Chapter II

When he'd first met Nick Starsky, Hutch's initial impression had been good. He liked the kid; he had the same wacky sense of humor as his brother, the same bouncy exuberance, the ability to charm the birds out of the trees if he took a mind to it. Hutch had also seen and sympathized with the younger man's need for his brother's love, care, approval--while at the same time flaunting his disregard of any claim of blood. But the sympathy did not last long. The first time he'd seen the pain and shame and guilt in Starsky's eyes, all feeling for Nick was cancelled out. When they'd discovered exactly what kind of lifestyle Nick had gotten himself into back in New York, who he ran with, there was no chance of its ever returning.

That was two years ago. Nick had gone straight since then--made a new start in Las Vegas, cutting all his old ties. Starsky had loaned (given) him cash he could ill-afford to make that start. So what was coming down now?

Wary, suspicious and angry, Hutch stood at Starsky's shoulder as he hesitated fractionally at the door of his apartment, felt rather than saw him brace himself. Then--

"Hey, Nick," opening the door. "We're back. Where are ya, kiddo?"

Nick appeared from the kitchen as if propelled by springs.

"Where the hell have you been?" he demanded. "I've been waitin' on you guys for hours."

"We got the first flight out that had spare seats," Hutch said. The apartment was untidy, with a stale, shut-in smell heavy with cigarette smoke. Clearly the air conditioning had packed it in again, but Nick hadn't opened any windows.

"We couldn't get here any sooner," Starsky went on, tiredness putting an edge of irritability in the words. "Hutch, you went to fix us some decent coffee? Then we'll talk, Nicky," he added, as a protest started.

"Okay. I'll play it your way. Again."

"Huh? Whaddya mean--"

"Ah, forget it!"

"There's no milk," Hutch said from the kitchen, deflecting sparks of tension.

"Black'll do. Just make it hot and sweet. Look, kid, I know you're uptight, but ease off, huh? Nothin's gonna get solved by you goin' off half-cocked an' shootin' your mouth off."

"Davey, you don't--"

Starsky looked at him, and the sentence died.

* * * * * * *

With his second cup of coffee half drunk, Starsky met his brother's eyes and nodded.

"Okay, Nicky, start at the beginning."

"Uh, yeah. Okay." Nick cleared his throat and frowned at the carpet. "Well, I guess it started when I got to Vegas two years back, after the Stryker caper."

"Yeah?--Hey, why Vegas, kiddo?"

"Because you said start again. A new life, right? Couldn't do that back home. Too many old--uh--associates around. So I hit on Vegas. Anyhow, with the dough you gave me, and some more I got together, I bought in on a real potential. This dame had opened a boutique, but it wasn't doing so well. She'd got the design flair, but no head for business, which I provided, an' we started to get Andromeda a name. Y'know, exclusive, quality, real classy merchandise. Lotsa folk in Vegas want individuality, know what I mean? An' they're happy to pay for it. Like I said, we were makin' a profit, then the big guys moved in. The old protection racket, with a few new twists. Y'see, there're two main outfits leanin', and I'm kind of stuck in the middle. They're lookin' for an excuse to lock horns with each other, an' I'm it! Davey, I've played it straight! Gone along with your rules ! An' look where it got me ! Maybe I should have bought protection, pulled the odd job for them like they wanted. I'd be a damn sight safer if I had!"

"The police--" Hutch began.

"Forget it. The local cops are in their pockets--hell, I thought New York lived on graft, but Vegas--man, you wouldn't believe! Davey, they're lookin' for me. I busted one of their heavies in the chops when he gave the place the treatment, he hit his head when he went down, an' he's in Intensive Care. What the hell can I do--you gotta help me!"

"What about your partner?" Hutch asked into the sudden silence. Starsky didn't speak, his face was white and strained. Whatever he'd been expecting, it wasn't this.

"Who? Oh, Sophie. She's okay. They won't hurt her, they want her talent."

"Nick," said Hutch. "We don't have any jurisdiction in Vegas. No strings we can pull." He was stared at, blankly.

"What the hell has that got to do with it? Davey, for Chrissakes go out there an' blast those friggin' mothers off my back!" It wasn't a request, but a demand.

