This story was first published in 1980. Thanks go to SHaron for scanning and proofing, and to Myha for not eating the entire last page of the zine when it was accidentally left within range of her inquisitive teeth .

PART THREE

MY HEROES HAVE ALWAYS BEEN COWBOYS

by

TERI WHITE

PART FOUR

XIII

Linoleum had a very distinctive odor. Hutch had never really known that before, but lying there so long, with his face pressed to the floor, he had a lot of time to think about the subject of linoleum. It sure as hell beat trying to move. Maybe, he mused, I won't ever move again. People would adjust, sooner or later, to having me in the hallway. They could just step around me. Or over. Or even on me; I don't care much.

But finally he decided that life as a doormat wasn't really what he wanted. It didn't seem a whole lot better than life as a private eye, so he might as well stick with what he already had. He rolled over and stared at the ceiling for a while, until it stopped spinning. I'm fine, he thought, but the room is in pretty bad shape. The joke fell flat.

This was obviously a job that would have to be accomplished in easy stages. Sitting up was the first step. On the third try, he made it. Not bad, Ken, he congratulated himself. The guys in the paperbacks always made it sound so easy, but maybe they had harder heads than he did.

He made it to his knees, and then all the way to his feet only a few minutes later. At this rate, he thought, I should be able to make it home by a week from Wednesday, at the latest. That wasn't such a bad idea, in fact. Maybe by then Starsky would have solved this whole case, and he wouldn't have to worry about it any more.

As he made his way, one step at a time toward the elevator, Hutch took a moment to wonder who had conked him. And why. He checked his pocket, but the contract was still there. It was not, however, as it had been. Someone had printed in block letters across the back of the page, FORGET THIS CASE OR SUFFER THE CONSEQUENCES.

"Shit," Hutch said aloud.

The sound of his own voice caused a stabbing pain in the back of his head. He stopped, leaning against the wall next to the elevator. This was the place for the chapter to end, he reasoned. And when the next chapter opened, the hero would be at home in bed.

He waited hopefully, but the only thing that happened was the noisy arrival of the elevator. He stepped in. Making a mental note to burn every goddamned one of Starsky's books, he pushed the button for the first floor.

Showing what he felt was remarkable restraint, he merely crumpled the parking ticket he found on Belle, instead of chasing after the damned traffic cop and shoving the paper up his ass.

He wondered if the ticket was the "consequences" mentioned in the note. Probably not. Whatever the dire reality turned out to be, he hoped it wasn't noisy. The sound of the car door slamming nearly finished him.

It was a long drive home and a long journey up another elevator shaft to his third floor apartment, but at last he was able to lower his body onto the bed. He sighed. It felt so good, he sighed again. Then he reached for the phone.

It rang several times before Starsky answered, and when he did, his voice sounded a little strange. "You okay?" Hutch asked.

"Yeah, sure, I'm fine. Why not?"

"Sorry to wake you."

"That's okay. I wasn't really asleep anyway. What's up?"

Hutch was probing carefully at the lump on the back of his skull. "Somebody must be getting itchy. I just got hit on the head outside Brustein's office."

"You okay?" Now Starsky's voice was worried.

"Yeah. Except that I've got Excedrin headache number eight."

"Well, nobody ever said it was going to be easy," Starsky said.

They were both quiet for a moment. "I hate this case," Hutch said suddenly.

"Hey, partner, don't get discouraged. We've cracked tougher nuts than this."

Hutch wondered who he was quoting. He swallowed two more aspirin, washing them down with a gulp of water. "I'm not sure I want to crack it," he muttered.

"That's what we're getting paid for. Monroe deserves to know the truth."

"What's so goddamned wonderful about knowing the truth? Sometimes all it does it screw up your hopes."

Starsky took a deep breath, the sound coming clearly over the phone. "Hutch, go to bed. Maybe tomorrow will be better."

"Yeah, sure. 'Night."

"Good night, buddy."

Hutch hung up and leaned back against the headboard, sipping some more of the water, and frowning.

~~~

Starsky replaced the receiver and rolled over. Maggie was watching him. "Something wrong?"

"No My partner got a crack across the skull, but he's okay."

She frowned. "Your work is really dangerous, isn't it?"

He shrugged. "Nothing we can't handle." He caressed her face absently, his mind still on Hutch. "It's just that Hutch gets so hung up on other people's problems. That can mess up your mind."

"He cares, is that what you're saying?"

"Yeah. Hell, I care, too, but he goes overboard. I learned a long time ago to keep all this stuff in perspective." He sighed, reaching over to turn off the bedside lamp once again. "People have to live with their own troubles," he said into the darkness. "My partner forgets that sometimes. He's like one of those weirdoes that starts bleeding on their palms every Good Friday." He was quiet for a long time.

"Dave?"

Starsky pulled his attention back to the motel room and the woman. "Sorry," he apologized. "I was thinking about something else."

"The case?"

"I guess."

"It's too bad about Andy."

"Yeah," he agreed. "It's too bad."

She moved closer and Starsky stopped thinking.

~~~

Hutch wondered, as he grabbed for the phone, why the damned thing kept ringing in the middle of the night lately. "'Lo?"

"Ken?"

He stretched until his toes touched the rail at the foot of the bed. "Yeah, Tyler?"

"Sorry to call so late."

"That's okay." At least his head wasn't pounding quite so much.

"I'm sorta drunk."

Hutch reached for the glass of water and took a drink. "That's not too smart, is it, man?"

"Guess not."

There was a pause. "Did you want something special, Tyler?" Hutch asked finally.

"I don't know. I forget."

"Go to sleep. Maybe tomorrow will be better."

"You mean maybe he'll come back?"

"I don't know what I mean, Tyler. Just go to sleep."

"Okay."

"Hey," Hutch said quickly.

"Yeah, Ken?"

Hutch scowled into the darkness. "Hell, man, I don't know what to tell you. Just...hang in there, okay?"

"Sure. Of course."

There was something familiar about the dull tone of Tyler's voice, and Hutch thought about it for a moment. Then it came to him. The voice might have been his own a year ago, as he sat in prison, thinking that Starsky was dead. There was no hope in the voice. No anything.

"Ken?"

"What?"

"I remember why I called. Somebody followed me tonight when I was walking back to the motel."

"Yeah? Did you get a look at the guy?"

"Too dark. Too drunk."

"Did Starsky see him?" The water tasted flat and warm, but Hutch took another sip.

"Dave, uh, Dave wasn't there. He had something else to do. I told him he didn't need to baby-sit me."

"What else did he have to do?"

"Left with Maggie. Nice girl." Tyler's voice changed a little. "Hell, just 'cause I gotta sleep alone don't mean everybody should." He seemed to catch his breath. "I'm so goddamned lonely."

