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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 . MY HEROES HAVE ALWAYS BEEN COWBOYS by TERI WHITE PART THREE VII It was obvious that the yearly rodeo was the big event in Newcombe. Everyone from the mayor to the barflies attended, most of them decked out in attire that seemed capable of scaring the horses. The streets of the town were jammed with traffic, and country music blared from loudspeakers attached to the front of city hall. Hutch rode over in the van with Tyler, while Starsky, deciding to cling a little longer to the so-far useless cover, followed in the Torino. Tyler still wore the same blue jeans, but he'd added a long-sleeved shirt, green with pearl buttons and yellow embroidery. He'd attached short spurs to his boots, and wore, as always, the battered Stetson. Hutch rested back against the passenger seat as the van edged slowly through the traffic. "I don't know that much about what you do," he said. "I ride horses," Tyler answered. Hutch smiled faintly. "There must be more to it than that." "Nope." Tyler glanced at him. "Oh, they've got all sort of rules, you know, saying what you can and can't do. Like you have to spur the horse on the first jump out of the chute, and you can't change hands on the reins. Other stuff. But I just ride the horses, that's all. Try to stay on the full eight seconds." He shrugged. "You said before that Andy rides pick-up on your event. What's that?" "You have to get out of the bronc's way fast, once you're off. A guy can get bad hurt, if the horse kicks. The pick-up man makes sure we get clear." Tyler made a sharp right hand turn into the parking lot of the Newcombe fairgrounds. "Andy's real good at that. He likes being a clown better, but...." He paused, parking the van and switching off the engine, then looked at Hutch. "He started riding pick-up because he didn't want to trust anybody else to get me out fast enough." He smiled, the expression making him look suddenly younger. Hutch nodded. "Andy sounds like a good friend," he said. "He is." The smile faded, the eyes clouded over, and Tyler was forty-five again, and tired. He leaned against the steering wheel. "I'm scared, Ken," he whispered. "I never in my life said that to anybody before. But I'm so damned scared." Hutch just sat there, knowing that nothing he could say right now would help. He knew the words that one was expected to say at times like this; the same things people had told him last year. But the phrases hadn't comforted him then and they wouldn't comfort Tyler now. After a moment, Tyler took a deep breath and straightened, watching in the rear view mirror as the Torino parked just behind them. "This Dave Starsky," he said, "he a good man?" "Yes," Hutch said firmly, then added, "Starsk rides pick-up for me." Tyler nodded, his face showing that he understood. They climbed out of the van and walked with the crowd toward the grandstand, leaving Starsky to haul along the camera. The idiot, Hutch thought. Why the hell didn't he just come in as a writer? Then he could've used a paper and pencil, instead of lugging that thing around. They parted at the entrance. Tyler headed toward the holding area as Hutch bought a ticket and looked for a seat. He watched the crowd until he saw Starsky come in and take a seat on the other side of the arena. The omnipresent music blared over a scratchy loudspeaker, conflicting with the cries of peanut hawkers and other peddlers wandering through the crowd. Hutch waved one kid aside and bought a bag of peanuts. He started to shell and eat them, just as Rosie, the girl from the Last Round-Up appeared next to him. "Hi, there," she said. "Hi." He scooted over a little on the bleacher and she sat down. "You're still looking for Andy, huh?" she asked, taking a peanut. "I'm still looking." Her face grew solemn. "That's too bad. Tyler must be pretty upset." Hutch only nodded. The mournful sound of Marty Robbins and "El Paso" was replaced by the hyper beat of a Sousa march as the rodeo began with the traditional (according to the program) Grand Entrance. Many of the contestants rode into the arena, accompanied by a dozen cowgirls on horseback, each carrying an American flag. Tyler wasn't among the participants. Hutch glanced toward the holding area and saw the lanky man perched on top of the rail fence. The crowd stood for the National Anthem and then the rodeo could officially begin. Hutch watched the calf-roping, barrel racing, and bare-back bronc riding with only mild interest. He looked over toward Tyler again when the clowns came on, but Monroe had disappeared. Two men in costume were involved in a noisy skit with a smoke-belching old car. Hutch leaned closer to Rosie. "That's what Andy does, is it?" She nodded. "Yeah. He's pretty funny. Of course, the most important job the clowns have is during the bull riding." Hutch looked at her blankly. "They have to run around and distract the bull, so the rider can get away." "That sounds dangerous." "Can be. Andy don't seem to mind, though." The first event after the intermission was the saddle bronc riding. Tyler was the fourth up to ride. When the announcer said his name, Hutch straightened. A huge black horse came out of the chute, bucking and twisting. Tyler held on for what seemed like a very long time to Hutch, then landed on the ground. He got to one knee quickly, then scrambled away behind the pick-up man. Rosie shook her head. "That's too bad." Hutch looked at her. "He stayed on for eight seconds, didn't he? I heard the buzzer." "Yeah, but his spurs weren't up high enough when he came out of the chute. They have to be above the break of the horse's shoulders. He got a goose egg. That disqualifies him, at least for this go-around." Hutch swore under his breath, then stood. "See you, Rosie." "Hope so," she replied with a grin. Hutch made his way out of the crowded bleachers and walked around behind the pens until he found Tyler leaning against the fence. The big man's shoulders were slumped, and the Stetson lay on the ground beside him. Hutch hesitated, then joined him at the fence. "Tough break," he said after a moment. Tyler raised his head. "I'm too goddamned old for this," he said. The front of his clothes were dirty and he began to slap at the grime with one calloused hand. "Should'a quit years ago. I was gonna, ya'know?" "Were you?" Hutch picked up the hat and began to rub at the dirt. "Broke my arm back in 1975. Got thrown and landed wrong. I thought about quitting then. Hell, I was forty. Old enough." "But you didn't quit," Hutch said, handing him the Stetson. Tyler looked at it. "No, I didn't." He grinned suddenly and Hutch could see what the man must have looked like when he was happy. "Andy talked me out of it. Damned kid could make me feel about twenty." The grin was gone as suddenly as it had appeared, replaced by bitter lines of worry and fear. "He can make me feel that way. He can." He shoved the hat on with a vicious gesture. "Go find him, Ken. Just go find him. Please." The cowboy walked away, and Hutch let him go. He caught the special shuttle bus the Chamber of Commerce was running between the fairgrounds and downtown, then walked over to where his car was parked He took time only to stop by the motel and leave a message for Starsky about where he was going, then got back into Belle for the trip to Los Angeles. ** VIII Starsky heard the shrill ringing of the phone, but he hoped that maybe if he kept his eyes closed and ignored it, the sound would stop. It didn't. He grabbed for it blindly. "Yeah?" "Who's this?" "Dave Starsky. Who's this?" He loved guessing games on the phone in the middle of the night. Next, the voice would be asking if he had Prince Albert in the can or something equally bright. "Where's Ken?" He recognized the voice then. "Hutch went to L.A., Tyler." "Damn. You sleeping?" The words were slurred and Starsky realized that the other man was drunk. "What the hell should I be doing in the middle of the night?" "Thought maybe you'd be out