Chapter III
What if, said the persistent niggle, Starsky isn't up to it? What if he can't cope with police-work--at least, not the kind they did, out in the street, taking the knocks and giving them back? Hutch swore and choked on toothpaste. This was no time to be getting cold feet. They were due to leave Los Angeles in just under two hours. But, went on the niggle, he isn't up to par; for example the state he was in two days ago, and all he'd done was skip a few pills.
Hutch glared at his reflection in the mirror.
"You are a dope," he snapped. Starsky's condition then was the direct result of too much retsina, ouzo, Jewish/Polish cooking, and too little sleep. The blond face scowled back at him, uncertain, malevolent, mouth a compressed line under the toothpaste-coated moustache. Maybe Nick was right. Besides, it wasn't just a matter of physical fitness, there was also the question of nerve. His as well as Starsky's.
The euphoria of the last day or so, born with the renewed team-work, curled up in a corner and died. Could he, when it came down to it, let Starsky take all the old risks again? And could Starsky face up to the old risks, having gone through the kind of agonies devised by the Spanish Inquisition ever since he took those bullets in the body?
Slowly Hutch wiped his face clean, rinsed out his mouth, and pulled on his bathrobe. Then trailed out to the kitchen and the coffee percolator. The answer to both questions was yes. It wouldn't be easy, for either of them, but that didn't change things. But what if Starsky didn't make the grade, now or in front of the Board? Dully surprised, Hutch poured himself coffee. He had thought he had that possibility settled in his head. If Starsky quit the Force, so did he. And the only problem facing them then would be what work they did. After all, the main reason why he had taken his badge back all those months ago, was because Starsky wanted to be back in so badly it hurt. He hadn't wanted it for himself. Only Starsky. That, and to finish the job they'd started. They'd done that, okay. But he was still left with a badge he did not want, in a way of life that brought disillusionment and pain.
Looking back, he could not even pin-point when ambition and enthusiasm had begun to die, but they had, changing him as they did so. In the early years it had been Starsky who was the rebel, while he--on the surface, at least--was the epitome of convention. Then slowly the shift began. He dropped the work-outs, the health food, took a perverse pride in wearing clothes that over-reached Starsky's in the Welfare Stakes, and grew the moustache. Changing his image, because he couldn't change the world? Kicking against authority, the system, because they didn't even see him when they trod him down? Kicking against life because life had hurt him too much? Throwing his badge into the sea, a little more pollution in an ocean already sour with it? And Starsky, standing right alongside him, mirror-image of himself, offering up to the uncaring Gods the badge he still believed in. Now, in a weird kind of way, they'd come full-circle, back to that point on the sea's edge. Only now he didn't want to throw the badge away. He'd grown a little wiser, a little older, and with the maturity had come acceptance. There wasn't anything else he could do, or wanted to do, except be a cop. Even so, he would set the terms.
"Me 'n' thee," he said to the coffee cup, went back into the bathroom, and shaved off the moustache.
* * * * * * *
"You're late," Starsky snapped as Hutch opened the door, morning flooding in behind him.
"Yeah, sorry," he smiled. "We'll make it up on the freeway. Hi, Nick."
"Uh, hi," he answered cautiously. "Are you always this full of bounce at dawn?"
"Isn't dawn. It's--um--8:32," consulting his pocket-watch, "and I'm thirty-two minutes late. No sweat."
"Yes," said Starsky. "He usually is this full of bounce."
"Well, it's indecent. I'd divorce him if I were you."
"So aren't you gonna ask me why I'm late?" Hutch demanded, plainly indignant. No one had mentioned the missing facial hair, either.
"Nope," said his partner. "Want coffee?"
"Okay, I'll buy it." Nick's curiosity got the better of him; this clean-shaven apparition in dark slacks and turtleneck needed some explanation.
"I'm changing my car."
"Judas Priest!" Starsky groaned. "Not again! What is it this time? A clock-work Mickey Mouse buggy complete with noddin' Pluto in the back window?"
"No," said Hutch, face reddening.. "It's a four year old Dodge station-wagon. Figured I'd have more room for skis and fishing gear, and stuff."
