had really caught on in San Miguel.

The wharf was busy, crowded with commercial fishing boats unloading anchovies, cod, kingfish, sole. A fish-processing plant was built on the dock. Along the wharf were novelty shops and various other businesses designed to catch the eye—and the wallet—of the tourist trade.

Starsky and Hutch moved with the crowd. It took nearly three hours for them to wend their way back to the Mission Motel and the cool dim room. Starsky stopped at the soda machine in the hallway and bought two Cokes. Hutch, stretched out on his bed, took one. His throat was dry.

"Nice little town," Starsky said, kicking off his shoes and stretching out on the other bed.

"Yeah," Hutch said noncommittally.

"We going to the dance tonight?"

"I guess."

"Should be some nice girls there. A lot of nice ones walking around."

"There're a lot of nice girls in San Francisco, too."

"Oh, sure," Starsky agreed. He was quiet for a few minutes, holding the cold soda can against his forehead. "Hey," he said.

Hutch, half-asleep, didn't open his eyes. "Huh?"

"This trip was a good idea."

"Yeah."

Starsky looked at his partner. "You'd sleep better if you took your gun off," he said.

Hutch grunted something unintelligible.

"Shoulda left it at home. We're on vacation." When there was no reply at all, he glanced over at the other bed again. Hutch was already asleep.

**

V

Hutch slept for a long time.

Starsky finished his Coke and then amused himself by reading through the San Manuel telephone directory. Finally, moving as quietly as he could, he showered and shaved. When he came out of the bathroom, toweling his hair dry, he found Hutch awake and unpacking. "Well, Sleeping Beauty."

"I spent the day driving," Hutch replied, "not dozing in the passenger seat."

"Right." Starsky began pulling clothes from his suitcase. "I'm ready for dinner."

"Five minutes," Hutch said and in five minutes he was ready to go.

They left the motel and walked a block to a seafood restaurant. There were no tables free, so they were ushered into the dimly lit bar to wait. It was not so poorly lit, however, that they didn't both immediately spot the two young women sitting at the end of the curved bar.

"A dance is a lot more fun with a date," Starsky muttered, moving in that direction.

"I hate going stag," Hutch agreed, right on Starsky's heels.

"Dibs on the blonde."

"Naturally."

"Excuse me," Starsky said to the women, "but we're strangers in town. Unless you'll both come to the dance with us tonight, we'll be forced to go alone."

"And that's bad," Hutch added, "'cause we both insist on leading."

The blonde smiled a little; her companion not at all. Starsky chose to take the faint smile as willingness to continue the conversation and he plopped himself onto the stool next to the blonde. "My name is Dave. And that's Ken."

"Maura," she said after a moment. "And my friend is Kimberly."

Hutch sat down. "Hi, Kimberly."

"Hello." She was a porcelain-skinned redhead, with startling, almost shockingly green eyes. Her dress was the same electric green.

The bartender came over and they ordered drinks. Starsky took a peanut from the basket on the bar. "We're serious about the dance. If you're not tied up . . . we could grab some dinner here and then paint the town red."

Hutch grimaced. "Excuse my friend, the silver-tongued orator. Known far and wide as the man of a thousand clichés."

Kimberly almost smiled.

Starsky handed Maura a peanut. "Whattaya say?"

"Well . . . ?" She glanced at Kimberly, who nodded slowly. "You sure?" Kimberly shrugged elegantly. "Why not?"

"Okay," Maura said to Starsky. "Dinner and the dance it is."

Since there was still no table available, they had another round of drinks.

**

Dinner, when they finally got it, was good, if more expensive than they might have wished. They topped off the meal with some decent brandy and then left for the town square, site of the outdoor dance. They rode over in Kimberly's lemon-yellow sports car. It was a bit snug, but nobody complained.

The square had been done up for the occasion in bunting and tiny blinking Christmas lights. Starsky and Maura headed straight for the raised wooden platform that was serving as a dance floor. Hutch and Kimberly secured one of the small tables scattered around the fringes of the dance area and ordered beers from one of the gingham-clad waitresses.