looking for Andy. That's what I'm paying you for, not to sleep." "Sure, Tyler. Look, I'll see you in the morning, okay? Why don't you call it a night, too? You sound like a little sleep would do you some good." "Maybe...." There was a pause, and Starsky started to hang up. "Dave!" There was an edge of something like panic in Tyler's voice. Starsky sighed. "What, buddy?" "What's Ken doing in L.A.?" "Looking for Andy, of course, just like you want. He went to talk to Brustein." "Oh." Tyler apparently dropped the phone, and Starsky waited until he picked it up again. "I think you should talk to Ben Crane. He had a fight with Andy." "Hutch already talked to him." "Yeah, but...but I think he knows something." Starsky reached for the can of warm, flat Dr. Pepper sitting on the night table, and took a long drink. "Why?" "'Cause tonight at the rodeo he came over and cussed at me for sending Ken around to talk to him. Why would he do that, if he wasn't trying to hide something?" "That doesn't mean much. Maybe he just doesn't like detectives. Or maybe it was Hutch he didn't like." "I think he knows something," Tyler insisted with the single-minded determination of inebriation. "I want you to go see him." "Sure, okay, in the morning. We'll talk about it later, okay?" Christ. Clients. "Well," Tyler said, "if you won't go, I will. I'll go talk to the son of a bitch myself." "No, wait a minute. Where are you now, Tyler?" Starsky said quickly. "Phone booth. But I'm gonna go find out what he's hiding. Gonna find out...where Andy is...." Starsky sat up straight in the bed. "Hey, don't do that—" But it was too late; he was talking to a dial tone. He slammed the phone down. "Dammit." This was just what they needed, a drunken client beating up on people. "Terrific." He dressed with haste, managing to dredge up from his sleepy mind the fact that Ben Crane had a trailer out at the fairgrounds. At least, he thought that's what Hutch had told him. In just two minutes, he was headed out the door. The fairgrounds, that had been so filled with noise and people just a few hours earlier, were now mostly dark and deserted. A few lights were still on in the barn area, but there didn't seem to be anyone around. Starsky drove in a side entrance, looking for the van, but not seeing it. With luck, he'd managed to beat Tyler, and would be waiting for him. Crane's trailer was set off by itself in a sparse clump of trees. Starsky parked nearby and got out. There was a pale light on inside the trailer and he could hear the low rumble of a TV or radio. He took up a position a few feet away, wondering if Tyler would even show up. Maybe he'd passed out in the phone booth. Nothing happened. Several minutes passed before Starsky noticed something that made him frown. The door to the trailer wasn't closed all the way; a thin shaft of light pierced through. Starsky walked closer. "Crane?" he said softly. "You in there?" The low mechanical voice droned on, but there was no reply. With one hand, Starsky gave the door a gentle push. It swung open easily. Crane was there. Tyler wasn't. But he or someone else had been. Unless Ben Crane had decided to kill himself by cutting his own throat. The body, clad only in a pair of purple and white satin shorts, was spread-eagled across the bed. There was a lot of blood. Starsky stepped back out of the trailer, pulling the door closed carefully. "Terrific," he muttered again. He walked back to his car and sat there for a moment. Just my luck, he thought bitterly. Hutch leaves town and bodies start collecting. And where the hell was their frigging client? Slow-talking, good-old-boy Tyler Monroe. Starsky drove out of the fairgrounds, not quite sure where he was going. He saw some lights ahead and pulled into the parking lot of the Beer Barrel Inn. There weren't many cars at that hour, but one of the vehicles was a green van with a shattered windshield. Starsky parked next to it. Tyler was sitting in the rear booth, an almost empty bottle of whiskey and a full glass on the table in front of him. Starsky dropped down across from him and waited to be noticed. Tyler finally looked up, blinked twice and nodded in recognition. "What the hell are you doing here?" Starsky muttered through clenched teeth. Tyler picked up the glass and took a drink before answering. "I'm getting drunk," he said in a reasonable voice. "That's great." After a moment, Starsky decided that maybe a little booze wasn't such a bad idea; there had been a lot of blood back in the trailer, and the raw stink of death. He picked up the bottle and took a gulp. "He's dead." The words were quiet, and Tyler didn't react. Starsky set the bottle back down with a crash. "Did you hear me, Tyler? I said, he's dead." Tyler stared at him. "Dead? Who? Not Andy?" The last words were a strangled whisper. Starsky wanted another drink, but he didn't take one, figuring that somebody here needed to have a clear head and it better be the one who was going to be talking to the cops real soon. "No, not Andy. Ben Crane. You told me that you were going to see him, and now he's dead. Murdered." "Ohmygod." Tyler struggled visibly and managed to bring some sense of understanding to his eyes. "Jesus, I've known him...years and years. What happened? I mean...how?" "Somebody cut his throat. Was it you?" "Me?" Tyler seemed to think that Starsky was joking for a minute, then he sighed and shook his head. "No. Of course not. Why the hell should I kill Crane?" "You thought he knew something about Andy." Tyler considered that for a moment, then leaned forward a little. "Figuring that he did know something," he said softly, "cutting the bastard's throat don't seem like a very smart way of finding out what it might be." Maybe the man wasn't as drunk as he seemed. "That's true," Starsky said. "But people don't always think straight. You did make threats." "Right." Tyler lifted the glass again. "Right, Dave, I made threats. I'm a big talker, don't you know? I've been talking great plans for a lot of years. A ranch, a place we could really be proud of, Andy and me. I used to talk about being all-around cowboy. Talk—" His voice began to rise. "—talk, talk. That's all I do." He smiled, but there was no humor in the expression. "My threats meant as much as all the other bullshit I've been talking for years and years. I made the threats, and then I came back in here and kept drinking." He shook his head. "I couldn't kill anybody." "All right." "You believe me?" "Uh-huh." "Thanks." Starsky shrugged. "Whoever did the job had to get pretty bloody. You're clean." Tyler made a sound that was almost a laugh. "Hell," he said. "I thought it was my sterling character that had you convinced." Starsky changed his mind about the whiskey and took another gulp. "You're a funny cowboy, Tyler." "Yeah? Am I?" "It wasn't all bullshit, you know." The green eyes looked at him with mild curiosity. "Hutch told me you got the ranch." "Yeah, we did." "That's something." "Yeah. Something." They were both quiet for a moment. Someone had dropped a coin into the jukebox. You're a little too old to play cowboy, Tyler sighed. "What happens now?" he asked finally. "Two things. First of all, you get your ass back to the motel. Stay there." "And you?" "I call the cops and report the body." Tyler frowned. "Why Crane?" Starsky got to his feet, feeling tired. "Why the shotgun blast at you? Why Andy?" Tyler shook his head. "None of it makes any sense." "Everything makes sense once you figure it out," Starsky replied, guiding him toward the door. "Unless you get it all figured out, and it still doesn't make any sense." "Then what happens?" "Then I remember something that my grandmother used to say. 