"We don't work that way," Starsky said quietly. "We'll do what we can, but first off we'll need a whole lot more information. Hutch, put some life in this coffee, will you?"

He went to the drinks cabinet, found it almost dry, and poured the last finger of Jack Daniels into the coffee.

"We need names, addresses, descriptions," he said, dropping the empty bottle into the wastebasket. "Methods, angles, contacts. Who's straight, who's crooked, who's--"

"Hell, I don't know! I'm half a boutique, not the local godfather!"

"Sure, but you must have picked up some street-inform--"

"No! I didn't! So get off my back, Hutchinson!" Nick yelled, voice high and harsh, panic and aggression mixed to near explosion-point.

"Quit it !" Starsky bellowed. "Cool off, Nicky--we can't go in blind, can we? Give me what names you do know, and we'll take it from there."

"I'll take it from there," Hutch cut in. "You're bushed. Get yourself all the rest and sleep you can, buddy, I'll chase Huggy down."

"Okay," Starsky gave him a weary, lopsided smile.

"How long is this gonna take?" Nick said abruptly. "Could be I don't have much time--"

"Not long, if Huggy still has the Vegas connections." Starsky closed his eyes, swamped by a more-than-physical tiredness.

"Look, all you gotta do is go in an' tell a few guys not to tangle with a cop's brother--"

"Which is what we are gonna do. What else d'you expect? St. Valentine's Day Massacre? Ease off, little brother. Just ante up the names."

* * * * * * *

Feeling as if two-thirds of his brain and most of his energy were still in New York, Hutch shouldered his way into the Pits. Huggy performed an elaborate double-take as the familiar figure emerged from the afternoon crowd and leaned on the bar, and he automatically supplied an ice-cold beer.

"Don't take it personal," he said, placing the glass exactly between Hutch's hands, "but shouldn't you not be here? Like out of state, fuzz-friend? And where is the other half? Did I ever tell you how unnatural it is?"

"What?" Hutch blinked at him.

"Seein' you around looking kind of unfinished most of the time. Still can't get used to it, even after all these months."

"Neither can I." His smile was rueful. "Here's to the Review Board, and the team."

"Yeah. I'll drink to that. So, why ain't you not here?"

"Family problems. Not mine, Starsk's. Huggy, you got contacts in Las Vegas?"

"Vegas? Hm, now, let me think. Well, maybe I have, an' maybe I haven't. What's comin' down?"

"You remember Nick?"

"Nick who?"

"Starsky's kid brother."

"Uh-huh. Him, I remember. What kind of shit has he stirred up now?"

"Protection and intimidation, with him on the receiving end. And he's dropped the shit in our laps."

"Gee, am I surprised. What's he done?"

"Nothing. He's legit this time. When he left LA after Stryker was put away, he went to Vegas, bought up one-half of a boutique belonging to a Sophie Meredith, a place called Andromeda. They made it pay, and two sets of goons started to lean. One is headed by an Alexander Lazero, the other by Mac Henderson. One of Lazero's heavies, Pinto Chadd, worked the place over and Nick put him in the hospital. Intensive Care. The angle is protection money and cooperation. Now Nick maybe has a contract out on him."

Huggy gazed at the tall blond man, the whites of his eyes showing in a wild-eyed amazement.

"Tell you somethin', Hutch. Those Starskys don't do nothin' by halves," he said, with the air of one announcing a universal truth. "I got one or two favors I can call in. Leave it to me, for a minute or three, an' all will be glee."

"Don't bank on it. Thanks, Hug--but, uh, make it fast, huh? Nick is twitchin' like a strung-out junkie, and I don't want him on Starsky's back. He's not a hundred per cent yet."

"Yeah, I know. I'll get back to you just as soon as I can. Your place or his?"

"Try mine first. He needs all the sleep he can get if we're going over to Vegas."

"You gonna take the Whizz-Kid from the Big Apple with you?"

"No. Can you find a safe house for him? If they track him to LA, his brother's pad is the first place they'll look, cop or no cop. Yeah, and when you're callin' in the Vegas favors, find out where the local law stands, will you? Nick thinks they're bought and paid for."