"Oh, God. The LTD rides again."
"No, it doesn't! Okay, the fenders have had a bump or two and the headlights don't match, but the bodywork's good, and the engine's sound as a bell."
"Who says?"
"Merle says. The only gripe he's got is that I won't let him loose on her. She's staying the color she is."
"How much rust has it got?"
"None. And there's only forty thousand on her. In four years. One owner. He gave me a better price for Belle than I figured," he added. "She's not a bad car, Starsk. I'll be picking her up when we get back from Vegas--you'll see; she's better than my old Ford ever was."
"That was said in front of a witness--can I have it in writing?"
"Go to hell. You ready to start out?"
"Guess so."
"Hey," said Nick. "Why get another ear in the first place?"
"Uh, well, Belle was kind of small--I got cramps in my legs," Hutch muttered.
"Nothin' wrong with her size--for a kiddie-car," Starsky snickered. "So now the Blond Blintz gets himself a set of wheels that'll take the old one in the trunk without even touchin' the sides. Has to be a meanin' in there somewhere."
"Yes," said Hutch. "There is. Besides which, she's got acceleration that'd leave that little car standing, and make your souped-up coke can eat dust. Where's your case?"
"Look, fellas, won't you change your minds, huh?" Nick tried one more time. "I'd kind of like to handle it by myself--all the dope Huggy's dug up will make it easier--and it is my battle--"
"Our battle," Starsky interrupted. "No, Nick. It's best we handle it. In this kind of situation two are safer than one. We can watch each other's backs, and get the leg-work done twice as fast. Besides, we work better as a team, huh, Hutch?" and looked across at him, the smile speaking of trust, confidence and an almost fierce anticipation.
Nick didn't need to see the answering smile to know himself shut out. 'But I'm your brother!' he wanted to shout. 'You should listen to me!' But he said nothing, picked up the case and carried it down to the Torino, shoving it on to the back seat. Hutch's was already in there, and there was no sign of another car parked nearby.
"So where is this famous Belle?" he asked, leaning on the doorjamb.
"Merle's got her. He dropped me off."
"He must have some kind of angle you don't know about. Sucker," Starsky grinned. Then grew abruptly serious. "Listen, Nicky, you stay put until Huggy gets here. He'll take you to a safe house, and don't you move from it until you hear from us, okay?"
"Yeah, but--"
"We'll keep you informed through Hug on how things are comin' down, and as soon as we find out how Sophie is, we'll pass it on. Don't go out. Huggy'll bring you all the things you need. How much dough you got? Here, this'll help. Take care of yourself, an' don't do anythin' stupid, or I'll break your neck. Okay?"
"Yeah. That goes double for me." Nick returned his bearhug. "For Godssake don't get hurt again. How in hell would I explain it to Momma?"
"Won't have to. See ya, kiddo."
* * * * * * *
The Torino took off with a squeal of rubber, and Nick watched it out of sight. Then went back inside the apartment and kicked the door shut behind him. The place was oddly quiet, empty, and he switched on the radio, turning up the volume.
A safe house. What was safer, than a cop's pad? After all, Huggy had said there wasn't a contract out on him, and anyhow, no one was going to link Nick Sinclair with Dave Starsky's kid brother. Safe houses were pokey, drab, and usually stank. Here there was everything he needed--including, if he could find his brother's phonebook, lovely ladies to keep him company.
"Besides," he said to the grape-ivy on the coffee table, "he's my brother."
* * * * * * *
Starsky studied the denuded profile out of the corner of his eye.
"New car, huh?" he grinned.
"Yeah. A bit more suited to police work than Belle was," Hutch said non-committally.
"Could anythin' be less suited? Even the late lamented LTD?" Then he relented, stretched his legs and slumped back in the seat, relaxed and comfortable. "Okay, partner, how do we play it? Undercover?"
"Suppose we'd better," he said with a spurious reluctance. "If I can remember not to call you Starsk."
"What's the pitch? Better keep me 'n' Nick as brothers, I guess."