'Life is full of mishegoss."' Tyler stopped and looked at him. "What?" "Means life is crazy, Tyler." He waited until Tyler was in the van and had the key in the ignition. "Can you drive, man?" he asked suddenly. "How drunk are you?" Tyler sighed. "Not nearly as drunk as I'd like to be." He started the engine with a roar. "Don't worry, Dave. You know us cowboys." "Well, just be careful. Stay in the room until you hear from me." "When will Ken be back?" "I don't know. Why? Don't you like the service you're getting from me?" Tyler shrugged. "It's not that." Starsky waited, but no further explanation seemed forthcoming, so he stepped back and watched as the van pulled out onto the highway. Tyler drove slowly, carefully, toward town. From a phone booth in the parking lot, Starsky called the police. He drove back to the fairgrounds and was sitting on the steps of the trailer when the first squad car arrived, siren wailing and roof light flashing. A very young cop jumped out, a gun in his hand. "All right now," he said loudly, "you stand up real slow." Starsky stood. Real slow. The officer came over and pushed at the trailer door with one hand. "Jesus," he breathed. He seemed, at last, to remember the manual. "Turn around and put your hands against the trailer," he ordered crisply. Starsky had had enough experience with eager young cops not to debate the issue. My god, he thought, I was once an eager young cop. It was a startling thought. He spread his arms and legs and stood patiently. A second car arrived. "Hello," another voice said. "Hi," Starsky replied, figuring he might as well get points for politeness. "Found this guy sitting here, sir," Eager Beaver said. "I'm the one who called it in," Starsky explained. "Just a good citizen, eh?" "When it doesn't cramp my style," Starsky said, sounding a little testy; his arms were beginning to ache. "I see. Anybody know who the stiff is?" The cops were silent. Starsky sighed. "His name is Ben Crane. He was with the rodeo. Sir?" "Pevner is my name. Do either of you men happen to know who our good citizen is?" "We were just about to frisk him when you got here, sir." "Uh-huh. Well, go ahead, Nolan." Nolan went ahead, grinning like a Cheshire cat when he came up with the gun. "Look at this," he crowed. Eager Beaver looked. Pevner looked. Starsky didn't bother looking, because it was no surprise to him that he'd had a gun under his arm. "I have a license for that," he said. "And if you'll notice, the guy was not shot." "Well," Pevner said mildly, "I generally like to let the coroner make that kind of judgment." Nolan pulled out Starsky's wallet and flipped it open. He smirked. "Some kind of private investigator. From L.A." "Really? We seem to be getting a lot of those lately. Had one in my office recently." "That was probably my partner. Hutchinson." "And you are?" "Starsky. Dave." Pevner took the wallet and glanced at the ID, then handed it back to Nolan. "Give Mr. Starsky his wallet. You can lower your arms and turn around." Starsky did, shaking his arms a little to get the circulation going again. He and Pevner looked at one another. Starsky flashed his most charming smile. Pevner seemed spectacularly uncharmed. "Just how did you happen to discover the deceased?" "Came by hoping to talk to him." The scene around the trailer was beginning to get crowded, as lab crews and others showed up. Pevner gestured and Starsky followed him. They both got into the official black sedan, Pevner in front, leaning around to look at Starsky in the back seat. "Kinda late for a talk, isn't it?" he asked. "It is for him, I guess," Starsky replied. Pevner smiled the tight, humorless smile that seemed to come so easily to homicide cops. "Funny," he said. "Late for him. I'll have to remember that." Starsky sighed. "Look," he said, "I have a client—" "Tyler Monroe." "Since you already know that, I won't deny it. Anyway, Monroe is beginning to get a little uptight about Jones being gone." Pevner was examining a hangnail. "You know he and Jones are hopping into the sack, don't you?" Starsky realized immediately that he should have known; he also felt sure that Hutch knew, although he hadn't said anything about it. The knowledge bemused him for a moment. Monroe hadn't seemed like the type. Whatever the hell the "type" was. Starsky wasn't sure anymore. "We don't inquire into the sex lives of our clients," he said mildly. "No reason why you should," Pevner agreed. "Tyler called me earlier and suggested that I might want to talk to Crane about Andy. I wanted to wait until morning, but he insisted the sooner the better." Starsky shrugged. "He's the client." "Right. So you came over to talk, found Crane dead, and called us right away." Starsky wanted to be very careful what he said here, so he wouldn't trip himself—or Monroe—up. "Almost right away," he hedged. Pevner just looked at him. "Well, I had to find a phone," he explained. "And, to be honest, I needed a drink. That's a pretty grisly sight." "Sure is." Pevner picked up a clipboard and thumbed through the papers there. "Although I would have thought that a man who spent as much time with the Los Angeles Police Department would be used to seeing things like that." So Pevner had checked them out after Hutch's visit. Starsky kept his gaze direct. "Do we ever really get used to it?" Pevner conceded the point with a shrug. "I went into the Beer Barrel Inn across the highway there and had a drink. Then I called you." "I see." Pevner was staring out at the lab guys. "And where is your uptight client right now?" "In his motel room," Starsky said flatly. "You seem very sure of that." "I am." The police radio crackled. Starsky thought that maybe the sound should have been a little nostalgic, should have stirred up some old memories. It didn't. The dispassionate voice only made him feel tired. Reality kept intruding on his life. Real life had nothing to do with hanging around motels looking for cheating husbands. Or with collecting money for Friendly Fred. This was reality. Crane's slit throat. Tyler's hurting eyes. Starsky wished that he could just close the book on this case and move on to something else. Something that wasn't so damned screwed up and sad. Maybe helping some beautiful damsel-in-distress. Unfortunately, damsels seemed in mighty short supply these days. Instead, they had cowboys and surly homicide dicks. "Look," he said at last, "Tyler Monroe is a victim here, too." Pevner made no reply to that. The inside of the car was quiet for several moments. Finally the cop sighed. "All right," he said heavily. "You can go." His sharp gaze focused on Starsky's face "I assume you'll be around town?" "We haven't found Andy Jones yet. We'll be around." Pevner nodded, and Starsky slid out of the car, walking quickly back to the Torino before he could change his mind. As he started the engine, the meat wagon arrived to take away what was left of Ben Crane. It was very quiet at the Traveler's Inn. An empty beer can floated across the pool, solemnly observed by a wide-awake tabby. The cat gazed up at Starsky, then nonchalantly walked away. Nobody else seemed to notice his arrival. He walked directly to Tyler's room and knocked. "Come in," the soft voice said. The room was dark. Starsky switched on the small bedside lamp, then dropped into a chair. "The cops will be talking to you," he said without preliminaries. "Tell them you called me and asked me to go talk to Crane. Don't volunteer anything else. If they ask you specifically about being in the Beer Barrel, you tell the truth. Understand?" "Yes, I understand." He held the plastic bathroom glass in one hand; lifting it slowly, he took a gulp of the amber liquid. "Why don't you knock off the booze?" Starsky suggested sharply. "I can tell you from experience that it won't help." "I can't seem to get drunk," Tyler said, more to himself than Starsky. "I keep drinking, but I can't get drunk enough to make a difference." Starsky got up and walked around the room for a moment. "You and Jones have a fight, maybe?" he asked suddenly. Tyler sipped the whiskey, a strange almost-smile playing around his lips. "Is that what you think?" "I'm only asking." "Ken didn't ask me that." Starsky felt tired; he stretched, massaging the back of his neck. "Well, I'm asking." Tyler hunched forward a little. "Let me guess. You figured out that Andy and me are more than just friends." "Pevner told me. He figured it out. Or someone told him." The cowboy shrugged. "Whatever. Anyway, now you've decided that we must've had a fight and he left. Maybe he even took a shot at me the other night." "Lovers fight," Starsky said. "They run away. They even kill each other sometimes." Tyler turned the plastic cup in his hands. His eyes closed as he leaned back in the chair. "I'm tired," he said. "I don't want to talk about this anymore tonight." "All right," Starsky said as he headed for the door. "Remember what I said about the cops." "I'll remember." Starsky lingered. "I'm not asking these questions because I give a damn about your private life," he said. "I'm just trying to do my job." "I know, Dave." He couldn't think of anything else to say; so he left. His footsteps echoed hollowly as he crossed the patio and headed toward the parking lot. The cat was nowhere to be seen. **
