Chapter I

Retsina is deadly stuff. It's partly the innocuous look of it, and the healthy pine scent, and the way the experienced drinkers pour it back like lemonade. The first taste is surprising--the second, mellow--the third, addictive. After that, you don't actually taste it at all. It has the dubious benefit of obscuring the world in a rosy haze, dislocating all inhibitions by sneaking up from behind, and when it hits, it hits like a freight-train. No one in his right mind drinks the stuff. But at a Greek wedding, everyone drinks retsina.

"L'chaim," said David Starsky, raising his glass. It might have been his second, or his seventh. He wasn't counting.

"And yours," his partner responded automatically, and with ritualistic formality they threw the drinks back, hardly even tasting it now, and Ken Hutchinson refilled the glasses. "To the bride," he announced.

"Lucky man," said Starsky.

"Who is?"

"Nick the Greek. Nico Spirandap--Spirondip--oh hell, he's your buddy. Whatsisname."

"Ah," said Hutch, blinking. "Spiroudoupolis."

"Yeah. She's beautiful."

"Who is?"

"Arian--Ariad--Jesus, Hutch, why do all your friends have such weird names?"

Hutch gazed at him thoughtfully.

"Yeah. You may have a point there, good buddy. David Michael is okay, but Starsky isn't exactly all-American."

Starsky gave him a pained look.

"Do I make comments about your ancestry?"

"Frequently and obscenely. Skol."

"Slainte. What's this stuff again?"

"Retsina."

"Yeah. Beats hell out of Dr. Pepper."

* * * * * * *

It had been quite a wedding. Nico had summoned his old college buddy from Los Angeles to New York to be his Best Man, and had gained an usher as well. Starsky, with a visit to his mother long overdue, had taken the opportunity to come along for the ride now that he was almost fully recovered from the injuries inflicted by Gunther's hitmen. Until now he had not felt able to pass muster under his mother's close scrutiny, since she had not been told the full extent of his wounds. But now he felt fighting-fit--most of the time--and had ended up in New York with a job to do, courtesy of the Best Man. In spite of that, everything had gone off exceptionally well. The reception was still in full swing at ten in the evening, the bride and groom having long departed in a hail of rice, confetti, and ribald comments and good wishes for the delights of the nuptial couch, and with no further duties to perform, both Starsky and Hutch had settled down to enjoy themselves.

Thus the retsina.

Retsina is deadly stuff.

"--Demis Roussos," Starsky was saying. "Y'know the guy I mean. Looks like he's wearin' a tent, and sings like somebody gave him a vasectomy an' the knife slipped--" The sound of smashing crockery interrupted him. "Now what the hell--" he began, startled.

"S'okay, Starsk. It's a Greek custom. Like applause."

"Oh. Remind me not to invite 'em round to my place." Then, "Hutch, what are they doin'?"

It was a plaintive question, and the subject of it was a small group of men out on the dance floor. They had begun a gracefully angular kind of stalking dance, arms linked across one another's shoulders in a chain, accompanied by the music of the bazoukis.

"It's a sirtaki," Hutch said. "You saw the movie, didn't you?"

"Oh, yeah. 'Zorba the Greek'..." He fell silent, watching, eyes narrowed in thoughtful observation. "Looks like a breeze," he announced suddenly. "C'mon, Hutch. Even with two left feet, you should be able to handle this one--"

Dancing, to the Greeks, is a form of self-expression, and probably pre-dates Homer. What it is to an American of Polish/Jewish ethnic origins may be more debatable, but when Starsky hit the dance floor, John Travolta could hang up his tap-shoes. That kind of exhibitionism, allied to the aforementioned properties of the retsina, produced a flamboyant and quite spectacular performance that outclassed even the natives. And because the retsina had dislocated Hutch's common sense too, he didn't find it at all odd to be dancing the sirtaki with Starsky and a bunch of strangers, completely stag. In fact, he enjoyed it. He was not certain when the sirtaki evolved into a zebekikos--but suddenly the chain had split into pairs, and Starsky's eyes were brilliant with intoxicated laughter as he grinned at his partner, and the spectators were clapping and stamping accompaniment to the music as each pair sought to outdo the others.