"Or cousins. That would explain the family resemblance. But only if somebody queries it. Think we'd better keep the connection, and our line of work, under the mat. It could have repercussions."
"Yeah. I don't aim to give IA a birthday present if it turns sour on us and we have to lean a little heavy." There was a short, companionable silence. Then, "Hey," Starsky chuckled. "Know somethin'? I feel like a kid out of school. Damn near drove me crazy, moochin' around all day, knowing you're out where the action is and I wasn't. Those happy little 'day-in-the-life-of-a-cop' pep talks you used to give me helped like a hole in the head."
"I know. Sorry."
"Forget it. Had to keep in touch somehow--it would have been worse without 'em. Tell you another thing. Didn't know how crowded that pad could get until Nick moved in. Seemed like he was always underfoot, know what I mean? Everywhere I turned, he was right with me--practically livin' in my hip-pocket--elbowin' into the middle--wassamatter with the dumb kid?"
"He isn't a kid, Starsk. He must be close to thirty."
"Yeah." He sounded surprised. "He is. Don't look it, though. How the shit does he manage it? Don't look a day over twenty-three-four. No justice in this world."
"Have you given up pulling out the gray hairs, then?"
"Ain't got any. Yet. But I keep on lookin'." There was another pause. "Guess I should feel guilty."
"What about, for Chrissake?"
"He's back there and we're out here, and it's one hell of a relief. He is my brother, Okay, he went through a bad patch, but he's straight now, and it's awful late in the day for him to start bein' possessive all over again."
"Was he, as a kid?"
"Yeah. Guess we both were. Still are. Like, when do I get to drive my own car? Or are you aimin' to take on all two hundred and eighty plus miles yourself?"
"No way. We'll take it in spells. Could be he's still looking for something, Starsk. Same as he was last time he came out west. He's lonely, I think." And resentful, he nearly added. Jealous.
"Yeah," Starsky said quietly. "Lonely is hell to live with. I'll do something about that when we get back, if I can. Or maybe I won't have to. Sophie could cure all his problems."
"Maybe she could at that. Uncle Starsk."
"Huh. First off, smart-ass, we gotta find her." Then could resist temptation no longer. "Guess you forgot to check in the mirror this mornin'."
"Huh? What? Why?" Face mulishly blank.
"Maybe it just crawled away to die--ain't you been taking care of it? Or did it turn into a butterfly overnight?"
"--Starsky--!"
"Thought you were gonna make up lost time on the highway? Put your foot down, willya?"
Hutch glared at the wide, affectionate grin, and struggled to maintain his scowl.
"And get a ticket? Wouldn't dare show our faces back in the squadroom if we let CHiP collar us." But the needle on the speedometer crept round past the 55, and the Torino streaked for the distant state line.
* * * * * * *
Huggy had told them to book into a motel called the Dorado Sunrise, and it took some finding. When they did locate it, they discovered that Huggy had made a good choice. Not that it was a salubrious establishment by anyone's standards, but it was only a matter of a few blocks and back alleys away from the Andromeda boutique.
Starsky showed no sign of tiredness, and seemed no stiffer than his partner after the long hours in the car, so Hutch ordered himself to stop watching the man like he was made of eggshell porcelain, and left him to carry the cases into the motel while he signed them in. Dave Travis and Ken Brandt. At the same time, his performance as the Minnesota Hick won him the amused condescension of the receptionist and a list of places he just had to visit, complete with route map.
Having established themselves as good old boys, they left the motel to give the bright lights of Vegas the once-over, heading by a tortuous, meandering path for the Ponderosa Saloon. The place bore a faint resemblance to the Pits back in LA, a run-down, sleazy clone that Huggy would not have soiled his patent leather boots by walking into--but he had said the contact would pick them up there.
From their homework, they knew that the Ponderosa was in a kind of neutral territory, owned by neither Henderson nor Jones/Lazero. Also in this buffer zone was Andromeda, but in an area where the borders came close. They had passed it on their way to the bar; a stylish storefront in a stylish street, the 'closed' sign hanging askew, the window display faintly dusty in the glare of neon.