XIX Hutch spent the night at the office. He tossed and turned, managing to get only about two hours sleep before the phone woke him. God bless Alexander Graham Bell, he thought, pushing aside the curtain and dropping into a chair before reaching to answer the shrill ringing. "Confidential Investigations, Unlimited," he mumbled. "Ben Crane is dead." Hutch fumbled, almost dropping the receiver, then recovered. "Shit," he said. "Right. Somebody cut his throat." "Well, it wasn't me," Hutch said, wondering a little at his partner's tone. "At least you weren't sitting on top of the body when the cops showed up. " "You were?" "I was, yeah." Hutch scratched at his unshaven face. "How come?" "Because our client was making noises about going over and forcing a little information out of the guy." "Shit," he said again. There was a moment of silence. "Hey," Starsky said. "What?" "You didn't tell me about Monroe and Jones." Hutch tore off the past two days on the desk calendar. "Didn't I?" "I woulda remembered something like that." "Does it matter?" When Starsky didn't answer, Hutch sighed. "Look, Starsk, it was sort of a confidence, I thought." "Yeah?" Then Starsky sighed, too. "Okay. Not much of a secret now. Pevner knows." "So will everybody, I guess, before this is over. Damn." "Will it matter?" Hutch knew what Starsky meant. "No," he said. "I don't think it will matter at all to Tyler. Won't make a damned bit of difference." He stood. "I better get on this Brustein character. You stick close to Tyler." "Sure." "And you—" "Yeah?" Hutch shrugged. "Watch what you step in." Starsky grunted a reply and hung up. Hutch shaved quickly as he gulped down a cup of instant coffee. He appropriated a shirt from Starsky's closet. It fit perfectly and a closer examination showed why; it was his shirt. Madame Olga was in the hall when he left the office, and she greeted him with a rather dismal smile. He paused. "What's the matter?" She shrugged. "I don't know." Several bracelets jangled as she unlocked her door. "I just feel like the atmosphere is filled with bad vibes today." "Watch it, Olga. You don't want to start taking yourself too seriously." She stepped into her office. "My horoscope this morning told me to heed my intuitions." "Better do it then," he said, starting down the steps. Hell, he thought, I should have done the same. Should've chased Tyler Monroe out of the office. Told him we didn't do missing person jobs. Told him anything. "Hutch?" Olga was leaning over the balcony. He looked up. "What?" "Don't take yourself too seriously either." "Right," he said. Rush hour was over, so it didn't take him long to reach the Hill Street address Huggy had supplied. The building reminded him a little of the one where their office was located. It was an old, brick-fronted place, tenanted with cheap dentists, a "dating service," and Al Brustein's Musical Agency on the fourth floor. At least, this building had an elevator that worked. The receptionist finished powdering her nose before deigning to notice him standing in front of the desk. "Yes, sir?" she said cheerfully. "I'd like to see Mr. Brustein, please." "And what is your name?" She spoke with the plastic good cheer of a TV weather-girl. "Hutchinson." She took note of that fact without noticeable excitement. "You don't have an appointment?" "No, but it's very important." "May I ask what this is in reference to?" Her smiling face was beginning to irritate him. "It's confidential." He leaned across the desk a little. "But important." He grinned. She patted her hennaed hair. "Well, Mr. Brustein never sees anyone without an appointment." He opened his mouth to object, but she kept talking. "But I'll see if he might not make an exception, since it's important." "Gee, I'd appreciate it," Hutch replied, wondering why the detectives in Starsky's books always seemed to encounter receptionists who were both lush and lusting, while he seemed to get stuck with rejects from the Dating Game. He sat down on the cerise leatherette couch and picked up a copy of BILLBOARD, as she vanished through a door. He had time to read all about the latest albums of people he'd never heard of, wondering as he read whether life was starting to pass him by. Maybe he was starting to sink into the doldrums of middle age. He mulled over the implications of that thought until the receptionist appeared. "Good news," she beamed. "Mr. Brustein can squeeze you in between appointments." She looked so pleased with herself for having accomplished this remarkable feat that Hutch gave her hand a pat. "Thanks, honey," he said. Hell, she couldn't help it if she didn't live up to his fantasies. Probably she was wishing he were a little more like Jim Rockford. Al Brustein was a tall, skinny redhead, arrayed in designer denims. Several rings adorned his fingers and a large gold astrological sign hung around his neck. He was a Cancer. After a moment, he looked up from VARIETY. "Hutchinson? We met in Nashville last year, right?" Hutch sat down without being invited to do so. "Wrong. We've never met." Brustein folded the paper. "Okay." His eyes were cunning, belying the casual pose. "What's up?" "I'm here about a singer named Andy Jones?" "Jones?" He creased the newspaper more firmly. "You heard him a few nights ago in Newcombe." "Sure, I remember. At the Last Round-Up." He flashed a row of even white caps. "I make it a practice to visit the small clubs around the area. Sometimes you can uncover real talent there." "Like Andy Jones?" "Maybe. The guy has potential. He came in and cut a demo tape for us. Haven't been able to get back to him on it yet. What seems to be the problem?" "Jones has turned up missing." Brustein blinked, but kept smiling. "Missing?" "Yes." Hutch took out his notebook and flipped it open. People seemed to take more seriously what they were saying if it was being written down. "You didn't happen to have an appointment with him Tuesday night?" "An appointment? Tuesday?" The fingers toyed with a pearl-handled letter opener. "No, not that I remember. Was I supposed to?" "Someone did. He went out and didn't come back." "That's too bad." "You sound all broken-up." Brustein shrugged. "Hell, man, I hardly know him." Hutch doodled for a moment. "You were going to make him a star, right?" "We talked a few deals. I didn't make any promises. Jones was eager, but they always are. Hungry, you know what I mean? Of course, with his problem...." "The stutter?" "Yeah. I don't think he put two sentences together right. But he can sing. And his songs were good. Had a kind of country-boy charm, you know? That sells big these days." Hutch nodded. "You haven't heard from him in the past few days?" "Not since he made the tape." Hutch thumbed through a few pages of the notebook, as Brustein sat watching him. "Not the first time a client of yours has disappeared, is it?" he asked finally. Brustein flushed. "That's old news, Hutchinson." "It might get to be current news real soon." "Just who are you, anyway? Not a cop, or you'da been flashing your badge around before this." "I'm an investigator hired to find Jones." Brustein sneered. "A fucking rent-a-snoop." His