"Hey, Hutch!"

"Yeah."

"What the hell are we doin'?"

"It's called a zebekikos," Hutch said breathlessly, idiot-grin unfaltering.

"Yeah?" The Starsky exhibition of ethnic terpsichore paused in mid-sequence. "How 'bout that--? C'mon, boy, let's kick up a few more zebras, huh?"

And Hutch, with no self-consciousness left to him, sniggered and did just that.

* * * * * * *

He had very little clear recollection of anything that happened after that. At least, until the moment when the thick waves of sleep receded and left him stranded on the shores of awareness. His first realization was that his legs were paralyzed from the knees down. His next that his teeth felt somehow soft, and his mouth tasted like the bottom of a gorilla's cage. Furthermore, he couldn't close his fingers into a fist.

It all added up to one thing. A hangover of monumental proportions. And if he made the slightest movement, the pain would be beyond belief. That was one hell of a drunk they'd tied on--retsina, ouzo, whatever--the first for months, since the shooting. You can't take a convalescent out on a bender, no matter how much you need a stiff drink, and getting smashed on your own is a lonely business--he'd found that out the hard way. But last night had made up for it, and Starsky had enjoyed it, and--

Where was Starsky, anyhow? The way he felt, he might need help getting himself back into approximate working order, and what were partners for?

"Starsk," he said--or tried to say. It came out a croak. There was no answer. "Starsky?" He made the effort and cracked open one eye, ready to shut it quickly if the light hurt. But the room was dim. He opened the other eye.

Surprise. A ceiling. How 'bout that?

It didn't seem a very good idea to move his head. He wasn't sure how firmly it was attached, and his brain seemed to have the consistency of mushy oatmeal. But eventually he attempted it, and before the tsunami of nauseating pain nailed him back onto the pillow, he managed to register that his legs were paralyzed because 150 pounds of Starsky was draped across them.

It's nice to discover that the situation isn't as dire as you first thought. His teeth still felt soft, but his fingers were answering better now, and since Starsky did not appear to be conscious, Hutch had no compunction about freeing himself without regard to what repercussions it might have on a system at least as frail as his--if not more so--he just kicked himself loose of the dead weight, rolled from the bed with a groan and lurched for the bathroom.

When he returned, his teeth solid again and his mouth tasting reassuringly of mint toothpaste, aspirin beginning to cope with the anarchy in his head, he found that Starsky had changed position. He was now curled into a suffering fetal ball at the foot of the bed, like some hibernating creature disturbed at mid-winter. He was making small whimpering noises at intervals, and his eyes were screwed shut.

"How's your head?" Hutch asked with sympathy.

"My head's fine." It was a sepulchral mutter. "But San Andreas just opened up across my liver. Hutch--what was that stuff?"

"I don't want to think about it," Hutch said firmly. "Sit up, and take these."

Starsky uncurled enough to accept the aspirin and the glass of water--dosed himself and lay back down again with a shuddering sigh. Then suddenly he went rigid, and groaned aloud.

"Oh, God--"

"Starsk?" Alarmed, Hutch came to his side. "Starsk? What is it? You okay?"

"Oh, God." Starsky's throat worked convulsively. "Hutch. This is Sunday, right?"

"Right."

"Sunday's the day we're visiting Mom." He was looking paler by the minute. "Hutch--you know what she's like. As soon as you step over the threshold, she feeds you..."

"Oh my God." Hutch sat down, his own insides contracting at the mere thought of food of any description. And Mrs. Starsky's idea of food in particular--lavish, rich, superbly cooked, so perfect that it was an insult to refuse a second helping, let alone a first. "Oh my God. We can't not go."

"Right." Starsky's face was a grimace of agony.

"Oh my God," Hutch moaned again. Slowly and with great delicacy, Starsky pushed upright and combed his fingers through his hair, dislodging flakes of confetti that had gotten trapped in the dark curls.

"What time y'got?"

Hutch got hold of Starsky's wrist and focused on his watch.

''Quarter after ten."

"We got two hours." They looked at each other. "Let's get to it."