Hutch was tired; he needed sleep, and he needed desperately to end this conversation "Go to sleep, Ty. We'll talk tomorrow."

"Sure. Tomorrow." Tyler hung up.

Hutch held onto the phone a moment longer, listening to the dial tone, then crashed it down.

**

XIV

"Got something for you, Hutch." Dobey sounded brisk.

Hutch gulped the last of his coffee and shifted the phone to his other ear. The lump on his head had subsided and the pain was no more than the usual dull throb he was beginning to get used to. It was a headache he'd had since this case began. "What's that, Cap'n?" he said.

"The car."

"Andy's?"

"Red VW, Wyoming plates, RE 4536."

"That's it. Where'd the damn thing turn up?"

"Over by MacArthur Park." Dobey paused, then read an address. "Should have been spotted before this."

"Anything to it? Like a clue, maybe?"

"Nothing that I heard. No body in the trunk or anything dramatic like that, at least. But it's still there; I told Auto not to tow it until you had a chance to get over there and take a look."

"Thanks, I appreciate that."

"Keep me informed, will you?"

"Uh-huh," Hutch said, already hanging up.

He dressed quickly, deciding not to call Newcombe until he'd seen the car and maybe had something more substantial to report. Not that this could lead to any good news, of course.

He managed to catch the tail end of rush hour, so it took him several minutes longer than it should have to reach the park. A single zone car stood by, manned by two young patrolmen, neither of whom Hutch recognized. That was happening a lot lately. They all seemed young and none of them knew him. Legends don't last long anymore, he thought. Supercop one minute and...and a private snoop with a permanent headache the next.

The cops had apparently been told to expect him, because they only glanced at his ID before waving him toward the car.

Or what was left of it.

The street vultures had been to work and there wasn't much to see of the car that Andy Jones was beaming over in the photograph. All four tires were gone; only a gaping hole was left to show where the radio and tape deck had been; the battery was missing. Apparently just for kicks, the seats had been slashed.

Hutch crawled around inside the car for a few minutes, coming up with nothing more interesting than a well-used roach. He put the butt into his pocket and pushed himself out of the car. "Thanks," he said to the cops. "You can have it towed now."

Back in his own car, he sat thoughtfully for a few minutes, staring at the ravaged vehicle. If there was any assumption to be drawn from this, it was that whatever had happened to Andy Jones had happened not in Newcombe, but right here in Los Angeles. It did not, therefore, seem to make much sense to continue to divide their forces. Especially now that the rodeo was moving on.

Finally, he started Belle and drove a couple blocks to a coffee shop. There was a phone just inside the door. He got some change from the cashier and made his call. "Hope I'm not interrupting anything," he said dourly.

"Nope," Starsky replied cheerfully. "Just on my way out the door."

"Well, pack up and come back to town. Bring Tyler. I think Newcombe is a dead end." He refrained from saying that the whole damned case was nothing but a great big dead end. But he thought it. "They found Andy's car here. Stripped, of course. No sign of him. Brustein is here, and so is Kingman."

"Kingman?"

"Yeah. I don't like that guy."

"You haven't liked anybody in politics since Bobby Kennedy."

"Yeah, I know. Anyway, I think the answer is here, not Newcombe."

"Sounds good to me."

"Unless you have some unfinished business there, of course?" Hutch added.

Sarcasm was lost on Starsky, whose good mood was undiminished. "Not a thing," he said. "See you later."