"Surely."

Hutch drained the beer, left coins on the bartop and went back to the car. He had two weeks of his vacation left, with another two weeks booked immediately prior to Starsky's appointment with the Medical Review Board. They had been earmarked a while back as an intensive training and tuning-up session aimed at getting his partner as fit as possible before facing the Board, and the schedule had been drawn up with the aid of the hospital's therapist, dietician, and Vinnie. He also aimed to get himself back up to his own fitness standard of a few years ago. He didn't need Vinnie's acid remarks to tell him he'd let things slide. But that was beside the point. Right now, was Starsky fit enough to jump the gun and take on what amounted to a trial run of policework? He wished there was a way to go to Vegas by himself, leaving Starsky behind to hold Nick's hand, but knew it was impossible. All he could do was pray to every God he could lay a name to that Starsky would not overreach himself, or do anything that would jeopardize his chances with the Board. Like damaging weakened muscles beyond hope of repair. Or getting beaten up. Or shot.

Giving himself a mental kick in the tail for worrying like an old maid without real cause, Hutch headed back to his Venice apartment, ignoring the nag in the back of his head that said overconfidence was as stupid and dangerous as under-confidence. Whatever came down in Vegas, he would have to do his damnedest to take the brunt of it, if it couldn't be deflected altogether. And he attempted to squash the surge of celebration at the thought that the team would be back on the streets, if only for a short while and in Las Vegas rather than LA. He'd missed that more than all else, and the months of working without Starsky beside him had not made it any easier. The longer it went on, the harder it was to take, in fact, and was aggravated by the way Dobey used him to break in the rookies to the streets. All along he'd made it clear that he already had a partner, but that had not stopped his captain teaming him with a series of youngsters fresh out of uniform and full of ideas about undercover street-work that had little bearing on reality. He knew what Dobey was doing; cushioning him, easing him into a different channel--a police career that did not have a Starsky in it--Sergeant Hutchinson would become Lieutenant Hutchinson, then Captain Hutchinson--a solo ride, every stage of the way. Except that it wasn't going to be like that. If the Board ruled Starsky unfit for active duty, then the team would find another direction.

With a burst of false vitality, Hutch went up the stairs three at a time, let himself into the apartment, and checked out the plants. They'd all been watered, were looking fit and glossy, so he detoured to the phone, called Jaqi to explain that he wasn't where he should be, and would be heading out to Vegas shortly. Then took a shower and fell into bed still damp to sleep off hangover, Mrs. Starsky's cooking, the transcontinental flight, and Nick.

* * * * * * *

Nick lit the fresh cigarette from the stub of the old one, ground it out in the overflowing ashtray. "Davey. What're you gonna do?"

"Huh? 'Bout Vegas? Don't know yet. Haveta wait until we get all the word in from Huggy. Then we can plan the campaign, kiddo." He tried for a grin, but it did not quite come off.

Uncertain, Nick stared at him. It suddenly occurred to him that his brother was looking rough, far more so than could be explained by an unexpected plane trip from New York to LA. Maybe that was why he wasn't reacting the way Nick had anticipated. He'd thought to get the same response he'd had when he was a child back home; then it had only needed for him to come pelting up, bruised and breathless, yelling that some other kids had beat up on him, stolen his money, candy, comic books, whatever, and Big Brother .had gone straight out and busted a few noses, no questions asked. So much so that Nick's childhood had been a very safe haven--no one messed around with Nick Starsky because his brother fought harder, dirtier, than everybody else for blocks around. He hadn't expected this pussy-footing. Though when he came to think of it, it had been Hutchinson who had voiced the caution, Hutchinson who looked like he aimed to play it by the police book. Nick took a long drag on the cigarette, and told himself he was a fool not to have spent more time with them when he was in LA before, and a bigger fool not to have paid more attention to his brother's partner. At first the only impression the man had made was one of happy easy-going carelessness behind blond good looks--your typical laid-back Californian. Then he'd got a glimpse of something else under the facade, something cold and deadly and familiar had looked out from those pale blue eyes, pinning him in a corner, then it was gone when Starsky walked in, gone so quickly he'd thought he'd imagined it. Until now. What else was hidden? Davey he knew inside out, but all of a sudden Ken Hutchinson was too much the unknown quantity. Was there a possibility he'd talk his brother out of doing anything? Or worse, going out and digging too deep, taking too long?