* * * * * * *

A New York spring is a wild, barely-controllable trollop, skirling with teasing laughter. A yo-yo season of bright sunshine and cutting winds. The day of the wedding had had both--sun gilding Ariadne's hair under the disheveled veiling, tossing the confetti in gusts like driven hail. But the day following had reverted to winter--there was no sun, and the wind was savagely cold. The cab delivered them to the door of the three-story brownstone in Brooklyn, disgorged them into the chill. Collar turned up, Starsky crept up the steps and hit the doorbell. Hutch paid the fare, and as he joined Starsky at the door, Anna Starsky opened it.

"Davey--!"

Beside her son, she was slight, almost diminutive--a trim woman in her late fifties, dark hair graying, bright blue eyes, the bone structure softened by her femininity. The resemblance between mother and son was still startling. Starsky hugged her, grinning.

"Hi, Mom. How're things?"

She pulled his head down to kiss him.

"Are we going to talk on the doorstep? Come on in..."

The second floor apartment was unchanged from the last time either of them had seen it, and Hutch felt the warmth and welcome fold around him as Anna's arms had done. He averted his eyes from the bountiful hospitality spread on the table waiting for them, and allowed Anna to greet him as she had her son before she stepped back to regard them both. "Ah, it's so good to see you!" Keen blue eyes raked them from head to foot and back, sharpened to shame the sighting powers of a hawk by concern. "Davey, you don't look well."

"I'm fine, Mom," he assured her quickly. "Just suffering from a Greek wedding. The next one had better be plain American."

"The next what?" she demanded. "Ken, you've lost weight."

"Wedding," Starsky said lugubriously, lowering himself with care into on armchair.

"Better still, make it Jewish," she said hopefully.

"Nah. Hutch don't qualify." And he grinned at her bemusement as it changed to comprehension.

"What--? Ken !" Like a fish snapping up a fly, she turned on him, her face alight. "You're going to get married? Who is she? A nice girl? What's her name? Where--"

"Whoa, take it easy!" Hutch laughed. "He's putting you on. I'm not getting hitched."

"Why not?" She seemed to take it as a personal affront.

"Well, Jaqi's a special lady, but--" he shrugged. "Once bitten, twice shy. Like me."

"Nonsense." She dismissed that.

"G'wan," his partner drawled infuriatingly. "Show Mom the photos. He's got it bad, y'know? Carries her picture around with him--"

"Will you cut it out?"

"So show me," Anna Starsky ordered, and without too much reluctance Hutch reached into his pocket, a sheepish smile beginning to form as the wallet was opened.

"That's Emma," he explained. "She's just turned two. And this is Jaqi."

Anna took the photographs from him. The child's face was framed by blonde hair and dominated by wide-spaced gray eyes--the same eyes gazed out from the second picture, this time set in classic features topped by Titian-red hair coiled into severe perfection. But the woman's lips were curved into a warm smile.

"Somethin' else, ain't she?" Starsky said complacently, as if he had designed her to specification. "He won't let me meet her. I figure he's scared of the competition."

"She's out of town a lot." Hutch denied the accusation. "The opportunity just hasn't come up. I told you--"

"So how long have you known her?"

"Three--nearly four months."

"And she's special?" Anna handed the pictures back, watched him replace them.

"Yes," he said simply.

"Then marry her, Ken. Before somebody with more sense does. That child needs a father, and her mother needs a good man to take care of her."

"Yeah, well, I've got to convince Jaqi of that," he grinned. "Right now she's got home and career neatly organized."

"Yeah," his partner cut in. "I'm makin' book that she's gonna start in organizing him any time now."

"Good," said Anna. "Then maybe she'll organize you when she's done with Ken. Lord knows it's about time someone did."

"Mom, I've been fending for myself for the last fourteen years--"

"Yes, that's what I mean," she told him unanswerably. "Open the wine, will you, Davey, while I put the finishing touches to the dinner?" And she disappeared into the small neat kitchen.

Starsky closed his eyes, drew a deep breath--Hutch looked at him.

"You going to make it?"

"Sure. Keep up the camouflage, buddy--you're doin' great."

"Jaqi isn't camouflage."