Hutch hung up and went to sit at the counter. He intended to order a cup of coffee, but when the waitress came over, he asked for a hot fudge sundae instead. Starsky would never know.

~~~

Tyler flatly refused to leave the van in Newcombe, even temporarily.

"We need it for the ranch," he said. "I can't afford to have it ripped off."

Starsky didn't want to argue the matter—and what the hell difference did it make anyway?—so they drove back to the city separately. Once there, Tyler pulled over to the curb and waited until Starsky got out of the Torino and walked back. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Tyler said. "Before we go to your office, I want to go see the car."

"Why?"

"Because."

Starsky didn't think it was a very good idea. "It won't help," he said. "Hutch said it was stripped."

"I want to see the car."

"Oh, hell," Starsky muttered. "All right. Follow me."

Kruger, on duty at the police lot, knew Starsky and waved them inside. They walked through the rows of cars until they reached the shell of the VW.

The tall man walked in a slow circle around the car, his craggy face unreadable. "They don't leave a man nothing, do they?" he said softly, and Starsky knew somehow that he wasn't talking about the punks who had destroyed the car, but the mysterious "they" who controlled things, who sent down the fates that afflicted ordinary mortals. "This is gonna break his heart," Tyler said. "He loves this car."

"It can be fixed," Starsky said.

Tyler just looked at him. A moment later, he rubbed one hand across the dusty hood of the car, then turned and stalked away. Starsky followed, giving a quick nod of thanks to Kruger.

They stopped by the curb. "Maybe Hutch has something by now," Starsky said.

Tyler lit a cigarette. "Okay."

"See you at the office." Starsky sat in the Torino until Tyler climbed into the van and started the engine.

There was a lot of traffic and he lost sight of the van before they reached the office, but he didn't worry about it. Tyler knew where the office was.

Once there, Starsky stood on the sidewalk for almost fifteen minutes, but there was no sign of the green van. He swore to himself and started up the stairs.

Madame Olga was just leaving her office. "Hi, there, Dave," she said. Today she wore beads and feathers. He sometimes wondered if she even realized that the sixties were over. A bright red plastic peace sign decorated the front of her shirt.

"Hi, sweetheart," he said, unlocking the door. "How's the tealeaf business?"

"So-so. You want to know what the future holds in store for you?"

"Not unless it's fame, fortune, and a beautiful gypsy lady." He opened the door.

"Could be." Olga started down the stairs. "Not a good day for Geminis," she tossed back.

"If I meet any, I'll tell 'em." Starsky closed the door. Hutch had left a note propped on the desk, bearing the exciting news that he'd gone for something to eat. Starsky glanced at his watch, wondering where the hell Tyler had gotten to.

There was a lone beer left in the refrigerator and Starsky drank it as he paced the office. It was another ten minutes before the door opened. He turned with relief, then frowned when he saw his partner. "Oh, it's you."

"Who were you expecting, Humphrey Bogart, maybe?"

"I was expecting it to be Monroe."

Now Hutch frowned, too. "I thought Tyler was with you."

"He was. We went by the police lot to see the car, then he was supposed to follow me over here. Hasn't showed up yet."

Hutch sat down at the desk. "Bad policy to lose the client, Starsky."

"He knows the way."

"You should've stuck with him."

"He was following me, Hutch."

Hutch picked up his note and crumpled it. "Did he tell you about the guy that tailed him back to the motel last night?"

"No. He doesn't tell me much of anything."

"It was when you were off investigating or whatever you were doing with somebody called Maggie."

Starsky finished the beer and began crushing the can. "Helluva detective, aren't you?"

Hutch tore the date off the desk calendar. "Next time, why don't you just ask yourself what Lew Archer would do in that situation. Would he stick with the case or fool around?"

He threw the crushed can away. "Get off my case, Hutch, all right? I figured he could walk two blocks to the motel okay. He said he could."

"You also figured he could get here okay, didn't you?"

Starsky didn't answer. They sat in silence for nearly five minutes, before Hutch sighed. "Sorry."

Starsky shrugged. "You're right, of course."

"Hell, I'm just uptight, but that's no reason for taking it out on you." He picked up a pen and began to doodle on the memo pad. "He probably just saw a bar and stopped for a couple."

"Yeah," Starsky said hopefully. "I think seeing that damned car kinda blew his mind. He drinks like a fish, if case you hadn't noticed."

"I noticed." After another moment, Hutch pulled the phone closer. "No sense just sitting here." He searched in his notebook until he found the number he needed. "I think it might be time to take a closer look at the esteemed Mr. Kingman."

Starsky scratched the side of his nose thoughtfully. "I don't see how there could be any kind of connection between that bunch of bigshots and a dirt-poor cowboy like Jones."

"Well, neither do I, right off. But stranger things have happened."

Starsky acknowledged the truth of that with a shrug and watched as Hutch dialed.

"Why don't you listen?" Hutch suggested as he listened to the ring on the other end.

Starsky got up and went to the extension next to his bed. It took a few minutes and some fast-talking, but Hutch managed finally to get through to Paul Kingman. It took a few more moments for him to refresh Kingman's memory about their earlier conversation.

Kingman sounded exasperated. "I thought I explained to you before, Hutchinson, that I don't know this Jones person."

"Perhaps someone in your family does," Hutch said smoothly. Only Starsky heard the undercurrent of cold anger in his voice. "Your brother, possibly. Or your father."

"No, I'm sure not," Kingman replied with matching smoothness.

"A man's life is at stake here."

"I can appreciate that. But what you don't seem to understand is that we're in the middle of a tough election race here and—

"Screw your election."

Starsky glanced at his usually cool partner, a little surprised.

Hutch opened a desk drawer, aimlessly shuffled through the contents, then slammed it closed again. "I need to talk to you, Kingman." There was no politeness left in his tone. "I'll be over in a little while."

"Today?" Kingman's voice squeaked a little. "But we're having a fundraiser. A bar-b-que."

"Good. I love bar-b-ques." Hutch hung up before there could be any further objection.

Starsky replaced the extension more slowly and walked back to perch on a corner of the desk. "It might not be smart to start tangling with somebody like Kingman," he said almost absently.

"When was the last time anybody accused me—or you, for that matter—of being smart?" Hutch replied. He stood. "What'd you have in mind to do this afternoon?"

"I could go with you," Starsky suggested. "Or I could go try to track down our frigging client."

"Good idea; why don't you do that?" Hutch was too tired to be really sarcastic. "The thing about the Kingmans is that they're rich," he said.

Starsky glanced at him quizzically.

Hutch sighed, running a hand over his face "The old lady talked about a big black car, didn't she?"

"But that was thirty years ago," Starsky objected.

"The Kingmans have had their money for a long time." He unlocked the bottom drawer of the desk and took out his holster again. "Oh, shit, Starsk, I know I'm just grasping at straws. But straws are all we have here."

"I know. And you don't like Paul Kingman."

"Not much." Hutch began to strap his gun into place. "I had an uncle once," he said aimlessly. "He sold pots and pans door-to-door."

"Yeah? Thought all your relatives were bigshots."

"Except Uncle Lou. Stainless steel cookware was his thing."

Starsky waited patiently by the door.

"He never got rich, you understand. Used to get bit by dogs all the time. In the winter he got frostbite, and in the summer he baked."

"Uh-huh?"

"But Uncle Lou was a happy man, Starsk. He used to whistle every morning on his way to work." Hutch was finally ready to go. He slammed the door closed as they walked into the hallway. "I don't whistle much on this job."

Starsky frowned. "This is a good job, Hutch. We're doing what we do best."

Hutch didn't answer.

"And we help people."

"Like we're helping Tyler Monroe, you mean?" Hutch muttered as they clumped down the stairs.

"This is just one case, buddy. And yes, dammit, we are helping him. He needs to know what happened to Jones, doesn't he? If we can tell him that, it'll be important. Won't it?"

"I don't know."

They reached the sidewalk. "You don't have to know," Starsky said. "I know."

Hutch reached for his car keys. "Well, as long as one of us is happy."

"You're not unhappy. You just have the wrong attitude."

"I'll work on it."

"Yeah, you better."

They looked into one another's eyes for a long moment, then Hutch smiled faintly. "Go find Tyler," he said.

"Okay. You go shake up the bigshots."

"I'll try."

They parted company, heading for their respective cars.

**

XV

The Kingmans lived the way Hutch had thought no one—except maybe the Arabs—could afford to anymore. Apparently great-grandfather's railroad money was still doing good things for the family. The rolling green acres around the house looked more like the lawn of a plush country club—or a cemetery—than a place anybody called home.