"Vegas doesn't seem to have changed much since we were here last," Hutch said quietly, watching his partner assault a one-armed bandit with grim determination.
"Me, I'm surprised to find it here at all," Starsky grunted, and crowed with pleased delight as the machine coughed out four bits. "Y'know, one of these days a humdinger of a desert storm is gonna blow over and when it's done, Vegas is nowhere. Spotted Primrose yet?"
"No. At least, I don't think so. There's a girl over by the pay phone giving us the once-over."
"Yeah? A looker?"
"You better believe it. A real high-priced lady."
Starsky glanced round, located the girl and whistled under his breath.
"Oh, wow! Hope she's got a friend, Hutch, or you're out of luck."
"Sorry to disappoint you, but you're in no condition yet to take on--" He was interrupted by a tap on the shoulder, and he jerked round to meet the flat stare of a black who topped his six foot plus by a good eight inches. Hutch put on a winning smile. "Evenin'," he said. The basilisk gaze raked him from head to foot.
"You Starsky or Hutch?" a rumbling whisper from an impossibly thin chest.
"Uh, Hutch," he said. "Ken Brandt."
"You gonna take us to Primrose?" Starsky demanded, losing interest in girl and slot-machine. The man's wide mouth split into a broken-toothed grin.
"Little man, I am Primrose," he drawled. "So watch your lip about the name because I ain't got no sense of humor."
"I don't doubt that at all, Mr. McGregor," Hutch said. "Have you found Sophie Meredith?"
"Not yet. You don't have to be formal--Huggy said you're okay, so you c'n call me Primrose."
"Uh, thanks," Starsky mumbled, trying to keep his face straight. "See, he didn't give us a description, so we were lookin'--uh--"
"For a broad," McGregor finished for him. "S'okay. Huggy does have a sense of humor. Or somethin' that passes for one. Come on out back. We can talk there."
He led them to a small room beyond the kitchen, its walls lined with stacked shelves of bar supplies.
"Ain't got a lot more than you'd had from Cousin Hug," he said. "There's some weird undercurrents I ain't worked out yet--things ain't as simple as they looked first off. Henderson and Lazero sure want your boy bad, an' the word has gone out he ain't to be hurt. Not a hair on his head. But not to be fussy who they gotta burn to get hold of him."
"What's so odd about that?" Starsky snapped.
"Man, is you or ain't you a cop? The way it was told to me, it was merely a question of pay up or else, maybe do a little job or else. Right? So since when did guys like these pussyfoot around with a backslider? Or do they do things different in LA? Out here, they get wasted. Seems like your boy's got somethin' on one of 'em an' they both want it."
"Nick is clean!" he protested.
"Maybe. Maybe not."
"Primrose," said Hutch over Starsky's furious denial, "What about Sophie?"
"Whatever it is, I don't think she's in on it. Leastways, no one's botherin' much lookin' for her. Could be, though, she knows somethin' about what's goin' on. I got some good brothers trackin' her down. We'll flush her out for you."
"We're not investigating her," Hutch said irritably. "We want to get her safely out of here."
"And get these goons off Nicky's back," Starsky added. "That's all. Huggy told you we're cops--well, all this is purely unofficial."
"Yeah, he told me that, too. S'okay. No sweat. You stayin' at the Dorado like I suggested?"
"Yeah. Number seven."
"Could be your lucky number." McGregor's grin was entirely without mirth. "Why don't you guys take a stroll down to the Riverboat? Henderson's usually there this time of night. If anythin' new comes up, I'll come a-callin'."
"'Kay. Thanks, Primrose." Starsky managed a more or less genuine smile; and the gaunt death's head nodded like a malevolent Buddha.
* * * * * * *
The two men walked in silence, gawking blank-eyed at the blazing lights like all the other tourists, trying to ignore the unease that was growing in them both.
"I got it," Starsky said suddenly, relief laughing in his voice. "Hutch, I'll bet somebody--Henderson or the other guy, maybe both of 'em--found out his real name and traced him back to New York, learned who he ran with then, and started to put the pressure on him to come onto their payroll. After all, he said they wanted him to do a job or two--"
"Then why didn't he say he'd been made?" Hutch growled.