"We're from Los Angeles," Hutch said, although she hadn't asked.

She nodded and lit a cigarette.

Hutch sighed and sat back to watch the dancers. Kimberly was not exactly the easiest person in the world to have a conversation with. She spent a lot of time apparently lost in some kind of deep thought. When she wasn't glancing over her shoulder. "On our way to San Francisco," he added rather hopelessly.

"On business?" she said absently.

"Vacation."

Her neon eyes swept over him. "Are you a good guy or a bad guy?"

"What?"

"You're carrying a gun."

Startled, Hutch looked down. The sport coat he was wearing seemed to him at any rate, to conceal the weapon adequately. "We weren't that close in the car," he said lightly.

She sipped the beer as if it were rare vintage wine. "My father is a very important man. He feels the need to surround himself with armed guards. I grew up around men who wore guns. They used to play hide-and-seek with me. The jacket hangs in a very special way."

Hutch smiled sheepishly. "I see. Well, whether we're good guys or bad guys depends on your point of view, I guess. We're with the L.A.P.D."

"Cops. How interesting." She didn't sound particularly interested.

A little amused, perhaps.

"What does your father do?"

"He owns San Manuel."

Hutch raised his brows. "All of it?"

"Mostly. And what he doesn't own yet, he will." She crushed out the cigarette and immediately lit another. "He's an extremely shrewd businessman, my father." She watched Starsky and Maura dance. "You said that your friend is a cop, too?"

"Yes ."

She glanced at Hutch. "He's not armed."

Starsky had no jacket on over his shirt. "Obviously," Hutch said dryly.

"But you are?"

Hutch shrugged. "I don't go visit my mother without my gun."

"How utterly Freudian."

Their conversation dwindled off then and they sat in silence for ten minutes until Starsky and Maura joined them. "You two ain't dancing?" Starsky said after downing the rest of Hutch's beer.

Hutch shook his head.

"Well, having seen you dance, buddy," Starsky said, grinning, "you might just be doing the right thing."

Maura giggled.

Kimberly suddenly gathered her cigarettes, lighter, purse. "Let's go down to the Strip."

"Where?" Hutch asked.

"The Strip. A lot more action down there. This dance is for jerks."

Starsky, who'd been enjoying himself, looked a little offended, but he willingly followed the others back to the car. At Kimberly's suggestion, Hutch took the wheel this time.

**

The Strip, it turned out, was the red-light district of San Manuel, a part of town they had missed on their afternoon walk. Snuggled between the commercial fishing dock and the older, shabbier port facilities, it was an area of small bars, a porno movie house, and several rundown hotels that obviously did a rapid turnover business.

There was also a noisy penny arcade and it was there they made their first stop. Kimberly waited as Hutch got a handful of change, then guided him to a bank of pinball machines. Starsky and Maura vanished into the crowd.

Kimberly planted her feet in front of the Bank-a-Ball game. She dropped a quarter in and pulled the plunger. Her face was a study in concentration as she aimed each shot carefully, passing the ball from one flipper to another with a practiced skill that soon attracted a crowd of onlookers. When she had defeated the machine three times in a row, Hutch took a turn. "Put a little body English on it," she urged. "Come on, whack it. Hit it now. Nudge. Come on, I can't hear you grunt. Get into the machine."

He lost and gave a philosophical shrug.

Before she could start another game, Starsky and Maura reappeared.

She was holding a quickie snapshot of the two of them dressed like characters from some old pirate movie. Hutch realized that they both were getting pretty drunk. Kimberly seemed as coldly sober as ever and he himself didn't seem to feel any reaction from all the liquor he'd consumed. Maura, though, held onto Starsky's arm as she walked and Starsky was on the verge of giggling.

"Maybe we should call it a night," Hutch suggested, feeling a vague sense of unease. Maybe it was the surroundings, the noisy, smoky dockside arcade, or maybe he was just tired, but suddenly he wished they hadn't come here at all. Wished he was back at the motel sleeping so that they could get an early start for San Francisco the next morning.