A uniformed security man was on duty at the front gate. He eyed Hutch's identification suspiciously, then made a call to the house. Despite the reluctance to talk that Kingman had displayed over the phone, he must have granted permission for Hutch's entrance, because the guard waved him on through.

It took a couple more minutes to get within walking distance of the house. The long curved drive was lined on both sides by cars. Hutch managed to squeeze in between an endless black Caddy and a sleek Silver Ghost. He gave Belle a reassuring pat before leaving her in the intimidating company.

He sort of wished somebody was around to give him a pat. But he straightened his shoulders and tugged at his shirt, pretending that he was ten years old again, facing the formidable Miss Therringbold of the Duluth Academy of Social Dancing. Playing games, he thought wryly. Hell, I'm as bad as Starsk with his Sam Spade impression.

A black maid opened the door before the ringing chimes of the bell had faded away. She eyed him with something less than complete delight. "Yes, sir?"

"Paul Kingman is expecting me. Hutchinson is my name."

She nodded, even less pleased, and ushered him through a long hallway. "Everyone is out here," she said, sliding open a glass door.

He stepped out onto the patio, realizing at once why the woman had seemed put off by his appearance. The vast green expanse was cluttered with people, and every man there wore a white dinner jacket. The women all looked like what they had on their backs cost more than everything Hutch owned in the world. "Last bar-b-que I was at," he muttered, "we sat on the sand and ate ribs with our fingers."

The woman gave a soft laugh. "Well, I wouldn't hold my breath waiting for anybody to offer you a rib here," she murmured.

Hutch glanced at her, but she only nodded and glided regally away. He tucked his shirt a little more snugly into the waistband of his jeans and smoothed his hair.

"Hutchinson."

Turning quickly, he saw Paul Kingman approach, a glass of champagne in one hand. "Hello," Hutch said. "Nice place you have here."

Paul ignored that. "I really don't know what you're doing here. I've already made it quite clear that I don't know this Jones person and—"

Hutch took a step toward him. "The guy has a name," he said tightly. "It's Andy. And I don't mean to be blunt, you creep, but I think you're lying through your goddamned capped teeth."

Paul backed off a little, his eyes flashing sudden fear. Almost out of nowhere a man in a brown uniform appeared. "Is there some kind of trouble, Mr. Kingman?" he asked.

Hutch answered before Paul could. "No trouble," he said calmly. "I just have a few questions for Mr. Kingman. We're going to talk, right, Paul?"

Paul swallowed. "It's okay, Jack." The guard still looked doubtful, but he walked away.

"Talk," Hutch said. "And tell me something I can believe."

The other man took a deep breath, bit his lower lip, then shrugged. "All right," he said wearily. "I spoke to Jones. Once. I don't know where he is."

"Good," Hutch said. "Now we're getting somewhere."

Paul glanced around nervously. "Look, we can't talk here. Go inside, the first door on the left. That's the library. I'll join you there in a minute."

Hutch gave him a long, appraising look, then nodded and went inside. The maid passed him in the hall, carrying a tray of drinks. He lifted a glass of champagne, saluted her with it, and went on.

The library wasn't empty. An old man sat there in a wheel chair, his attention on a book in his gnarled hands. He looked up as Hutch came in. "Excuse me, sir, but Paul told me to wait in here."

"Of course. I don't mind the company."

The deep voice was familiar, and Hutch realized that this was the senior Kingman, former senator, once a candidate for the White House, a man felled by a stroke when he was still one of the most influential politicians in the country. Now he just looked like any other sick old man. "My name is Ken Hutchinson. I'm a private detective."

Kingman gave a sound that might have been a chuckle. "What's Paul been up to?"

Hutch smiled a little. "Nothing, that I know of. There are just some questions I want to ask him about a case I'm on."

"It must be interesting work." He tapped the paperback in his lap. "If the books are to be believed."

Hutch shrugged. "It can be interesting. Sometimes it can be...disturbing."

"I imagine so. What's this case—if it violates no confidence for you to tell me."

"I'm looking for someone."

"Ahh, a missing person. A favorite ploy of the mystery writers. A lovely young girl?"

"No. A young man named Andy Jones."

The book slipped to the floor, but Kingman didn't seem to notice. He lifted one trembling hand and swiped at his snowy hair.

Hutch bent to retrieve the paperback and set it on the table. "Sir? You okay?"

"Yes... I apologize. My old hands sometimes fail me."

"Father?" Paul's voice came from the doorway. "I didn't know you were in here. Dammit, Hutchinson, you have no business harassing my father. He doesn't know anything about the damned case."

"I wasn't harassing him."

"If you'll excuse me," Kingman said. "I feel rather weary." He pushed a button and the wheel chair rolled silently out of the room.

Paul closed the door. "He's a sick old man. I won't have him bothered by your bullying."

Hutch sipped champagne. "Is that what I've been doing? Bullying you?"

"You've been trying."

Hutch shrugged and set the empty glass aside. "I just asked a few simple questions." His voice took on an edge. "And you lied to me."

Paul walked to a bar in one corner and made himself a drink; he didn't offer one to Hutch. "Jones accosted me outside campaign headquarters a few days ago," he said after taking a sip.

"What did he want?"

Paul hesitated, then sighed. "If you must know, it was a rather crude attempt at blackmail."

"Blackmail?"

"Yes. Such things are a fact of life for people like us, Hutchinson. I'm not unused to dealing with thugs like Jones. Obviously I was successful in this case; he didn't try again."

"Blackmail," Hutch murmured again.

"You are familiar with the word?"

"Oh, yes." He smiled. "I just find it incongruous to use the term in relation to Andy Jones."

"Why?"

The smile was gone as suddenly as it had appeared. Hutch spoke coldly. "Andy Jones is not a blackmailer."

"How do you know?"

"I know."

"Well, I'm sorry to have shattered your illusions, but he did try."

"I assume you would prefer not to reveal exactly what he was trying to blackmail you about?"

Paul nodded. "Your assumption is correct."

"There's nothing more you can tell me?"

"No. Oh, except that I advised Jones that it might be wise for him to move on. Perhaps he took my words to heart and simply left town."

"Perhaps," Hutch said. He crossed the room and opened the door. "Good-bye."

Paul nodded sharply.

Hutch walked slowly down the hall, scuffing his feet through the thick carpet. His head was pounding.

"Mr. Hutchinson." The urgent whisper came from behind a half-closed door.

Hutch walked closer and the door opened all the way. Old man Kingman sat there. "Yes, sir?" Hutch stepped into the room.

"This case of yours. The missing person."

"Andy Jones?"

"Yes. Andy Jones. Why are you looking for him here?"

Hutch shrugged. "The name Kingman popped up during my investigation. We detectives follow what we get."

Two trembling hands played across the afghan-covered lap. "This young man—is he a person of some significance?"

Hutch stared hard at the old man, then shook his head. "No. Andy is a nobody. A rodeo clown, that's all."

The body seemed to relax a little. "Then why are you looking for him?"

"Because we have a client who wants him found."

"Why?"

"Why?" Hutch looked around the room, the walls of which were covered with framed photographs. Most of the pictures were of Kingman and easily recognizable others. A president. A king. Several Latin dictators. He sighed. "Our client loves him."

"Love?" The word seemed to hover on the dry lips.

"Yes. It's as simple as that. Nothing nearly as important as the world-shaking things that you and your family are involved with."

"I see." Kingman was quiet for a long moment, picking at the colorful threads of the blanket. "Sometimes, Mr. Hutchinson, choices have to be made. Priorities have to be weighed. The selfish interests of the individuals have to be balanced against the greater good of society. I once had a choice like that to make."

"And what did you choose, sir?"

Kingman lifted a hand a few inches from his lap. "Ahh...well, it was a long time ago. It's of no consequence now."

"What does matter now?"

"My son Richard's career. He can do great things for this country. Do you understand that?"

"I'm not involved in politics."

"You should be."

Hutch shrugged. "I have no time. Right now I only have time to look for Andy Jones."

"Who is your client? Someone important?"

Hutch wondered if the old man ranked every person in the world on a scale of social significance. He shook his head. "No. My client is a nobody, like Jones. Just another cowboy. Like I said, it's not very important. Two people love each other, and one is missing, and the other one is hurting."

"I see."

"Do you?" Hutch said more bitterly than he had intended.

The lined face seemed almost to smile. "I know something of love."

Hutch had no answer for that. He shrugged again. "I better go."

"You'll remember what I said?"

The blond was puzzled. "Just what exactly were you saying, sir?"

A raspy sigh. "That sometimes the individual must suffer for the good of the masses."

"What does that have to do with Andy Jones?"

But the old man seemed to have fallen asleep. After another moment, Hutch quietly left the room, closing the door as he went.