"Davey, can Huggy find out if there is a contract on me?"

"Probably. Don't sweat it. Contracts can be cancelled."

"Listen, I never meant it to turn out like this !" Nick said, desperation in his voice. "I-I wanted it to be smooth an' good an' straight down the middle--"

"Easy, kid," Starsky reached out and got a hard grip on his forearm. "It's gonna be okay. Me'n Hutch'll sort it out, maybe even get you some compensation. What'll you do? Go back home, or what?"

"Don't know. Like to stay on in Vegas, but I guess that wouldn't be too wise. Maybe me'n Sophie could head up to 'Frisco with Andromeda, if we can get the capital together. We had somethin' pretty good goin' for us."

"Yeah?" Starsky looked at him, a genuine and unforced grin growing on his pale face. "You an' Sophie, huh?"

"Yeah, maybe." Nick's answering grin was more of a smirk.

"Then why did you leave her behind?"

"I-I didn't have a chance to get her away," he stammered, taken off-balance but putting his confusion to good use. "D'you think I haven't been hittin' myself with that ever since I left? They won't hurt her--I know they won't--they want her talent, Davey. She's a real great designer--I'm the one who's in danger, I'm only her business partner--they don't need the brains if they've got the inspiration--Oh, God, they can't hurt her!" and covered his face with his hands.

"Hey, it's okay," Starsky said quickly. "C'mon, kiddo, it's okay."

Nick leaned his head on his shoulder, and suddenly twenty years fell away and he was ten again, safe and protected. He grabbed a handful of the plaid shirt and let the shakes take him.

"I never meant it to be like this," he whispered brokenly. "Davey, please--"

"S'okay. You'll get your chance again, and your girl. Right now you're at the end of your rope--anyone ever tell you you can't live on your nerves for days on end and not pay the price? Damn fool kid."

Love and indulgence wrapped around him, the way they always had, and Nick forgot his doubts. Davey would put things right, and if Lazero or Henderson started spreading dirt he wouldn't believe them, not over his, Nick's, sworn word.

"Get some sleep, huh?" Starsky murmured, ruffling his hair the way he used to, an age of the world away in New York's back streets. "I'm pretty well wiped myself."

"Yeah, I'm sorry."

"An' you can cut that out for a start." The ruffle became an affectionate cuff round the ear. "Go fix me some coffee, huh?"

"Sure--I'll go get some milk. Where's the nearest place?"

"Just down the block. Get some food, too, will you? People-food. Hutch's idea of a suitable meal isn't mine."

"'Kay," catching the billfold tossed to him. "Won't be long."

He wasn't, and baked pizza while Starsky drank coffee, and after the meal was eaten they launched into a groove of 'do you remember whens' centered entirely on their childhood back East. Old ties were reaffirmed, old bonds resealed, without either of them being aware of it, both needing, for different reasons, the closeness they'd had then.

* * * * * * *

But it cost Starsky sleep he could not afford to do without, and he was still under when Hutch let himself into the apartment the next morning.

"Hi," said Nick from the kitchen, constructing himself a sandwich of epic proportion and content. "Any word from Huggy?"

"Not yet. Where's Starsk?"

"Still in bed. Want coffee?"

"Yeah, thanks,"

Hutch wandered over to the bedroom, looked in. briefly, and looked again. Then went in and checked pulse, respiration, cursed under his breath, and followed the trail of clothes back until he unearthed the jacket. He took a prescription jar out of the pocket and counted the capsules.

The steaming mug of coffee was taken out of Nick's hand, put down on the worktop, and he was thrust back into the kitchen, speared by cold-angry eyes.

"Okay, smart-ass. What time did he hit the sack last night?" Hutch bit out the words, and Nick continued to back away until the freezer goosed him.

"Hell, I don't know--midnight, I guess. Why? What's the hassle, for Chrissake? He's a big boy now." But there was an edge of fear under the brash confidence.