"Diversionary tactics, then. Whatever. Thanks--"

* * * * * * *

The meal was something of a trial for both men. Hutch, doing all he could to draw Anna's attention from her suffering son, caught himself wondering how soon it would be before they could cut the visit decently short, and he'd never felt that way before in Anna's company. But right now, Starsky didn't bear close inspection, and she wasn't going to buy the excuse of a Greek wedding to explain his condition. She had never been told the extent of the injuries Starsky had suffered ten months ago--ten months, Christ!--when Gunther's mechanics had gunned him down that fine May morning in the police parking lot. Starsky had been adamant that she shouldn't be told, and for ten months a conspiracy of silence hod kept that knowledge from her.

It was beginning to look as if she was soon to find out.

Grimly, Hutch set his teeth and encouraged Anna's inquisition into his personal life, answering questions about Jaqi and Emma--how he had met her, how Emma liked him, how he liked Emma-- But he didn't tell her all of it, couldn't. Too much of it was tied up with what she wasn't supposed to know. But he could, and did, manage to convey just how special Jaqi was. What he owed her, and why, was another matter, and not even Starsky knew the whole of it.

"Marshmallow--" Starsky cut in. "Betcha she winds him round her little finger."

"Be quiet, dear," Anna said absently. "Ken, tell me, who looks after the child if her momma's away so often?"

Twenty Questions got them through dessert, which almost defeated Hutch, and he wondered how the hell Starsky could cope with it--and then, while Anna was making the coffee, the phone rang in the hall.

"I'll get it," Starsky called to forestall his mother. And as she brought the cups in, he summoned his partner. "Hey, Hutch, c'mere. It's okay, Mom, it's for me. From LA."

"LA?" queried Hutch, closing the door and crossing to stand beside him, puzzled. "Huggy? Dobey?"

"...Yeah," Starsky said into the phone. "Stay there, okay? ...Yeah. Just as soon as we can...listen, kiddo, stay cool, keep your head down. No one knows where you are, right? So whatcha got to sweat about? ...Sure. Sure I will. See ya." He put the phone down, his expression abstracted. "That was Nick."

"Nick?" Hutch repeated. "What the hell does he want?"

"He couldn't be specific. Said he needs our help."

"What?" Patent disbelief. "Needs our help? To do what, for Chrissakes? Ari too much for him?"

"Who?"

"Nick," said Hutch, exasperated. "Where is he?"

"My place. Kinda pissed off because I wasn't there--then remembered this caper and called home to see if Mom knew where I--"

"Hold it!" Hutch broke in, more confused by the minute. "Nick's at your place? He's supposed to be in Hawaii!"

"Huh?" Starsky stared at him. Then: "Oh. Oh, no, not your Nick. Mine. Nicky. My brother."

"Oh. That Nick." A pause. "But isn't he in Vegas?"

"He was in Vegas. Now he's in LA. And in some kinda trouble."

"Trouble?"

"You're startin' to sound like a friggin' mynah bird," Starsky snapped. "Christ, now what do we tell Mom? If she knows it's Nick, she'll worry."

"You can't lie to her."

"You know I can't, she sees straight through me."

"'Kay. Leave it to me. You call Kennedy, find out what's the first flight we can get seats on. Better give us an hour to pick up at the hotel."

Starsky was dialing as Hutch left him to explain to Anna why they had to leave right now--something urgent had come up, he was needed back in LA--

She heard him out, nodding.

"Of course, Ken," she said serenely. "But next time don't tell them where you are?"

"You got a deal," he grinned, and gave her a relieved hug. "We'll get back here first opportunity we get, I promise."

"Both of us," Starsky added, coming in to the room. "Let's move, Blintz, we got ninety minutes. Sorry about this, Mom. Duty calls."

She gave him a kiss.

"Take care, Davey. Ken, you too.".

"We take care of each other," Starsky assured her, smiling. "Look after yourself. I'll call Friday, okay?"

The flurry of hurried farewells over, there was a race back to the hotel to pack and check out, and to Kennedy to make the flight. The six hours hiatus provided no respite, though-- Hutch could sense the tension of anxiety in Starsky, and worried about it himself.

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