slender body gave an impatient shake. "Get the hell outta here, man. I'm busy." Hutch looked at him mildly, then stood. "We'll probably talk again, Brustein." "I've got nothing to say." The receptionist was still smiling as Hutch stalked out. He nodded, but didn't stop until he was back in the car. Settling back in the seat, he waited. It was only about fifteen minutes later that he saw Brustein come out of the building and get into a flashy yellow MG. Hutch started Belle and followed the other car, keeping a respectable distance between the two vehicles, and thinking once again that he really had to get a different car for work. Something dark-colored and unobtrusive; it was a thought that occurred to him every time he was tailing someone. The yellow car led him to North Hollywood and a country-western bar called The Palomino. Although it was only a little after eleven, the parking lot already held a number of cars. Hutch gave Brustein time to get inside before he followed. The bar was larger than he'd expected, plastered with banners, and filled with the noise of a band playing for the early lunchtime crowd. Hutch hovered by the entrance, watching Brustein, who was sitting at a corner table with another man. Their conversation was animated, as if they were arguing about something. The stranger reached into his jacket pocket finally and pulled out a small package, which he handed to Brustein The redhead looked at it with what might have been distaste, then slipped it into his own pocket. Hutch waited a few more moments, but Brustein was apparently staying for lunch. The blond wasn't hungry, and anyway, he had another stop to make, so he decided to abandon Brustein for a while. The Kingman-for-Congress Headquarters were located in a downtown storefront, which was festooned with red, white, and blue bunting and large pictures of Richard Kingman. The candidate managed to smile and look concerned at the same time. The girl sitting at the front desk was an advertisement for the blessings of a California youth. Her hair was sun-burnished, her tan perfect, and her teeth bespoke the wonders of modern American orthodontia. "Hi," she said. "Can I help you?" He pulled out his identification. "I'd like to speak to someone in charge." Her eyes studied the license, then she frowned a little. "Well," she said hesitantly, "I guess you should see Mr. Kingman." "The candidate himself?" She smiled again, obviously amused by his ignorant presumption. "Oh, no, of course not. I meant Paul Kingman, his brother. He's the campaign manager." Hutch took the chair she waved him toward and waited. Again. Nearly thirty minutes passed. He spent the time watching the American political process in action. A bank of phones manned (peopled?) by a group of mostly young, mostly middle-class Kingman-enthusiasts was kept busy, as the volunteers worked their way through the voter registration list. The speech they gave was always the same, and after a few minutes, Hutch could have delivered the same spiel himself. There were several copies of a small blue book that floated up and down the length of the phone bank, and Hutch decided that within the pages of the volume were the opinions of Richard Kingman on any number of subjects. The young people were adept at thumbing through the book and coming up with the right answer. Abortion? Well, Mr. Kingman thinks Taxes? Mr. Kingman thinks Welfare? Capital punishment? The Russians? Spaying stray dogs? Mr. Kingman thinks Hutch was beginning to feel a little inadequate. It had been a long time since he'd given much thought to any of those important questions. Most of his time seemed to be spent considering much less significant issues. Like would he be able to pay the rent this month? Or could he really afford to buy a new shirt? Or where the hell was Andy Jones? They didn't quite have him convinced to vote for this savior of Western civilization when the girl reappeared and waved him toward the hallway. "Mr. Kingman will see you now. Right through that door." He went through the door. Paul Kingman's office was piled with boxes of campaign literature. Several phones sat on the desk, and the walls were covered with maps of the district. Kingman himself looked harried. He was about Hutch's age, thin, with a shock of untidy light brown hair and busy eyes. He was on the phone when Hutch came in and he waved a silent greeting, pointing toward the coffee pot. Hutch shook his head and sat down in a metal folding chair. "Well, look," Kingman was saying, "we've had these plans set for a long time. The Kingman bar-b-que is an annual event, election year or not. All we want is some decent coverage. Richard will deliver a speech, and—" He listened impatiently as his free hand twisted and untwisted in the phone cord. "Yeah, yeah, okay, Max. Do what you can, willya?" He hung up. "Idiot." He smiled at Hutch. "What's up?" "My name is Ken Hutchinson." He pulled out the ID once more and the busy eyes glanced at it. "I'm trying to locate a man named Andy Jones." "Jones?" Kingman seemed to suffer from a case of nervous hands. He shifted items on the desk pointlessly. "Andy Jones? Am I supposed to know him?" "I don't know. Maybe. He had one of your campaign flyers among his possessions." Kingman grinned. "Hell, man, so do half the people in the city." "But he had his tucked away very carefully with some other important papers. I figure that meant it had some significance for him." "Perhaps, but I still don't see what this has to do with us." Hutch took out the picture of Andy. "Maybe if you see him." Kingman took the picture and stared at it thoughtfully. "Hell, Hutchinson, I still can't place him. A very ordinary face. Maybe he's one of our volunteers; I don't know all of them." He handed the photo back. "Sorry." Hutch put the snapshot away and stood. "Okay. Thanks for your time." "No problem. Hope you find him, whoever he is." Hutch smiled. "Oh, I will." Kingman smoothed his hair. One of the phones rang, and he reached for it, waving a fast good-bye. Hutch stopped by the front desk again. "Excuse me," he said to the girl, who was in the process of stapling together yet another volume of the collected wisdom of Richard Kingman. She looked up. "Yes?" He took out the picture and held it toward her. "You ever see this guy in here? Maybe he's one of the volunteers?" Her glossed mouth pursed thoughtfully. "Gee, I don't know. I see so many people." Then she brightened. "Hey, you know, I do remember him." "Yes? When was he in?" "Well, he wasn't, not exactly." Hutch just looked at her. "A few days ago, don't remember exactly when, I was on my way to lunch, and I saw him standing on the sidewalk out front. He asked me if any of the Kingmans were here. Nobody was, though." "Did he say anything else?" She shook her head. "I remember him especially because of the way he talked. With a terrible stutter." Her face grew serious. "They can cure that, you know. My brother's been going to a speech therapist for a couple of years and he's much better." Hutch nodded. "Was that the only time you've seen him?" "Yes." He thanked her and walked out, noticing that Paul Kingman was standing in the doorway of his office, watching, still smoothing his already smooth hair. It was a short walk over to the library. Hutch spent a couple of hours there, reading up on the Kingman family. None of what he read had anything to do with Andy Jones. He finally went back to the office to think a little, and to see if there were any messages from Starsky. **