"This is the hassle," Hutch spat, shoving the jar under his nose. "He's supposed to take these every four hours--he's missed two, gotten over-tired, so now he's running a fever and his ribs are tightening up. If he pulls this kind of stunt too often he is not going to make that Review Board. So how come it was midnight before he crashed out? When I left he looked ready to go out like a light."

"R-Review Board?" Nick stuttered. "What the hell are you talkin' about? Davey's okay, isn't he? Hell, I know he got shot, but that was six months an' more ago."

"Ten months. What were you doing? Talking over old times, huh? Couldn't it wait until today? Don't you know how close he was to not making it?"

"N-no," said Nick, as white, now, as his sleeping brother. "Hutch, what--?"

Hutch turned away, fumbling with the cap of the jar, shaking out one capsule.

"He took three bullets at close range in the upper chest and abdomen," he said, voice stony and cold. "They had him hooked up to machines for days--went into cardiac arrest once."

"--oh my God--" Nick clutched at his arm. "Hutch, I-I didn't know--"

"Yeah, well, you do now. He's not been back at work since, and it depends on the Review Board whether or not he ever gets back on the street as a cop."

"Oh, shit! Why didn't he tell me? An' I had to come and drop my troubles on him! Why in hell didn't you tell me to get lost? Look, forget Vegas--I'll get out of here--clear out of the country, let alone the state--Acapulco--I'll slip over the border--"

"Will you quit the stupidity?" Hutch snapped. "D'you think he'd let you pull that kind of move?" But there was an unwilling smile on his mouth. "You know what he's like when his mind's made up. He's set on Vegas, Nick, and nothing you or I can do or say will change that."

"Okay, but you better ride herd on him--he's the only brother I got."

"He's the only partner I got. Give me a glass of water, Nick, and I'll get this down him. Oh, and one more thing. You ever let his Mom know how close he came to buying it, and I'll break every bone in your body. Got it?"

"Got it, big boy." Nick's jaunty grin was back in place, covering the shock and distress. "Don't sweat. I ain't about to lay that on Momma. You go play 'Doctors,' an' I'll fix breakfast. You want some too?"

"No, thanks, I've had mine. Make his an omelet, and go easy on the spices."

"You bet. Hey, Hutch. It won't happen again, y'know. I'll watch him like a hawk when you're not around, make sure he toes the line."

Hutch nodded, and Nick watched him disappear into the bedroom.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he whispered, the mental hurt putting a choking ache in his throat. "You coulda told me, Davey--" But it answered his questions of last night. No wonder he looked so rough, and Hutch playing it real cool. And he was aiming on sending him into Vegas to take on some characters who made up their own rules. No way. Not now.

He took a deep breath, wondering how he was going to convince him that he wanted to fight this battle himself, then heard an unmistakable chuckle. Starsky was staggering out of the bedroom, his arm across Hutch's shoulder, the laughter for his own state of weak-kneed dependence, the affection for the grumbled diatribe and the man bending his ear with it.

"You okay?" Nick blurted.

"Yeah, I'm fine. S'okay, kiddo, I'll get my legs back in a minute. It's my own fault for breakin' the treatment course; the doc said it don't matter none, though, as long as I don't do it too often, and this is the first time. There's no damage done, Nicky," he added, "an' there's only a few more days of those fancy capsules left anyhow, then I can leave 'em out altogether."

"What the hell else are you on?" he demanded suspiciously.

"A few others, but they're not vital. Now for Godssake quit fussin' at me. I'm starved--what's for breakfast?"

"Omelet," said Hutch. "In bed. You're supposed to be going to the john, not the kitchen," steering him through the bathroom door.

"Omelet? Christ, Hutch, you tryin' to make me egg-bound? Any more hen-fruit and I'm gonna be sproutin' feathers, not hair."

"Quit grouching," he grinned, coming out and shutting the door behind him. "Give a yell when you're ready to go back to your perch--sorry--bed."

"Damn you to hell. May you be haunted by beef burritos an' tacos with mole sauce--" Starsky yelled, "--by chilies an' Thousand Island dressing, by--" The sound of a flushing toilet drowned the rest of the speech, "--okay, Blintz, come an' get me. I'm all yours."