Kimberly smiled suddenly and brightly, taking his arm. "Ah, Ken, don't be a bore. We haven't even been to the Whistling Parrot yet."

"What's the Whistling Parrot?" Starsky asked.

"A bar. It's just up the street. We can walk from here."

"I think," Hutch began. He paused, then shrugged. "Okay. But just for a quick nightcap."

The Whistling Parrot was not just a bar. It was the kind of dive he and Starsk went into only in the line of duty and then reluctantly. The place was jammed with men who obviously came from the foreign freighters in the nearby port and women who were there for business purposes, not for kicks.

Kimberly, strangely, seemed right at home. Her name was called several times as they made their way through the room to a booth, and she answered the greetings with a cheerful wave. Hutch wished he didn't have the feeling that everybody in the place knew he was a cop. His sense of unease increased.

Even Starsky seemed less than delighted. "Isn't this place out of some old movie?" he asked.

"This place is out of every old movie," Hutch replied. He pulled a little at Kimberly's arm. "Look, why don't we go somewhere else for a drink?"

"I like it here."

"Look, Kimberly, why don't we...."

She jerked away from his grip. "Damnit, Hutch," she said, her voice louder than necessary. "Stop it." She lowered her voice and smiled humorlessly. "Are all cops such stiffs?"

"Hey," Starsky said, "let's everybody cool it, huh?" He smiled at Kimberly and patted Hutch's shoulder. "Let's just all sit down and have a drink, okay?"

They scooted into the booth and a moment later a fat man in a dirty white apron appeared at the table. "Hi, Jose," Kimberly said. "The usual for me."

"A Scotch," Maura said.

Starsky ordered a shot and a beer and Hutch just the beer.

A jukebox nearby was playing some loud rock music, making conversation difficult at best. So they just sat and drank the first round and somehow a second round appeared and they drank that, too.

Hutch finally excused himself to go to the men's room, which he finally located behind the bar. It was about as bad as he had expected. He was washing his hands—without benefit of soap—when the door opened and Starsky came in, walking unsteadily. "Hi," he said with a grin.

"Hi, yourself." Hutch looked uselessly for a paper towel and finally dried his hands on his pants.

Starsky looked around, as if he were vaguely surprised to find himself in the bathroom. Shrugging, he availed himself of the facilities and then came back to the sink. "You know something, buddy?"

"What?"

"I think . . . I think I'm drunk."

"No kidding? Anybody ever tell you that you oughta be a detective?"

Starsky giggled.

"Hey, Starsk, you about ready to cut out?"

"Yeah." Starsky held his dripping hands in the air helplessly. "Yeah," he repeated. "We gotta hit the road tomorrow, right?"

"Right."

"Gotta hit the old road for San Francisco. Good idea, this trip." They started for the door. "Hutch, buddy?"

"What?"

Starsky stopped, leaning against the wall. He stared vacantly at Hutch for a moment, as if he couldn't remember what it was he wanted to say. He sighed and rubbed one hand over his face. "How come . . . how come I couldn't get my gun out the other night?"

Hutch wished he could be drunk, too; maybe it might make this a little easier to face. "I don't know, Starsk. I guess maybe you were scared."

Starsky nodded. "Yeah . . . guess so. Shit. It won't happen again."

"I know."

Starsky grabbed Hutch by both arms and held on. "No, I mean it. It won't ever, ever happen again. The next time you need me, man, I'm gonna be there."

"Sure," Hutch said.

"You believe me?"

"I always believe you, Starsk."

Starsky stared at him for one more moment, then nodded. "Okay, man."

Something in Starsky's tone bothered Hutch and he pressed his shoulder against the door. "Starsky."

"Huh?"

"I know you'll be there, man." He felt that it was important to convince Starsky that his faith and his trust were as strong as ever. "Hell, you're the best partner a guy could have."

Starsky smiled. "Thanks, man. We're gonna have a great time in Frisco, ain't we?"

"Sure."

They left the john and went back to the booth. "Time to call it a night," Hutch said briskly.