~~~

It was the fifth bar he'd been into, and they were all beginning to look and sound alike. He only went into the ones that looked vaguely country/western in mood, not quite able to picture Tyler Monroe choosing to hang out in the Pink Pussycat or the places with flashing lights and punk rock.

The fifth bar was the Bunkhouse and it looked just like all the others, except that there was a familiar figure sitting in one of the booths. Starsky walked back and dropped into the booth, staring at Tyler across a row of empty glasses. "Hutch is worried about you," he said flatly.

Tyler blinked twice and looked at him. "Ken is? Why?"

"I don't know why. He's just like that. Stray dogs. Lost kids. Drunken cowboys. He's got this soft spot in his heart. Or his head."

''Nice guy."

"Yeah, that's what they say."

Someone punched up a song on the jukebox.

...and how will we live now, you tell me,
with parts of our hearts torn away...?

Tyler sighed. "I've been here a long time, huh?"

"Yeah. A long time. I told you before that this won't help."

...Just existing makes dying look easy,
but maybe tomorrow,
I've done enough dying today...

Tyler nodded. "I know. I'm sorry. I don't mean to make trouble."

Starsky realized that the man was drunker than he'd seen him before. "Come on, Tyler," he said. "Let's get out of here."

...Perhaps I'll learn sleeping all over,
And just maybe without dreaming this time...

"I got nowhere to go." The words were soft, slurred.

Starsky was rearranging the empty glasses. "We'll go to the office for now. You can sleep it off there."

"You think maybe I can sleep now?"

"Sure. Booze'll do that, at least."

Tyler reached across the table and touched Starsky's wrist lightly. "No dreams? Promise me?"

"I hope not, man. Come on."

They started a slow journey toward the door. "I used to drink a lot, you know," Tyler commented.

"Did you?"

"Oh, sure. But I gave it up."

Starsky kept him from walking into the wall, steering him out the door instead. "I'm glad about that," he said.

"Yeah. Hadda set a good example, see? You see what I mean?"

"I see." Starsky checked the van to be sure that it was locked, then steered the taller man toward the Torino. "We'll get the van later," he said as Tyler started to object.

"'kay. All Andy's stuff in there, ya know? Saddle and all."

"It'll be okay."

Tyler sank into the seat with a sigh. "Don't have to set no good example now." He closed his eyes.

Starsky got behind the wheel and started the car.

"You don't like me much, do you, Dave?" Tyler said suddenly, his eyes still closed.

"Never gave it much thought," Starsky said easily, pulling the car into the flow of traffic.

"Maybe if you could just understand how I'm feeling."

"I know. I understand, Tyler, really."

Tyler didn't say anything else during the ride, or as Starsky guided him up the stairs to the office. Hutch wasn't there. Starsky pushed Tyler into the back room. "Get in bed," he ordered.

The big man sat down and pulled off his boots. "Andy ain't coming back, is he?" The words were soft.

Starsky shrugged. "I don't know."

"I know. Guess I always knew. It's been like...like an empty space right here in my chest, ever since that first night. I figure he died that night and my soul knew it."

Starsky didn't like talking about souls. Or broken hearts. He took the boots from the other man's hands, then eased him back onto the bed. "Go to sleep," he said gently, as if he were speaking to an unhappy child. "It doesn't do any good to talk like that."

Tyler's eyes closed again. "Andy's a good boy," he said.

Starsky didn't answer. He walked back into the office and sat behind the desk. He spent some time idly twisting and untwisting several paperclips.

When the phone rang, he jumped for it, although Tyler was out cold. "Yeah?" he said softly.

"Starsky? Dobey."

"Oh, hiya, Cap'n," he said, relaxing back in the chair. "What's up?"

"I don't know how you two rate getting private service from the police department, but this seems to be your lucky day."

"Wha'cha got?"

"The guitar. It turned up in a pawnshop down on Alverado Street. Our boys found it during a routine visit."

"Terrific."

"It's still there, waiting for you to pick it up."

"Appreciate this, Cap'n."

Dobey mumbled something and hung up.

Starsky scribbled a note for Hutch, then left the office quietly.

**

XVI

Hutch read the note quickly, then crumpled it and dropped it back onto the desk. After a quick glance at Tyler, he started a pot of coffee. He figured that Monroe would need it when he woke; also, Hutch wanted to wash away the bitter taste left in his mouth from his visit to Kingman.

In a few minutes, Tyler stirred, mumbling, then woke. He sat up, taking a moment to absorb his surroundings. "Ken," he said thickly.

"Hi." Hutch poured two cups of coffee and handed one to him. "You okay?"

"Yeah. I've been hung-over before." He sipped the steamy black liquid carefully.

"I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't take off like that again," Hutch said. "If I'm wondering where the hell you are, I can't do my job."

"I'm sorry." Tyler rubbed his bleary eyes with the heel of one hand. "It was just... I seen the car and something just kind of snapped. It won't happen no more."

"Good. Paul Kingman told me that Andy was trying to blackmail him," Hutch said suddenly.

The green eyes flashed fire. "That's a goddamned lie. Andy wouldn't do anything like that."

"That's what I told Kingman, but he stuck to his story."

Slender fingers twisted around the cup. "Let me go talk to him. I'll get the truth."

"You'd probably just get shot or thrown into jail. They have a private army around the place."

"What's he trying to hide?"

Hutch shrugged. "Don't know, buddy. Something." He took a gulp of coffee. "'Course it might not have a damned thing to do with Andy. Could be just political jitters."

"But why would he lie about Andy trying to blackmail him?"

Hutch just shook his head.

Tyler set his cup on the floor and reached for his boots. "Andy and me never had anything to do with people like that. Why are they a part of this?"

"You keep asking me questions I can't answer. When I know anything, I'll tell you, okay?"

Tyler nodded.

The door opened and Hutch glanced over as Starsky came in. He had a white guitar in his hands. He stood there a moment, frowning, waiting for Tyler to look up and see him. The cowboy was busy pulling on his boots.