"Because he's tryin' to forget the past--start a new life--" he broke off. It sounded lame in his own ears.
"Could be you're right," Hutch said, considering. "Nick seems to have a remarkable ability to copy the ostrich. He hasn't said anything about the Stryker affair, or any other of his shady deals. It's like they don't exist for him anymore."
"He deserves the chance to start out all over," Starsky said. "With a clean slate. Doesn't he? We all make mistakes, Hutch."
"Hey, I'm not saying anything different," he pointed out quietly.
"Yeah. I know."
"And it's no use shying away from what-ifs and maybes, either, We don't know a thing for sure--it's all supposition and uncorroborated information."
"Okay, okay," he smiled. "You sound like a Public Defender. C'mon, let's get this creep checked over, I'm bushed,"
* * * * * * *
Henderson was a big man, with the kind of build and looks that could have been chunked out of granite. Brutal authority and cold intelligence were stamped on the heavy-boned face, and for all his solid weight he moved with the ease of an athlete.
"One tough cookie," Starsky hissed in Hutch's ear. "You wanna go over an' tell him to leave my li'l brother alone?"
"Nope. Tell him yourself."
"Think we better take a raincheck. He's got goons around, but not that many."
"Nothing intrusive, certainly," Hutch agreed. "Looks an ambitious man, Starsk."
"Yeah, that's what I was thinking. The kind of guy who'd grab himself a little more territory if he had half a chance."
"Using Nick as an excuse. 'Is Lazero leaning, Mr. Sinclair? I'll look after you, for a price."'
"Could well be it," Starsky nodded. "It's a cryin' shame all Nicky could say was 'I don't know nothin'.' That ain't no kind of help."
"We've managed on less. Seen enough? If we wander round much longer it's going to be obvious we're casing the joint."
"Okay, schweetheart," he Bogarted. "Let's get outa here--your place or mine?"
"Forget it, I'm not that kind of girl," Hutch grinned. "Come on, clown."
They left, via the inevitable bank of slot-machines, where Starsky lost six dollars winning three, and went back to the Dorado Sunrise.
* * * * * * *
Primrose McGregor arrived at ten thirty the next morning, carrying breakfast in a selection of brown bags.
Still bleary-eyed and tousled from sleep, Hutch let him in, and gazed revolted at the bagels the black man upended on a plate.
"Where's your partner?" McGregor asked, and Hutch gestured vaguely towards the further bed where a large mound groaned and heaved upright.
"Wassamarrer?" Starsky demanded.
"Food," said McGregor.
"What else have you got there?" Hutch averted his eyes from the plate.
"Coffee, french-fries, bilberry flavored yogurt, orange juice an' flapjacks. What should be hot is hot, what's cold is cold."
"Oh, God."
"You got maple syrup?" Starsky hitched up his pajamas and homed in on the table.
"Yeah."
"Primrose, you're a beautiful person."
"Better take a double dose of pills if you're going to tackle that lot," Hutch said, retreating to the bathroom. "Leave some for me."
"Sure. You also have some info, Primrose?"
"Some. Wanna wait until Blondie gets back? Don't care to repeat myself."
"'Kay. Have a flapjack."
"You guys are for real cops?"
"Yes." Starsky fixed him with a cold blue eye. "Wanna see my badge?"
"Nope. I'll take your word for it. This your first time in Vegas?"
"Uh-uh. We did an undercover spell here a while back. How are things lookin' for us?"
"They ain't gettin' less complicated."
"Thanks a bunch. Hey, Hutch! Hurry it up, willya?"
"All right, cool down." Hutch emerged from the bathroom, groomed if only half-dressed, hooked a shirt out of his case and shrugged into it. "What you got, Primrose?"
"Your boy has to be a smooth operator."
"What does that mean?" Starsky frowned.
"What it says. I got two lots of words back. One says he had something real big on Henderson an' Lazero wants it for a lever. The other says it's on Lazero an' Henderson's aimin' to buy."