Kimberly raised no more objections and they left the Whistling Parrot. Hutch got behind the wheel again for the drive to the motel. It was much later than he'd thought and the hilly street was deserted except for the small yellow car.

Hutch started down the hill. The little car moved swiftly. They approached a curve and he applied the brake. Nothing happened. He pressed harder and the car kept barreling down the hill. "Starsk," he said quietly. Then, when there was no answer from the back seat, again, sharply, "Starsky!"

"Huh?"

"No brakes."

"Oh shit."

Kimberly tried to grab Hutch's arm. "My god, what's happening?"

Hutch brushed her aside. "Gotta stop or we'll end up in the water." He saw several construction barriers sitting on the shoulder of the road. "Everybody duck and hold on tight," he said tersely, turning the wheel sharply.

The car hit the barricades at an angle and slid to a stop. The sound of the collision filled the empty night air, but none of them heard it.

**

He woke up slowly.

There was nothing but the rhythmic pain in his head. He felt cramped and twisted. Someone was lying heavily against him. He pushed the other body away. It was a girl and he thought he should know who she was, but he couldn't concentrate. He pushed and shoved his way free of the wreckage, but he couldn't stand up yet. "Hey," he whispered, but nobody answered.

The other two bodies were twisted together. There was some blood, not much. He carefully rested the girl against the ripped seat cushion. She was breathing steadily.

He turned to his partner. "Buddy?" he said softly, but there was not even a flicker of response. "Oh, shit, man." He trailed one hand down the other man's face. "Okay, babe. I'll get help. Take it easy, buddy. Hang in there." He gripped his partner's hand desperately. "Oh, please, hold on." He squeezed the hand. "I'll be right back."

He got to his feet and started back up the hill toward the dock area and the Whistling Parrot. Help. He had to get help. The hill seemed impossibly steep and he fell a couple of times. Never gonna make it, he thought numbly. But I gotta make it . . . gotta get help . . . I promised him.

After a few minutes walking, he turned into the black entrance of an alley, thinking that it might be a shortcut. For a time that seemed endless he wandered along the dark, twisting path. Finally his legs gave out and he fell heavily. Oh, damn . . . gotta keep moving . . . .He could scarcely remember what it was he had to do. There was only a painful sense of urgency propelling him. He dragged his body a few feet along the pavement.

The footsteps were a welcome sound. "Help," he whispered.

Two dark shapes leaned over him. Rough hands began to frisk him swiftly and efficiently. "Get the wallet," a hoarse voice said.

"Please," he whispered. "Need help . . . accident . . . my partner . . . the others . . . please . . . help me."

They ignored him. They took his wallet, stripped off his watch, even pulled the boots from his feet. Then, for good measure, one of them kicked him in the ribs. He moaned and felt the world turn a little blacker.

Finally they were gone.

He started to crawl again, moving toward where he thought help might be found. The crawling sent sharp pains through his ribs. His head was pounding. He cried as he crawled because it all hurt so damned much. What hurt most of all, though, was that his partner was waiting for the help he'd promised and he couldn't do it, couldn't bring the help, couldn't keep his promise.

"Helphelphelphelphelphelp," he whispered into the night.

When he heard someone coming, instead of being relieved, he almost wanted to hide. Maybe they would hurt him again. But he didn't hide, couldn't. It was a chance for help. "Hey," he said as loudly as he could.

Two men crouched next to him. "Whaddaya think?" one asked.

"Looks like he was rolled."

"Yeah. No serious damage, though."

"Please, help."

"Yeah, buddy," one of the men said cheerfully. "We'll help, all right. When you wake up, you'll feel a whole lot better."

The other man laughed. "Sides, don't they say that a sea cruise is good for the health?"

He felt the needle slip into his arm. He tried to move away, but the drug began to wash over him too quickly. "Please," he whispered once more.

The world drifted away from him. He tried to grab it and hold on, but everything was gone, gone, and even asleep he cried bitterly, because he didn't think he'd ever get it back..

**

Part Two