"With or without mole sauce?" Hutch snickered. "Nick, will you fix him up with a tray?"

"Yeah, sure. One omelet comin' up, just like the big blond ordered." But behind the bounce Nick was feeling sick. All Starsky was wearing was the pants of his pajamas, and the new patches of scarring were livid against the tan and dark body-hair of his chest. Nick tried to speculate how much damage had been done, but he knew little about human anatomy as far as medical matters were concerned, and could only guess at lungs, liver, major veins and arteries, stomach, and splintered bones; all, or any combination of. He did know guns, though, and was well aware that bad as the entry holes looked, his back would be a worse mess.

"Here ya go," he announced, bumping the bedroom door open with his hip. "One Starsky Special, on the house."

"Thanks for nothin'," his brother grouched. "Whatever happened to 'us Starskys gotta stick together,' huh?"

"I ain^tt stickin' to no pine box," Nick snorted. "No future in that. It's only live Starskys that stick together. Shut up an' eat it before it turns to leather."

"Yech."

"Or maybe you'd sooner go back to having tubes stuck down your throat and up your ass?" Hutch inquired, saccharin-mild.

"Never in a million years. Here, gimme that an' I'll pretend it's edible."

Nick's answering obscenity was cut off by the phone, and Hutch scooped it up, sitting on the bed and sliding down a way to let Starsky get his ear to the other side of the receiver.

"Yeah?" he said. "Hi, Huggy."

"And how is the invalid today?" crooned a mellifluous voice.

"Bloody-minded and foul-mouthed," Hutch grinned. "Same as always."

"I'm fine," Starsky snapped. "What you got for us?"

"This 'n' that."

"From Vegas?"

"Yeah."

"Nick," Starsky glanced up at him, "go grab the phone on the coffee table, okay?"

"Sure."

"Fire away, Hug," Hutch said, waiting for the click that said Nick was listening too.

"Ain't too much to tell right now, fellahs," Huggy said. "This is just the brief rundown my contact could give me, seein' as how it was such short notice. First off, Pinto Chadd is still in the hospital, but his condition is stabilized, an' he should be out into a regular private room any time. 'Parently he fell down a flight of steps--what the hell did li'l brother hit him with? Mount Rushmore?"

"Never mind that. What else?" Hutch said impatiently.

"Lazero's a real mean guy to cross, also, he's got a pretty good position in legitimate society--on the boards of a few companies--chairman of the P.T.A. as well, would you believe? Owns a real estate business. The cops would love to pin somethin' on him, but he is so clean he squeaks. Mac Henderson ain't such a Mr. Nice Guy. He's got control of a choice slice of territory in Vegas, coverin' everythin' from regular hotels an' motels, to brothels, illegal gamblin', an' personally arranged accidents. My contact assumes that his territory meets up with Lazero's patch somewhere along the line, but since it is only rumor that Lazero has a territory, we could be wrong. If we ain't, his front-man is one Stacey Jones. Who is also not nice to know. On Andromeda, we ain't got much. It's a straight, legit business, doin' very nicely since a Mr. Nicholas Marvin Sinclair bought in. Sophie has had her rough times, but it was startin' to look like she'd finally got the breaks. Now Mr. Sinclair has disappeared, an' so has Sophie."

"What?" Nick interrupted. "Huggy, what's happened to her--she was fine when I left--who--?"

"Take it easy, kiddo," Starsky waved an imperative hand at him.

"Go on, Huggy," Hutch said. "What else have you got on Sophie?"

"Don't sweat, word has it she's gone into hidin' until the heat's off. Far as I can make out, nobody's got a quarrel with her, she just up and panicked. Not that I blame her none. Oh, an' there ain't no contract out on Nick. They're lookin' for him, all right, but not with their guns out."

"How about the law, Hug?"