"Huh?" said Hutch. "That doesn't make sense."
"Sure it does. Kid brother was tryin' to play both ends against the middle, an' had his bluff called."
Starsky's hand shot out fast as a striking snake, fingers dug into McGregor's shirt-front, bit deep and jerked.
"You want to rephrase that some?" ha snarled. "My brother is straight. Think again."
"Easy, Starsk." Hutch put his hand on the taut shoulder. McGregor met the angry glare with his chill, impersonal stare.
"Nope. I ain't rephrasin' it any. You don't like what you hear, you better light out back home to LA. Cop."
"That's enough," Hutch snapped, an edge to his voice that got the attention of both men. "Starsky, sit down and shut up. McGregor, if you've got any more than that you'd better trot it out, because that statement just is not enough. You read me? You got proof, you give it, and make it fast."
"Maybe Sophie's got the proof. Only she ain't talkin'," he said.
"Why not? She's not dead?"
"No. But she don't want to speak to Nicky Sinclair's brother. Don't want anythin' to do with the family."
"But--" Off-balance, Starsky slumped back in the chair. "That's crazy. Nick said they had sornethin' special--"
"Hell, I don't know, man," McGregor shrugged. "Maybe he shoulda told her that, as well. The way she sees it, he lit out and left her to carry the can."
"I gotta talk to her, Primrose."
"I'll do what I can, but guarantees I don't give."
"What is this hold Nick's supposed to have?" Hutch said. "He used to be in with some tough outfits back in New York. Is it contacts he's got that they want?"
"Could be." But the lanky black sounded doubtful. "I got a gut feelin' it's heavier than that."
"Yeah," Starsky whispered. "Nicky was small-fry in New York. Oh, shit! What the hell is he into now?"
"We don't know for sure that he's into anything," Hutch said. "Primrose, if Sophie won't talk to Starsk, will she talk to me? She needn't know I'm connected, if it'll make it easier."
"It's worth a try."
"Are you sure there's no contract out on him?" Starsky cut in.
"Yeah. That hasn't changed."
"I don't get this. It has to be something he knows, or has, that's too valuable to get him killed, and that Sophie isn't in on. So that means Andromeda isn't involved, either. Doesn't it?"
"Perhaps," Hutch frowned. "Who owns Andromeda? Who signed the lease on the place?"
"Don't know, but I can find out."
"What you got? That it's the place they want, and if Nicky's the signee, he's the only one who can transfer it over?" Starsky straightened, snatching at the new angle with a kind of desperation that Hutch found painful to see.
"It's possible," he said. "After all, he was keen on coming back to sort it out himself, and he wouldn't have been if there was an execution squad waiting for him, in spite of--"
"--havin' to ask was there a contract out," Starsky finished. "That could have been panic, I guess. So what's at Andromeda, apart from a pile of fancy threads at exorbitant prices?"
"If it was the clothes, fashion originals or whatever they are, then they'd want the designer, presumably. So perhaps we better take a look at the shop. How 'bout it, Primrose?"
"Yeah, I guess a little bit of judicious breakin' an' enterin' wouldn't come amiss," he said. "I'll check that it's not bein' watched, an' let you know."
"'Kay. We'll split it between us. Hutch can go an' be the White Knight for Sophie, an' you 'n' me can deal with Andromeda."
"Starsk, it'll be better if we stick together."
"No, this way we kill two birds with one stone."
Hutch looked at him, found his eyes met by a steady, understanding gaze, and touched him lightly on the shoulder.
"Okay, have it your way," he said, voice easy and relaxed, and McGregor never knew how much it cost him to say it.
"I'll get back to you," he announced, rising to his feet, a human stick insect in clothes that would amaze a Hell's Angel, and ambled to the door. "Don't go 'way."
"We better phone Huggy, give him a progress report to pass on to Nick," Starsky said. "Throw a few questions we want answers on, as well."
"I'll do it," Hutch said. "You're not through with breakfast yet." He escorted McGregor to the door, and scooped up the phone.