X The cops had already been and gone by the time Starsky arrived at the Traveler's Inn that morning. Tyler didn't have much to say about their visit—or about anything else, for that matter. He sat hunched over a cup of black coffee, looking red-eyed and tired. Starsky sat across from him, toying with a guitar pick he'd found on the rug. "We're taking a little drive today," he said finally. Tyler looked up, but still didn't speak. "We're going out to Baker. That's where Andy grew up, right?" "Yeah." Tyler frowned. "Why are we going there? Andy hates that place." "Well, we want to find out if the people that raised him, the uh—" "McCanns." "Right. We want to find out if they're still around. Maybe Andy got in touch with them." "He wouldn't do that." Starsky dropped the pick and stood. "I'm going out there. If you don't want to come, fine." Tyler gulped the rest of the coffee. "I might as well." He picked up the tiny piece of plastic that Starsky had dropped and put it carefully into his pocket, then followed him out to the Torino. They rode for a long time in a silence that was broken only by the low murmur of the radio. Starsky spoke finally. "What do you know about these people?" Tyler came slowly back from whatever lonely place he'd been lost in, and shifted in the seat a little to look at Starsky. "The McCanns? I just know it was a terrible place for the kid. Andy never really knew how he came to be living there with them. They weren't any kin. The old man used to whip his ass whenever he stepped out of line, and even when he didn't, just in case, I guess. The old lady wasn't so much mean, as just useless." He had the guitar pick in his calloused fingers, turning it over thoughtfully. "I can't understand somebody doing a little boy that way, can you?" "It happens," Starsky said, remembering too many cases of child abuse he'd seen as a cop. "People like that are crazy," Tyler muttered. "Probably. So Andy ran away?" "Yep. When he was fifteen. Just lit out one night when the old man was drunk. He kept running until he hit Carson City. That's where the rodeo was." "And you." "And me. Hell, I didn't know what to do. A kid like that had no business being on his own, but I sure as hell couldn't send him back." "So you kept him with you." "Yeah." Starsky maneuvered around a slow-moving eighteen-wheeler. "At least you didn't beat him." Tyler frowned. "I never once hit him." He stared out the window for several minutes before speaking again. "I guess you figure it was wrong, me taking him to bed. Well, it didn't happen that way. He took me. And he was a full-grown man when it happened." "I don't care about that, Tyler. It's not part of the case." "That's what Ken said, too." "Well, it's the truth." He was quiet again, watching the barren landscape. "I wonder," he said softly. "I wonder if maybe you all just don't want to talk about it because it makes you feel sort of uncomfortable." His hand opened and closed on the guitar pick. "Folks are like that. Either they laugh, or they just try to pretend like it ain't there. You wouldn't laugh, Dave, but I think you might want it not to be. Or, at least, for you not to know about it." Starsky didn't say anything. Tyler looked at him. "I ain't ashamed of loving Andy like I do." "Good." "You ever love anybody, Dave? I mean with all your heart and soul and body?" "Yes," he said, thinking of Terri. "But she died." Tyler sighed. "I'm sorry." "It was a long time ago." The lanky cowboy cleared his throat. "How'd you keep going on without her?" "I don't know," Starsky replied honestly. "I just did." They didn't talk anymore. Once they reached Baker, they stopped at a service station for gas and to use the telephone directory, which supplied them with an address. It was hot in Baker, nearly a hundred degrees. By the time they reached the tiny unpainted house on the edge of town, both men were drenched in sweat. They sat in the car, staring at the falling-down hovel, the front yard of which was littered with hulks of old cars and rusty appliances. "Jesus," Tyler said softly. "This is where he lived?" "Maybe it wasn't so bad fifteen years ago." But the air of ruin that clung to the place seemed at least a century old. Tyler shook his head slowly. "The first night he was with me," he said, "we stopped at some motel the other side of Carson City. It was a dump and I told Andy I was sorry it wasn't a better place. He just laughed and said it looked like a palace to him. Now I know why." They finally got out of the car and made their way across the yard. She was sitting on the porch, an old lady in a flowered dress, and despite the terrible heat, a knit shawl draped around her shoulders. The rocking chair moved slowly. "Who's there?" she asked in a reedy little voice, her head cocked to one side, the colorless eyes staring blindly into the distance. "Excuse me," Starsky said loudly. "We're looking for Mrs. McCann." "You found her." A middle-aged Mexican woman appeared in the open door and stared through the screen at them. "My name is Starsky, and this is Mr. Monroe." "What you be selling? We ain't buying, no matter what it is, but we'll gladly take a free sample, if you be giving." She made a cackling sound, apparently intended to be a laugh, and the woman in the doorway smiled. Starsky wiped at the sweat pouring down his face. "No, ma'am, we're not selling anything. Just wanted to ask you some questions." "Questions? You got some questions for me?" She cackled again. "See, Maria, ain't it like I always said? Live long enough and everybody begins to think you must be wise. Now they be coming seeking the fruits of my wisdom." "We wanted to ask you about Andy Jones." "Who? Andrew, you say?" "Yes. Do you remember him?" She snorted. "You take me for a dummy or something, Mr. Starsky? How could I fergit a boy I brung up like my own? Although he run off a long time ago, with never a word of good-bye. And took my egg money when he left." She shook her head. "Butter wouldn't melt in that boy's mouth, but damned if he didn't run off with my egg money. Twelve dollars I had, and he took every cent." "You haven't heard from Andy lately, have you, Mrs. McCann?" "Heard from him? I should say not. You know Andrew?" "Yes, ma'am, and we're trying very hard to find him." "You are, huh?" She was quiet for a moment, rocking back and forth slowly. The woman inside watched. "Mr. McCann and I, rest his soul, only had one baby of our own. Our boy Joe," she murmured. "The Lord never blessed us with any more. So when we got Andrew, it seemed like a wonderful thing. We was real happy to have him. Another baby for us and a brother for Joey. We all took to Andrew." Tyler had been silent, but now he stepped forward. "How come you treated him so bad?" he asked sharply. "Beating him like you done." "He was a stubborn child. My late husband never had much patience. Used to rub against him, like salt on a wound, the way Andrew wouldn't talk right. No matter how he tried to make him talk right, Andrew just wouldn't do it. Mr. McCann always thought the boy was spiting him." "Andy can't help his stutter," Tyler said. Starsky figured that the two of them could argue that point for a long time, but he didn't feel like listening to it. He took Tyler by one arm and pulled him back a few steps. "Mrs. McCann," he said then, "how did Andy come to live with you? Was he family?" "No, I should say not." She looked thoughtful for a moment. "Near as I can recall, there's never been no thieves in our family." Starsky sensed Tyler stirring behind him, so he spoke quickly. "Why was Andy living here?" She sighed, picking at the threads of the shawl with claw-like fingers. "You try a body's memory, you know? I'm eighty years old. Something that happened so many years ago is kinda vague." He crouched down next to the rocking chair. "I know it's hard," he said softly. "But we'd sure appreciate any help that you could give us. It's very important that we find Andy." She was quiet a moment longer. The woman behind the screen still stood there silently. "It was a rainy night," the old woman said finally. "In the year 1950, I believe. The fall. Mr. McCann, bless his soul, and I had been listening to the radio before going to bed. Don't recollect right off what we was listening to." "That's all right. Go on." "There came a knock at the door. 