Starsky walked into the back finally. "Here," he said, holding out the instrument. "They found Andy's guitar."

Tyler jerked his head up quickly. He stared at Starsky, then took the guitar from him.

His calloused hands strummed the strings softly, tunelessly, for several moments. Hutch realized that the man was crying. Silent tears rolled down his craggy cheeks and dropped onto the guitar. Hutch glanced at Starsky, who shrugged helplessly. "We'll be back in a few minutes, Ty," Hutch said softly.

click illo to see larger image

If Tyler heard him, he gave no sign. Hutch turned and left the office, Starsky following. "I want a drink," Hutch said when they had reached the hallway.

They didn't talk again until they were sitting over a couple of beers in the bar across the street. "I seem to be spending an awful lot of time in bars lately," Starsky said glumly. "Hope my liver survives."

Hutch sighed. "Dammit," he said.

Starsky reached for a stale pretzel and ate it slowly. "Every story can't have a happy ending," he said.

"Why not?" Hutch replied, a kind of quiet savagery in his voice. He wrote a four-letter word in the wet splotch on the table. "I wish we didn't have this case. I knew it would be bad from the beginning."

"But you took it."

"Yes, dammit, I took it."

"Why, if it bothered you? Other than the obvious. The money."

"I don't think that had much to do with it." Hutch watched his partner eat another pretzel. "Oh, hell, I took it because I figured maybe we could do something. Maybe the goddamned Hardy Boys would swing into action again and wrap it all up. Happily. Fade-out at the end of the story. It used to be that way, didn't it?"

"Nice to remember it like that. But I don't think it ever was. Oh, sure, there were some happy endings, but that didn't help what it was doing to us." Starsky stared into his beer thoughtfully for a moment. "Every case wore us down, Hutch. What's the word? Erosion. We may have come up laughing lots of times, but we were eroding, too."

Hutch grimaced. "Beer doesn't improve your philosophy, Starsk."

"I'm right, though."

"Oh, yeah, babe, you're right." Hutch frowned as Starsky fumbled through his pockets and came up with a pack of cigarettes. "Thought you quit that shit."

"I did. Haven't had one all week. Even though Tyler smokes like a fiend."

"Why now, then?"

Starsky shook a cigarette from the pack, stared at it for a moment, then lit it. "Just seems like the thing to do," he mumbled through a haze of smoke. He coughed once. "Tyler's hurting now, Hutch, but he'll be okay."

"You keep saying that."

Starsky only looked at him.

"The disapproval is written all over your face," Hutch said.

He frowned. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Hutch sighed. "His relationship with Andy. Thought maybe you'd gotten over some of those hang-ups after John Blaine."

"I don't have any hang-ups," Starsky said, sounding defensive. "Maybe I just have a hard time understanding it."

"What's to understand? They love each other." Hutch drank thoughtfully. "Tyler's all alone now. Like I was last year."

"That's different." Starsky snapped a pretzel in two.

"Why? Because you and I don't sleep together?"

"You make it sound like that doesn't matter."

"Does it?" Hutch smiled a little. "We love each other, right?"

Starsky was staring at the table. "Yeah, sure, but it's not the same."

"Of course it's not exactly the same, partner. But maybe the difference isn't as vast as you'd like to think." Hutch was quiet for a moment, running his index finger up and down the side of the beer glass. "When two people are so close...I mean, can you honestly say that in all these years it's never once crossed your mind?"

"What?"

"Getting it on."

Starsky only shrugged, still not looking up.

"I've thought about it."

Now Starsky glanced at him. "Yeah?"

"Sure." Hutch finished the beer. "That's one of the benefits of a college education, Starsk. You read all the books and you learn all the theories. Gives you lots to think about."

"Like jumping into bed with me?" Starsky spoke lightly, but his eyes were solemn.

"Like all kinds of things. You don't have to worry, though, Starsk. I haven't spent days and days sitting around lusting after you. Didn't I already say you're a rotten kisser?" He waited for Starsky to laugh a little. "Whenever I thought about it, though, you know what I decided?"

"What?"

"There was an episode of Mary Tyler Moore once, where Mary and Mr. Grant went on a date. But it didn't work out. They really cared about each other, but romantically and sexually, it just made them laugh. They kissed and started giggling." He smiled. "I always sort of figured it would be that way with us. If that makes any sense."

After a moment, Starsky grinned. "Yeah, I see what you mean."

"But what I want to say is, just because you and I don't go to bed, that doesn't make us any better than other people. Any better than Tyler and Andy." He paused, then added, "Hell, maybe they just have the courage of their convictions."

"What's that mean?"

Hutch pulled his wallet out and looked for a single. "Nothing, I guess. Sex and love and shit are too complicated to be figured out over a couple of beers in Lola's." He tossed the bill down. "But no matter how it is with us, Starsk, it's different for Ty. Andy is—was—everything to him. Best friend and lover. And probably child as well. Andy was it all. And now he's gone."

"That's really kinda scary," Starsky said. "Being alone...well, it's no fun."

"Right And I don't know how to make it any easier. What the hell can I tell him? That there's still hope? Shit, he's no dummy. That he can survive this and make a new life for himself? The man is forty-five years old. Andy was the only person he ever loved. Where does he go now? He's got nothing left except a damned white guitar and eight hundred acres in frigging Wyoming." Hutch hit the table with his hand. "It's just so unfair."

They sat there a little while longer, until Hutch finally sighed. "Better get back, I guess. Look, I'll take him over to my place tonight. I don't want him wandering around."