* * * * * * *
The Pits' number was engaged. And it stayed that way throughout the rest of the morning. Hutch spent most of the time haunting the phone, but got the busy line at every attempt. He checked with reception to find out if any calls had come through for them, but none had, and then McGregor came back with a girl at his side and it was time for another war-council.
"This is Jolie," he said briefly, "she's gonna take Blondie to Sophie. You'n me has a date with Andromeda."
"Seven is his lucky number, not mine," Starsky sighed, gazing wide-eyed at her. Despite garish halter-top and shorts and too much junk jewelry, she had the figure of a dancer, and the face of a black Nefertiti. She accepted his frank admiration with cool composure, but did not speak.
"The keys, Starsk," Hutch said crisply, holding out his hand, and Starsky handed them over without thinking.
"Hey, what--"
"We'll use my car," McGregor said. "Ain't no way I'm gonna fold myself up into that weird buggy of yours."
"You're a man of discernment," Hutch grinned, offering his arm to Jolie. "Shall we go, honey?"
But at the payphone in the forecourt, he paused, and tried one more time. The call rang through and was answered almost immediately.
"Hug? It's Hutch. How're things?"
"Quiet. Listen, good buddy--"
"Haven't got long. Tell Nicky we're going to see Sophie, and that we're making some progress. Ask him who has the lease on the shop, will you? And if anyone has offered to buy them out? He's okay, isn't he?"
"Oh, yeah. He's fine. Real cool, laid-back dude, is Nicholas Marvin."
"Good. Tell him to stay put, to keep his head down--"
"Hutch--"
"Hey," said Jolie, "we keep her waitin' an she's gonna lose her nerve an' skip."
"Yeah, I'm right with you-- Huggy, I have to go--we'll call in again--"
"Wait on, Hutch! I gotta tell--" but the money ran out and Hutch put the phone down.
* * * * * * *
They drove across town, to an area of clapboard buildings behind bright, over-painted facades, used-car lots, small bars and strip joints. Jolie didn't speak, except to give directions, and Hutch's attempts at conversation were met with a slight, wise smile. She would not be drawn on any subject, and after a while he gave up trying.
"Park behind that truck," she said eventually, and he obeyed. "Reckon we were followed, Blondie?"
"No," he said, mildly aggrieved by that name on her lips. She'd made it sound almost an insult.
"'Kay, let's go. Over there, through the Hidalgo Grande. Sophie's in the pad at the top of the stairs to the right. I'll be waitin' in the one on the left. Don't be too long, an' don't you spook her none, or you won't leave Vegas as pretty as you are."
"That's a threat, I take it?"
"Uh-uh. Just a friendly warnin'. See, Primrose don't like folks upsettin' his ladies, an' Sophie is still one of the fam'ly even if she ain't worked for him for a while."
"He knew where she was all the time?"
"Could say that. C'mon, Blue-Eyes, haul yo' ass."
Hutch climbed out of the Torino, held the door for her, and followed her swaying hips into the bar. A hooker and her john, another trick to be turned in the upstairs room.
* * * * * * *
Starsky showered, shaved and dressed in record time, firing a string of questions at McGregor's impassive sprawl of limbs in the one armchair. But the answers were not satisfactory; no, he hadn't found out who held the lease. The only guys watching the place were his, Primrose's, neither Henderson nor Jones had shown any interest, it was exactly as Sophie had left it when she'd run for it. No, she hadn't said why she wouldn't see any of Nick's family, barrin' that he'd ditched her when the going got hot. And no, he didn't have any more information on what Nick was up to with Henderson and Lazero. What did he, Starsky, think he was? Some kind of medicine man? It was only an hour since he'd given him his last report, for Chrissakes.
"Okay, okay,"' Starsky sighed. "Guess I got used to Huggy producin' miracles, an' kind of expected the whole family to be able to do the same."
"Big deal," McGregor growled. "You 'bout ready now?"
"Yeah." He settled the S & W into his shoulder holster, straightened his denim jacket, and nodded. "Lead on, MacDuff."