"We-ell, it kind of depends on the department, accordin' to my contact. Vice you can deal with, as long as you ain't into the under-age stuff. Narco, well, you pick the right guy, and anything goes; the wrong guy an' you get busted for carryin' two packs of cigarettes. Robbery an' Homicide--again, pick the right guys an' they'll overlook anythin' kind of run-of-the-mill if you can give 'em the-big-time crooks. There are a few real hot teams who don't play it by the book an' don't take graft, but most of 'em don't aim on floggin' themselves into early graves, you get me?"

"Yeah. Loud and clear," Hutch said. "Thanks, Huggy. We owe you."

"Any time, friends. Let me know if you want anythin' else."

"Yeah."

Hutch put the phone down, and Nick came slowly back to the bedside. The two men did not look at him. They were staring off into space, Hutch apparently contemplating the upper door hinge, while Starsky seemed mesmerized by the lump his feet made under the coverlet.

"Looks like we're back in business, good buddy," he said after a while.

"Yes," said Hutch. "How do we go?"

"Stupid question!"

"Okay, yours, but I'm driving."

"That we can fight about."

"No contest. If I don't drive, you don't go."

"Hah! You wanna make book on that?"

"Who'd take you up? Look at you--like a six weeks corpse, warmed over. We'll need Huggy's contact."

"Yeah. An' a lot more on Henderson an' Lazero."

"Huggy can keep 'em working on that while we're getting there. It's going to be a couple of days before we can leave, as it is."

"Guess so."

"Now hold on a minute," Nick interrupted, incredulous and angry. "Am I readin' you guys right? You're aimin' to go in to Vegas an' take those creeps on?"

"Yes," said Hutch, quietly.

"'Course we are. Ain't that the whole point of the exercise?" Starsky scowled at him. "Whassamatter, kiddo? Gettin' cold feet?"

"No, but maybe I'm gettin' some sense!" Nick snapped. "When I came hightailin' out of Vegas I didn't know you'd got yourself shot up like some crummy target in a shootin' gallery! There ain't no way I'm gonna let you go back in there like this--no way! An' how you can sit there an' let him even think about it, I don't know!" He rounded on Hutch, suddenly hating the calm, blond mask, and needing a direction for his anger and his fear. "Call yourself his buddy? Partner? Crap! You should be tyin' him down until he's fit to do his work here in LA, not encouraging him to go chasin' off to Vegas where he's likely to get himself slammed back into the hospital, if not killed !"

"You about done?" Starsky said, voice ominously level.

"No!" Nick threw caution to the winds, and took a deep breath. "I can fight my own battles, now. I'm going back to Vegas, an' I'll get them off my back myself."

"What kind of flowers do you want?" Hutch asked mildly.

"Huh?"

"For Chrissake, Nicky, use your brain," Starsky sighed. "Vegas or LA, what does it matter--this is our kind of work. You wouldn't know where to begin, let alone protect yourself. Runnin' with a few small-time hoods in New York is no apprenticeship for the league these guys are in. Leave it to us. And don't worry about my skin. Hutch does that well enough for all three of us. I'm fit enough to cope--and if it does get too hard for me to manage, then I've got enough sense to either back out or let Hutch take over and finish things off."

"But--"

"Since this is developing into a family quarrel," Hutch said, getting to his feet and stretching, "I'll leave you two at it. See you lunchtime, Starsk."

"'Kay."

"Be good, kids."

"Up yours, Hutchinson!" Starsky yelled at the closing door. But his grin disappeared as the catch snicked shut, and he leaned forward, taking Nick's wrist in a grip that had lost nothing of its strength. "Don't you ever lay that on Hutch again," he said coldly. "You hear me, Nick? My scars you can see, but his are the kind that don't show on the skin, and they don't heal up so easy. It takes a very special kind of strength and friendship to let him do what he's doing, backing me in this. If the positions were reversed, I don't know that I could do it for him again," remembering the helpless terror and anger that had possessed him when it had seemed he would lose his partner to the plague-virus, and there was nothing he could do--and the euphoric relief that followed, when he wanted nothing so much as to wrap Hutch in a blanket of protectiveness, knowing equally that he couldn't--

"I don't know what you mean." Nick licked his lips, nervous and hurt. "All I know is--you're the only brother I got and I don't want to lose that."