Starsky nodded and paid the tab as Hutch started toward the door.

~~~

It was the soft music that woke Hutch. He listened for a few moments, then slid out of bed. Pulling on his robe, he walked into the tiny living room. The room was dark, except for the silvery moonlight that poured in through the window. Tyler Monroe sat on the couch, lightly strumming the guitar.

Hutch sat down in the chair, watching him. "Didn't know you played, too," he said finally.

The strong fingers still moved gently over the chords. Tyler shrugged. "Picked up a little, watching Andy all the time." He looked at Hutch. "Sorry to wake you."

"That's okay. Couldn't really sleep anyway."

"You, too, huh?"

"Right." They were quiet for a moment, the only sound the soft notes of the song melting into the night. "Think back a little," Hutch said in a low voice. "Oh, maybe a couple of months. Did Andy seem upset about anything? Scared, maybe?"

Tyler, still bent over the guitar, shook his head. "If Andy was scared of something, he'd tell me."

Hutch sighed. "Think, Ty. You answer me too fast sometimes, because you think you know Andy so well. But try to get below the surface."

The music stopped suddenly, in a discordant crash. "I don't know what you mean."

"He never told you that he was interested in finding out about his parents. Maybe—there were other things he didn't tell you, too."

Tyler leaned back against the couch, holding the guitar tightly. "I've been thinking about that. I know why he didn't tell me."

Hutch got up and went to the kitchen. He got two beers and tossed one to Tyler. "Why?"

"'Cause he thought it might hurt me." Tyler spoke slowly, carefully. "I didn't ever want other people getting in and messing things up. I'm selfish. I just wanted it to be Andy and me." His voice dropped to nearly a whisper. "I was scared of losing him." Then he raised his head. "We were enough."

Hutch nodded. "I think that's right. He didn't tell you because he loved you."

Tyler lowered the beer, one hand still caressing the guitar. His eyes were sharp suddenly. "About six weeks ago, we were in Frisco. One night the kid came back to the motel looking kind of spooked. I asked him about it." There was a pause. Tyler seemed to have forgotten what he was saying; his face was relaxed, almost dreamy.

Hutch hated to interrupt the memory, but he spoke anyway. "What'd he say, Tyler?"

"Huh?" Tyler blinked. "Oh. He was in a bar and he saw somebody that looked like Joe McCann. Son of the folks that raised him."

"Why should that scare him?"

"Joe was always a mean son of a bitch. He used to beat up on Andy. And worse."

Hutch looked at him, but Tyler didn't seem inclined to say any more on that subject. "Did Andy say any more about seeing him after that night?"

"No. It just spooked him a little, but I..." A faint redness touched the leathery cheeks. "I got his mind off it. He didn't see him after that."

"Or at least, he didn't mention it." Hutch frowned. "I wish you'da mentioned this before, Ty. It might be connected with Andy's disappearance."

"I forgot." A look of pain crossed the green eyes. "You think we might've found him, if I'da remembered?"

"I don't know." Hutch shrugged. "Probably not, Ty, don't worry about it."

The doorbell rang. They exchanged a look, then Hutch went to the door and opened it slowly. Brustein stood in the hallway, looking pale and nervous. "Hutchinson, I need to talk to you," he said.

Hutch stepped aside and the man scurried in. Tyler watched with eyes that were suddenly cold. Brustein sat down without being invited. "We have to talk. I want out of this whole thing." He glanced at Hutch, surprise and indignation mingling on his face. "Somebody tried to kill me a little while ago. This whole thing is getting out of hand."

Hutch sat down next to Tyler, not liking the tightly wrapped look of the lanky body. He looked like a man wanting, needing, to explode. More trouble they didn't need. "What whole thing? What the hell are you talking about?"

Brustein took a deep breath. "Okay, look. I'm gonna level with you. You just have to believe that I never thought anybody would get hurt. You have to believe that." He yanked out a cigarette and lit it. "The deal with Jones. It was a set-up."

"What's that mean?" Tyler asked softly.

Brustein looked at him, seeming to realize for the first time who he was. "A buddy of mine paid me a grand to go hear the kid sing and then sign him up."

Hutch glanced at Tyler, who was listening intently. "So you never really intended to do anything for Jones?"

"Hell, I don't know. He has some talent. Not great stuff, but then most of those that make it big aren't great either. Frankly, though, I don't think he had the other thing, the personality. Charisma. Whatever you call it."

Hutch could feel the man next to him shift a little, but Tyler kept quiet. "Who was this 'buddy' of yours?"

Brustein inhaled deeply and breathed a cloud of smoke toward the ceiling before answering. "Joe McCann."

"Him," Tyler whispered.

"Him," Hutch repeated. "He must have seen Andy in Frisco that night. Just what was the deal, Brustein?"

"Just what I said. I hear him sing, sign him up, string him along for a while. Joe said he was onto some really big money with this deal. But it all began to stink. First Crane gets iced, then you come around asking questions."

"What was Crane's role in this?"

Brustein was beginning to relax a little. "He was a friend of Joe's, too. Sort of. I think they met in San Francisco. Frankly, I think Joe was using him to get the dope on Jones. But then, after Jones, uh, went missing, Crane got a little nervous."

"So Joe got rid of him."

Brustein shrugged.

Tyler set the guitar aside carefully, then leaned forward a little, his gaze boring into Brustein. "Why are you people doing this to Andy and me? We never hurt you."

"I'm not doing anything to you. All I did was listen to the kid sing and get him to sign on the dotted line. He wanted that, man, he was hungry."

"Where's Andy?"

"I don't know." Brustein looked at Hutch again. "Swear to god, man, I wasn't lying about that. I don't know where he is. I just did my part. Christ, when Crane bought it, I got scared. Then, tonight, somebody took a shot at me. Nearly blew my fucking head off. I just want out." He fumbled in his pocket. "Here's the damned tape." He tossed it onto the rug, and Tyler grabbed for it, clutching the small cassette tightly. "I'm clearing out of town for a while. I just wanted to tell you this, so you wouldn't be looking for me."

"Smart thinking. Except that the police will probably want to talk to you sooner or later."

Brustein wet his lips nervously. "I'll worry about that when it happens. Now I'm going." He started for the door.

"The name Kingman mean anything to you?" Hutch asked suddenly.

"No. Isn't he running for office?" He opened the door. "So we're clear with each other, right, Hutchinson?"

"For the moment." The man left, and Hutch turned to look at Tyler. "This damned case," he said almost to himself. "It just keeps getting more fucked up every day."

It was several moments before Tyler spoke. His fingers were gently rubbing against the cassette. "The kid really wanted to be a singer, you know? He thought that this was his big break, that he was on his way. Wanted to sing at the Grand Old Oprey. With me there in the front row, listening." His voice was empty of emotion now, like an echo, as if he'd had as much pain as he could bear and would allow himself to feel no more. "They keep smashing the dreams, don't they, Ken? They don't even let a man have a few dreams."

"God, I'm tired," Hutch said, rubbing the back of his neck. After a moment, he stood and went to the cupboard where his one and only bottle of twelve-year-old Scotch was stashed. He took the bottle and some glasses back to the living room, hoping that a couple of drinks would put Tyler to sleep and out of his misery, at least for the rest of the night. Put both of them out of misery, Hutch amended.