As a precaution, the black man tooled the dusty Chevrolet through a maze of streets, circling, back-tracking, weaving a course that would show up and then lose any tail they might have collected. When he was satisfied they were clean, he parked in a back alley fifty yards from the rear entrance, and got out. A skinny urchin slouched in a doorway gave him the thumbs up, and the two men moved swiftly into the mid-morning shadows of the alley.
McGregor opened the door with a skeleton key and stood back.
"Go ahead," he said. "I'll keep watch. You hear me whistle Dixie, come out careful."
"Okay." He took a last glance around, and went in.
He was in a storeroom; racks of garments covered over with polyethylene sheets lined up in neat rows, a fine film of dust dulling the sheen of the stuff, and showing clearly on the floor that he was the first to come in for days. His own footprints stood out like beacons.
Stifling a sense of unease, Starsky went through to an office, and disturbed more dust searching through the drawer and filing cabinet. This was Nick's domain. His handwriting was in order books, ledger, on receipts, and in the diary. Starsky slipped that into his pocket. But all seemed above board, nothing was there that jarred on his instincts, and all the bookwork was neat and businesslike.
Avoiding the store itself, with the big display window that gave too good a view from the street, Starsky found the stairs that led to the apartment above. It was small, but furnished with a surprising degree of expensive elegance, a kitchen-dinette, living room, and bedroom with the bathroom opening off. Not entirely a bachelor pad, he discovered with a wry grin. Sophie had left makeup on the dressing table, filmy lace nightgowns of pink, flame, black, hanging in the wardrobe beside Nick's suits and shirts. He gave them only a cursory glance. After all, he wasn't here to dig into his brother's love-life, but to find something in the place that might be useful to a couple of gangland bosses.
Its location, maybe?
From the bedroom window he could see the upper story of a bank, and his eyebrows climbed. Interesting. But the other windows offered nothing else of use. On a purely business level, the boutique was well-positioned for catching customers with plenty of money to spend--but that wasn't enough to explain all the hassle, he had to admit.
Starsky started a systematic search, acting more on professional instinct, the need to be doing something--anything--rather than have to stand still and speculate on unpleasant possibilities. The kitchen yielded nothing. The freezer was well-stocked, cupboards as well, all of it good quality. Nick had obviously developed expensive tastes. The bathroom was also a blank, until he opened the linen closet, moved a pile of towels and found himself looking into the bedroom. Past a small 16 mm movie camera.
"Oh, God," he whispered. "What--?"
He ran through to the bedroom, stared at his own reflection in the two-way mirror in sick horror. Then went through the room in a savage frenzy until he found the switch behind the headboard that started the camera, went back into the bathroom and sat on the edge of the bath. The mechanism gave off the faintest whirr--it would be inaudible in the bedroom--and he did not need to check that the lens was focused on the big king-sized bed. The film cartridge was empty.
After a minute, Starsky started another search. For film. He found nothing, not even blank reels, but he did find something else, and it triggered a painful nausea in his stomach. At the back of the top shelf in the linen closet he discovered a large cardboard carton, and inside it were garments of black leather, bright silver handcuffs, chains, and a slender, vicious whip.
"Nicky--" he whispered, a break in his voice. "Dear God--"
Shrill and mocking, the strains of Dixie threaded up from below, and he shoved the carton back where he'd found it, and ran outside, feeling soiled, unclean, desperately in need of a scouring shower.
"C'mon, man!" McGregor hissed, "the goons are movin' in--Jones' men--"
Starsky didn't answer, aware that if he opened his mouth to speak he would throw up, and ran at McGregor's heels to the alley's mouth.
Figures came out of the shadows, six big men with guns in their hands, and he snatched for his S & W, a killing rage boiling in his skull. But they did not intend to use their weapons, and by sheer weight of numbers, he was brought down.
McGregor fought free, and they did not make a real effort to keep hold of him. Starsky was their main target, and the tall black was not about to play hero. He was a firm believer in discretion being the finer part of valor, and he took off. Later, maybe, he could pull a rescue stunt, or let Blondie loose on it. But he was in no hurry to get himself burned.