'Who could be calling so late?' I asked my husband. He went to answer it and there stood a man, holding a wee baby in his arms. The baby was all wrapped up in a blanket." "Did you know the man?" "No, sir, I did not. But Mr. McCann did." "Did you hear his name?" "Nope He just says, 'Jimmy'—that was Mr. McCann's given name—'Jimmy, I want you to take this child. Keep him here with you, take care of him, and I'll pay you for his upkeep."' The old lady tapped the porch with her foot. "Now that seemed a little peculiar to me, don't you know? So I asked him who the baby was, and why he wanted us to keep it. All he told us was that the baby's name was Andrew Jones and that its mother was dead. That was all we had to know, he said. And he promised to send one hundred dollars a month. Times was hard and I reckon Mr. McCann thought we could use the money. So he agreed and the man handed the baby to me." A smile hovered on her wrinkled face. "I pulled back the blanket to see him. A cute little mite, he was." "Didn't the man say anything else?" "Nope." "Can you remember what he looked like?" "Oh, he was quality, you could tell that right off. About forty, I reckon, dressed in a fine style. He was driving a big black car, like the president has." "Did he send the money?" "Every month, just like he promised. A one-hundred dollar bill in an envelope." "When did the money stop coming?" The smile broadened. "Never done. Still comes. I told Mr McCann, rest his soul, after Andrew run off like he done, that maybe the money would stop coming. He wasn't worried about it, though. Money buys silence, he said." "One more question. Where does the money come from? Is there a postmark?" Mrs McCann didn't answer. "Los Angeles," the woman beyond the door said. "Starsky glanced at her. "Thank you." Her face was hard. "We need that money. You ain't gonna make it stop coming, are you?" He didn't know how to answer that, so he only stood. "Thank you for your help, Mrs. McCann. We appreciate it." The old lady cackled again, without apparent reason. "Hey, you," she said as they started away. "What?" Starsky replied. "If you find that boy Andrew, you make him give back my egg money, will you? Twelve dollars he took from me. You tell that thief Andrew that I want my money back. Tell him." Starsky heard Tyler mutter something under his breath. The big man yanked the wallet from his pocket, and took out some bills. He tossed them into the woman's lap. "There's your damned money," he said tightly. "Andy's no thief, and don't you be telling people he is." Tyler spun around and stalked toward the car, Starsky following. They were quiet as they returned to the highway, leaving Baker and the dismal past behind. Tyler smoked two cigarettes before he broke the silence. "How'd she die, the girl you loved?" he asked very softly. Starsky bent over the wheel. "Someone shot her," he said shortly. "What'd you do?" "I cried a lot. I sort of gave up for awhile." "But you went on." "Yeah." He remembered the terrible days after Terri's death. "Hutch helped a lot. Just having someone there who cared, you know?" He glanced sidewise, realizing as he spoke that Tyler Monroe probably didn't have anybody. Nobody besides Andy Jones. "It isn't fair," Tyler said, looking out the window. "I know," Starsky said. "It stinks." "You believe in praying, Dave?" "Sometimes." "I've been praying." "Maybe it'll help, man." Tyler shrugged. He leaned back in the seat and closed his eyes. Starsky waited a moment, then reached to turn the radio back on. ** XI He was still in the office when Starsky called to report on the trip to Baker. Hutch listened, his feet propped on the desk, as he chewed glumly on a rapidly cooling Big Mac. When he didn't say anything in response to the tale, Starsky asked, "What're you thinking about, partner?" "Judge Crater," Hutch replied, then took a swig of buttermilk. "Huh?" "They never found him, either." Starsky was quiet for a moment. "You don't want me to comment on that right now, do you?" "Tyler is there, huh?" "Yeah." "How's he doing?" Hutch gave up on the hamburger, shoving the messy remains into the bag. "So-so." "What the hell does that mean?" Instead of answering, Starsky mumbled something that Hutch couldn't hear, then apparently handed the phone to Tyler. "Ken?" "Yeah, Tyler?" "You find anything yet?" "I'm working on it, buddy. These things take time. You okay?" "No." Damn the man's frigging honesty, Hutch thought wearily. Couldn't he lie? Was it against the damned cowboy code to give the socially acceptable answer? Hutch crushed the buttermilk carton. "Sometimes it isn't easy, Tyler," he said. He waited a moment, but there was no response. "Couple questions I wanted to ask." "Okay." "You know anything about a demo tape Andy made for Brustein?" "Sure, he told me all about it. Brustein had him sing a couple of his songs. Said it might help him get an audition, or whatever the hell it is. Andy was real excited about the tape." "Okay. Where's his guitar?" "His guitar?" Tyler paused. "He had it with him when he...that night. In the car." Hutch picked up a pencil and pulled the memo pad closer. "Describe it." "It's a Gibson. Expensive. White, with his initials in black. Got it for him when he turned eighteen." "Okay," Hutch said again. There was another pause. "Ken?" "What?" Tyler coughed. "Guess it's just dumb to keep hoping." It wasn't quite a question. Hutch snapped the pencil in two. "No, dammit. Don't give up." "All right, I won't." He sounded relieved. Hutch's stomach lurched. Who the hell was he to keep the poor son of a bitch hoping? Wouldn't that just make it worse later? "Put Starsk back on, willya, Tyler?" "Okay. 'Bye." "Good-bye." Hutch stared at the wall, whistling to himself. "Yeah, Hutch?" "I'm going to get on Brustein's case a little." He rubbed his temple. "There's just so many pieces and none of them seem to fit together in any logical way." "You're looking for logic, buddy?" "Guess I should know better by this time. How much longer is the rodeo going to be around?" "Until tomorrow. Except for Tyler, of course." "Of course. Well, why don't you give those people one more try. I don't think any of them knows a damned thing, but...." "But it beats sitting on my ass." "Right. I'll be in touch." "Sure thing." They hung up simultaneously. Hutch regarded the debris from his meal with distaste, then swept it all into the wastebasket and reached for the phone again. "Dobey," a brisk voice said. "Hi, Cap'n." "Hutch? How's it going?" He sighed. "Not so good. We're still looking for Monroe's buddy." "Yes? That's too bad. We've got somebody killing winos again. Three so far. I don't have much time." "I need a fast favor." "What?" "I want something put on the hot list." Dobey agreed and Hutch described the guitar. "Appreciate it," he said. "Sure, sure. Tell Monroe I'm sorry, willya?" They bid one another a fast good-bye and Hutch left the office. He sat parked outside Brustein's office for a long time before he saw the slender redhead come out and get into the yellow car again. It was starting to get dark, but the tiny car was easy to follow. Their destination this time was a place called the Corral. Hutch parked and waited until Brustein was inside before following. The room was wall-to-wall people, and everybody seemed to be wearing blue jeans and Stetsons. Hutch would have been very surprised, though, if there were a single real cowboy in the crowd. There was a small stage at one end of the bar and a young man with a guitar stood there, singing. No one seemed to be paying him very much attention, but they all applauded enthusiastically when he finished the song, and that seemed to encourage him, so he began another. Hutch's gaze swept the crowd until he saw Brustein sitting alone at a corner table. He walked over and sat down across from him. "Howdy," he said cheerfully. Brustein's eyes flashed, but he kept his voice cool. "What the hell do you want?" "To talk." "We already did that. I've got nothing else to say." "Where's Andy's demo tape?" The pale fingers tightened around the beer mug. "None of your business." "Andy Jones is my business." Hutch leaned back in the chair, waving off the waitress. "It just bothers me that your clients keep disappearing." Brustein's face was