Not talking, they each had a double, then another. Hutch could feel himself getting light-headed, but rational thought still seemed a little too close to the surface, so he poured a third round. "I know what it feels like to be scared, Ty," he said suddenly.

Tyler sipped Scotch, keeping it in his mouth for a moment, then swallowing. "I don't like it much, being scared. I never really was before."

"Not even riding those horses?"

"Oh, hell, that's just a job. Never got scared over that." He plucked at a guitar string idly. "There was only once...when Andy got sick with his appendix. That was scary, because he was hurting so damned much, and I didn't know what was wrong. We were on the road, between Dallas and Oklahoma City."

Always Andy. Hutch sighed. "There was a joint in the VW," he said. "Was Andy into grass?"

"Nope. He doesn't even smoke normal cigarettes. He's a good boy. Never gave me a bit of trouble. Guess most kids get a little wild sometimes, but not Andy."

Hutch was having a hard time getting a handle on Tyler. One minute he sounded like a bereaved lover and the next, an indulgent parent. Probably the truth of his relationship with Andy lay somewhere in the middle. How did this simple, down-to-earth man handle the complexities of such a relationship?

Hutch smiled a little. To Tyler, it wasn't complicated at all. He just loved Andy. If the kid needed a father, fine. If he wanted a lover, that was okay, too. Simple.

"It's like a stomach ache," Tyler said obscurely.

Hutch blinked at him. God, I'm drunk, he thought. But if I know I'm loaded, how loaded can I be? "What?"

"The missing him. It hurts right here." Tyler pressed a hand to his gut.

"I know." Hutch pushed himself out of the chair and walked over to the window. A zone car crawled by in the street below. "I hurt like that last year, when I thought Starsky was dead." He could remember the nights in the prison cell, the endless nights spent curled on the cot, clutching at his gut, wishing the pain would stop and knowing that it wouldn't. Was that how Tyler felt now? "I know how it hurts."

"But Dave wasn't dead."

"No."

"See?"

Hutch wondered what he was supposed to see. That sometimes the story had a happy ending?

Tyler gulped his drink. "I'd take better care of him, you know. If he came back. I'd be real careful, so nothing else would happen to him."

Hutch leaned toward the window, pressing his forehead against the glass. He could feel tears building and he blinked rapidly to keep them from spilling out. Who were the tears for? Tyler? Andy? Or himself? He didn't even know. "Ahh, hell, Ty, you did okay taking care of him. You did fine."

"But I'd do better. I'd try..." Tyler's voice dwindled off.

"We always want to try harder, Ty." Hutch straightened and drained his glass before walking back to the chair. "I think we're drunk," he mumbled.

"Yep." Tyler filled both glasses again.

Hutch swirled the golden liquid, splashing a little onto the front of his robe. "I should've been a cowboy," he said, rubbing at the spill.

"Why?"

"It's a nice life. Nicer than what I do."

Tyler snorted. "Hell, boy, all we do is grub in the dirt and mud."

"Yeah?" Hutch laughed softly. "That's what we do, too. Grub in the dirt and mud."

Tyler looked a little bewildered. "Huh?"

"Starsk and me. We spend our time in the filth, too, buddy."

"I reckon so."

Hutch sighed. "When I was a kid, I wanted to be a cowboy. Home on the range. Wide open spaces. All that shit. My favorite was Lash LaRue. He came to town once and I went to see him. All dressed in black, with that whip. I thought it would be nice to be a hero, like Lash LaRue." He took a quick drink. "'Course I don't know what old Doc McPherson would say about me wanting to dress up in black and carry a whip." He laughed again.

''What?"

"Never mind. Inside joke. Anyway, I'd probably be a whole lot happier as a cowboy." He frowned. "'Cept I don't know how Starsk would look on a horse."

Now Tyler laughed. "I think he likes that fancy car of his better."

"Yeah, I think you're right."

They smiled at one another and drank again. Hutch knew that his thought processes were getting fuzzy; he tried to recite the alphabet and made it all the way to U before losing the thread of his concentration. Back in college, any evening where he didn't crap out before M was considered a bust.

He could hear the faraway sound of music and pulled his mind back to the room. Tyler was holding the guitar again. "Play a song," Hutch suggested.

Tyler shrugged. "Don't really know any. Just bits and pieces of what Andy knows."

Bits and pieces. That, Hutch decided, just about summed up Tyler's life. All bits and pieces of Andy. "Play a bit, then. Or a piece." He almost giggled, without knowing why.

After a moment, Tyler began to play again, humming along at first, then beginning to sing in a low voice. "I grew up a-dreaming of being a cowboy and loving the cowboy ways...." He was watching his fingers as they moved carefully across the strings. "...I learned all the rules of a modern day drifter, don'tcha hold onto nothing too long...my heroes have always been cowboys and they still are it seems...sadly in search of and one step in back of themselves and their slow-moving dreams." He stopped suddenly. "Andy does that real good."

"Sounded fine the way you did it."

"Hell, I'm no singer." He set the guitar aside carefully. "I'm not much of anything."

"That's not true," Hutch said, rousing himself to a certain sharpness. "Andy loved you. That's something."

Tyler shrugged.

Hutch felt a little irritated with the man. Snap out of it, he wanted to say. You're not the only person to lose somebody. I lost Gillian. Starsk lost Terri. We almost lost each other.

Almost.

Six letters that made all the difference in the world. The difference between life and just living.

"Ken?"

"Hmm?"

"What if it never stops hurting?"

Hutch grimaced. "Now that's pretty deep," he said. "There's a lot of 'what if' questions. Starsk knows a lot of them." Starsky. Always Starsky. Bits and pieces. A goddamned mosaic, all made up of Starsky and me. "I think everything stops hurting sooner or later," he lied. "I mean, it has to, doesn't it? Or else...." He broke off, not wanting to complete the thought. He picked up the bottle and tipped it upside-down, frowning. "S'empty, buddy. All gone."

Tyler nodded. "Yeah, it's all gone."

He figured that Tyler wasn't talking about the booze. "Better go to bed, man. But first, let's have a nightcap." By concentrating very hard, he managed to make it to the refrigerator, extract two beers, and get back to the couch. "A nightcap."

Tyler took one can from him. "You're a good guy, Ken."

"Hell." Hutch drank the beer glumly for a few minutes. When it was gone, he sighed and tried to get up so he could go to bed. His body wouldn't co-operate. "Hell," he said again. "Guess I better rest here a minute."

Tyler grunted a reply. Two beer cans hit the floor and Hutch began to drift away. But he heard another sound then that pulled him back. Don't, he wanted to say, don't cry, please. I can't help you. I can't do a goddamned thing. "Ahh, man," he said. He managed to lift one arm and drape it across Tyler's shoulders.

The lanky body shuddered as Tyler took a deep breath. "Sorry," he said. Then his voice grew firm. "I ain't gonna cry anymore. No matter what."

Pulling the other man back, Hutch rested against the couch, staring at the ceiling. He felt empty, helpless, drunk. But not drunk enough. Never drunk enough. The weight of Tyler's head pressed against his arm. "It's okay," he said wearily. "I've cried. Everybody cries. I don't know what else you can do when you're hurting." If Tyler replied to that, Hutch never heard the response. He passed out.

**

Part Five