"I'm the only partner he's got, but he knows and respects me well enough to let me walk my own road. He doesn't want to lose that any more than I do, but if we changed our pattern just to keep one of us safe, then we wouldn't be a team any more, and we've lost something so special that--I guess you don't understand, do you, kiddo?"

"No," he muttered. "Meanin' I don't know you or respect you? I'm your brother and I love you. Ain't that enough?"

"Sure it's enough." Starsky smiled and ruffled his hair. "Forget it, Nicky, guess it's one thing we're on different wavelengths about. How 'bout some coffee, huh? This omelet's great, but I need some liquid to wash it down."

"Yeah, sorry. I'll. got it."

* * * * * * *

It was an unsatisfactory morning for Nick. He pottered about the place, wielding duster, vacuum cleaner, generally tidying up and making himself useful. Starsky slept almost as soon as Hutch left, awaking stiff and sore some three hours later. Nick had already found the large jar of liniment in the bathroom, its instructions clearly written on the Rx label, but his offer of a massage was turned down.

"S'okay, kiddo. Hutch'll see to it when he gets here. They gave him a crash-course at the hospital."

"Listen, I know about massage, too."

"Yeah, sure. But I'll wait for Hutch. See, he's got this sadistic streak, an' he gets a hell of a kick out of takin' my muscles apart."

"Huh," Nick grunted, face sour.

Hutch, when he arrived, showed no sign of sadism, or barehanded vivisection, but worked on Starsky's upper body with impersonal gentleness, giving a running report of his morning activities as he did so.

"Snuck into R & I without being spotted," he said, "at least, not by Dobey. Pulled a few files. Pinto isn't on our records, or Lazero either, but Henderson has quite a past. Seems he tried to move in on LA about ten years ago, and the local bad guys objected. Reading between the lines, there must have been the makings of a real interesting gang-war brewing, but a hit man took out his two lieutenants and he retired to Vegas, licking his wounds."

"You tellin' me he didn't hit back?" Starsky drawled, half-asleep under the clever hands.

"Nope. He hit back, okay. A couple of top men got burned, but he didn't try another takeover bid. That sort of thing has to be done through the proper channels, even on the wrong side of the law."

"Yeah. Law of the jungle," Starsky yawned. "You should take this up professionally. Think we could market him, Nick? The Blond Blintz--Masseur Extraordinary!--"

"Nah, he's too old," Nick growled.

"Yeah, maybe. But you should have seen him six, seven years ago. Man, he was awful pretty--ouch! That hurt! 'Course, if you take off that albino caterpillar on his upper lip, an' he'd still be--ow! D'you haveta play rough?"

"Gee, did I hurt you? I'm sorry."

"You're still set on goin' in?" Nick said abruptly.

"Yeah," his brother answered.

"Didn't you get that settled this morning?" asked Hutch.

"Yes," said Starsky.

"No," said Nick.

"I see. Greek meets Greek, I guess."

The long, mobile mouth was hidden by the moustache, but the blue eyes were alight with laughter. Mocking him, Nick decided, and belligerence flared suddenly.

"What the hell does that mean?" he demanded.

"That's I-Went-To-College Hutchinson," Starsky chuckled. "It means it's not easy for one to out-maneuver another one. Cool off, Nick. You want to start a fight, wait until my back's done."

Nick glanced involuntarily at the back in question, and wished he hadn't. Nor could he understand how Hutchinson could calmly work on it as if those ridged, torn-flesh scars did not exist. Maybe familiarity breeds apathy, he decided. Then remembered the cold-eyed rage of the morning, and changed his mind.

"Oh, shit !" he spat, and slammed out of the room.

* * * * * * *

"I suppose you had to tell him," Starsky said into the silence.

"Yes. Though he'd've guessed soon enough as soon as he saw you stripped," Hutch replied quietly. "They aren't exactly acne scars, you know."

"Yeah. Guess it was better to be warned before the great unveiling." He rolled over and squinted down at his chest. "Maybe they should call me Pinto."

"Why? There are plenty of other adjectives for you," Hutch said, and departed for the bathroom to wash the liniment from his hands. Starsky contemplated sending a missile after him, but was too comfortable to move.

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