mottled with red. "Look, you two-bit snoop, I've got connections in this town." Hutch raised his brows. "Yeah? Big time stuff, huh?" "Big enough. So unless you want to find yourself swimming in spaghetti sauce, I suggest you get away from me and stay away." A sneer crossed Hutch's lips. "You want me to believe that the family is going to waste time on a cheap hustler like you?" "Try me," Brustein said tightly. Slowly Hutch got to his feet and looked down at the other man. "I just might do that," he said mildly. "Sometime when I'm not quite so busy. But for right now, I just want Andy's demo tape." "Go fish for it." Brustein shook his head. "You're a fool. Who's paying you, anyway? That big dumb cowboy Jones hangs around with?" "My client is confidential." "Well, that demo tape is between Jones and me; if he's taken a powder, that's tough. He signed a release, giving me all rights to the tape and the songs." "Did he know what he was signing?" "Ask him," Brustein said coldly. "I don't know anything about what happened to him. Can't you understand that?" "Oh, I understand it. I just don't believe it." "Who gives a fuck what you believe? Get the hell out of my life." "I'm going," Hutch said. "But not too far. Count on that." He started away, then turned back toward the table. "Why did Ben Crane get his throat cut?" Brustein's Adam's apple throbbed. "I don't know." A moment later, his lips thinned. "I never heard of anybody named Crane," he said. Hutch just looked at him for another moment, then turned and walked out of the Corral. He didn't use his VISA card much anymore, but it served quite well to get him into Brustein's office. There was something soul-satisfying about not having to worry about search warrants and things like that anymore. Of course, he might end up getting busted for breaking and entering, but that, he figured, was the risk of the game. It didn't take long to find what he was looking for. The one-page contract was in the top drawer of Brustein's desk. The paper was filled with the usual jargon, but Hutch managed to figure out that while signing what appeared to be a simple paragraph accepting Brustein as his legal agent, Jones had also given away the rights to the songs on the demo tape. Hutch sighed as he studied the scrawled signature at the bottom of the page. Andrew Jones. Dumb cowboy. He looked a little for the tape, but didn't find it. Didn't matter much. Neither did the contract, for that matter, but he took it anyway. Brustein knew more than he was saying and maybe if Hutch had the contract in his hand, it might provide a little leverage. He left the office, pulling the door closed carefully. It was as he was turning toward the stairs that the blow came. Something very hard crashed into the back of his head, and he fell forward, falling into a deep black hole. He didn't even know when he hit the floor. **
XII Starsky had decided to make one more visit to the Last Round-Up, hoping that another chance to talk to some of the rodeo people might uncover something helpful. Tyler went along. The big man was silent now, almost sullen, seeming to be on the edge of something that Starsky didn't even want to try anticipating. The crowd in the bar was subdued. One man they had known was missing and another had been violently murdered. Little wonder that the gathering sometimes seemed more like a wake than anything else. Tyler slouched behind a pitcher of beer, surveying the scene with shadowed green eyes. Starsky wandered around the room, eavesdropping, but not hearing anything very interesting. He spotted a young blonde woman standing at the bar and took a moment to appreciate the lavender satin shirt and tight blue jeans she was wearing. He walked over and ordered a beer, smiling at her. "Hi." She returned the smile. "Hi. You're the detective, aren't you?" "Right. Dave Starsky. I didn't know that my reputation had preceded me." "This is a small community." "Newcombe?" "The rodeo." He nodded agreement. "I guess you must know Andy Jones then, Miss—?" "Maggie. Sure, I've known him for years. I'm what's called a rodeo brat. My dad used to ride; now he does the commentary. Andy and I sort of grew up together after he joined us." Starsky sipped the beer. "You must know him pretty good." She shook her head. "No, not really. He's a very quiet guy. Shy. I don't think anybody knows him really. Except Tyler, of course." She smiled again, crinkling her cheerful brown eyes. "I think it's nice, the way they've been together all this time." The bar's owner was on stage introducing the evening's entertainment. Starsky listened for a moment, then returned his attention to the woman. "You seem to have a nice, liberal attitude. Does everybody feel that way?" "Huh-uh. They've had some hassles, but I guess that's to be expected." "Did it ever upset Andy?" Starsky raised his voice a little so he could be heard over the singer. "Not that I could see. He's a happy kind of guy, you know? Always smiling." Her eyes shifted a little, and Starsky followed the gaze. They both looked at Tyler, well into his second pitcher of beer. "Poor Tyler," Maggie said softly. "This must be tearing him up. Andy's his whole life." Starsky just nodded, not knowing what sort of response he should make. "Did Andy ever say anything to you about finding out who his parents were?" She thought for a moment, then brightened. "You know, he did once. It was me, actually, who brought the subject up. I just asked him one day if he was curious about it. He said yeah, sort of. Then he got kind of worried looking and told me not to tell Ty." Starsky found that strange. "Did he say why it was supposed to be a deep, dark secret?" "No. But I got the impression that he was afraid of hurting Tyler's feelings. You know, like maybe just having Tyler wasn't enough, or that Tyler had let him down, and Andy doesn't feel that way at all." "How does he feel?" Maggie swallowed some beer before answering. "Like Tyler Monroe is god or something," she said flatly. Then she shrugged. "Guess maybe I'd feel the same way, if I was Andy." Her expression turned a little sheepish. "In fact, I used to have a terrific crush on Tyler myself, years ago. Just about the time Andy showed up. I mean, he was so good-looking. Still is," she added. Starsky ordered them each another beer. "So they've got this big thing between them. But I learned a long time ago that nobody's perfect. Did either one of them ever stray?" "Lord, no. They live in their own little universe." Again she looked across at Tyler. "I tried to talk to him yesterday, just to tell him how sorry I am. He looked at me for the longest time, like he was trying to figure out who the hell I was. Then he just walked away. I'm worried about him." Starsky reached for a peanut. "He'll be okay. He seems like a strong guy." "I guess." Maggie didn't sound so sure. "Well," Starsky said reluctantly, "I better get back to work." "If you decide to settle down again later, I'll be here," Maggie said. He considered that, then grinned and picked up his beer, before walking away. His first stop was by Tyler. "Better ease up on the beer a little," he advised. "You look like you might slide under the table any minute." Two vague jade eyes struggled to focus on him. "I was jus' thinking," Tyler mumbled. "I was jus' thinking that maybe if I sit here and watch tha' door long enough, Andy might come in, ya know? I mean, he walked out tha' door and he...disappeared. So maybe if I watch, he might come back." "Okay, Tyler," Starsky said helplessly. "You sit here and watch the door. I'll be back." Tyler grunted and poured himself another mug of beer, his eyes already on the doorway again. Starsky sighed and began his restless wandering through the crowd again. He learned zip. Everybody liked Tyler; most everybody liked Andy, Nobody had any idea where Jones might be, but they all hoped he'd turn up. Probably, Starsky thought gloomily, somebody was still waiting for Judge Crater to come back, too. **
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