A TIME TO GROW
Tick ... CLACK ... Tick ... CLACK ... Tick ...
Starsky peeled an eyelid open and glared at the rhinestone-studded tail of the grinning cat clock on the wall. Its fake emerald eyes flicked left, then right, leaving the ornate tail to swish in the opposite direction. It glowed greenly in the pre-dawn twilight, and Starsky grimaced, yanking the layer of blankets back over his head. Hutch had some pretty weird ideas about decorating, he decided, filing the thought away for later use ... like the next time the big blond made an off-the-wall remark about his car.
“You awake?” drifted from the sleeping alcove behind him.
“Unh unh ...”
“It’s 6:15.”
“... what are you, a cuckoo clock?”
The bed creaked, and the sound of bare feet padding over the hardwood floor filtered through the covers.
“ ... a run, then a shower. You’ll be up and dressed by the time I get back?!!”
“Um hmmmm ......”
“Starsk!” The blankets were pulled away, and Starsky curled instinctively into a fetal ball.
“Hey! All right already! I’ll be up!”
“You’re sure?”
A moment passed as his eyes grew more accustomed to the daylight. “’m sure,” he grunted between clenched teeth.
“Good.” The fleece blankets dropped back into place. “Now, what do you want for breakfast?”
“Don’t care. Just so it ain’t movin’.”
The door slammed noisily in reply, and Starsky relaxed back into the sofa. A couple more winks wouldn’t hurt ... just a couple ...
*******
Morning mists from the nearby ocean hovered on the silent street as the group waited for the lanky man to exit Venice Place. It would be a short wait; the cop’s daily routine went like clockwork.
Miguel Armije pushed his thick black hair away from his forehead and checked his watch. “He should be showin’ up any minute now ...”
The door across the street burst open, and a man in a navy blue jogging outfit emerged, stretched elegantly, gulped in several deep lungfuls of the crisp, salty air, and then began the bending, gyrating exercises designed to loosen sleep stiff muscles.
Miguel lifted the wrist watch to his ear, listened to the soft hum of the expensive instrument. Must be slow, he decided, then turned his thoughts to the now vacant apartment at 1027 ½ Ocean. He shifted his gaze to the slim teenager standing beside him.
“How long will he be gone?”
The younger boy hesitated, swallowed loudly. “About ten minutes --- sometimes a little longer.”
Across the street the blond man finished his exercises and started off at a slow loping gait, gradually gaining speed, finally breaking into a run and disappearing around a corner.
Fidgeting impatiently, Miguel waited to make sure that the jogger wouldn’t return, then turned back to the youth.
The boy was trembling, nervously biting his nails. Good signs. It was always best to be a little scared the first time. Too much confidence had been the downfall of many potential Tarantulas.
“He, hombre, visto bueno! Just a little initiation. We’ve all been though it before.” Miguel flashed a blinding smile and started across the street. Three other members of the small Venice gang followed, but the youngest held back.
A conscience – this one has a conscience. Seeing the hesitation, Miguel silently congratulated himself again. If the boy found it this hard to betray a friendship, then he was definitely the right choice.
Checking his watch again, Miguel turned his palm upward toward the youngster. “Para los Tarantulas!” he said, and the three youths behind him repeated the act, showing their own blood-red tattoos.
“Para los Tarantulas,” was returned in a whisper, then spoken aloud with a firmness that belied the shaking hand. Miguel felt a smug satisfaction as the boy exposed his swollen wrist, revealing a crimson spider engraved in human flesh.
Four pairs of brown eyes focused on the young man, waiting expectantly to see what he would do. Another glance toward Miguel seemed to give him the added strength, and the new recruit led them across the street and into the building.
*******
Starsky stepped from the steaming shower-tub and draped a towel around his hips. The hot water had turned the tiny room into a makeshift sauna, and the warmth made him yearn for the comfort of Hutch’s sofa again. He yawned loudly, fighting off drowsiness, and reached for Hutch’s shaving cream. Smoothing the lather onto his face, he lazily scraped away the night’s growth of beard. He was in the middle of splashing on handfuls of Hutch’s ultra-expensive after shave when he heard the apartment door open and close.
“Hey, Hutch!” he yelled, turning on the cold water in the sink and simultaneously reaching for his toothbrush. “Okay if we stop by Merle’s before work today? I need to check on my car.”
Getting no answer, he squirted a long glob of toothpaste onto the bristles and continued. “I mean, he’s had her for three whole days, and there can’t be that much wrong with her. She just stalled once. I can’t understand why he’s keeping her so long.”
The silence in the outer room continued unbroken, and Starsky halted in mid-brush, spat and rinsed his mouth. “Hutch?’ He turned to exit, but the bathroom door suddenly exploded inward, its sharp edge catching him on the temple. Yelping, he recoiled, backing away until his bare shoulders touched against the damp bathroom wall. He sagged against it, shaking his head to clear away the fuzzies.
Time dragged. A pair of funny mirror images from a carnival sideshow swam eerily before his eyes, and he blinked, finally focusing on the slim, glistening objects clutched in their hands. One jerked forward with frightening speed, and the icy steel of a switchblade buried itself in his abdomen. The first jab was followed immediately by a second, and Starsky doubled over.
Dazed, his knees buckled and he sank to the floor, overcome by a sudden draining weakness. Convulsing, he clutched his stomach, holding in his own intestines. The pressure was intense, and he knew they were about to spill out onto the wet bathroom floor. Background voices filtered around the sounds of his own labored breathing, echoed in the base of his brain.
“Miguel? My God, what have you done? Starsky?”
“We had to ... he saw us!”
“Leave him! Let’s get the hell out of here before the other one comes back.”
“No. No! Starsky! STARSKY!”
Someone was calling to him. He struggled to recognize the voice, but it was too far away. He stiffened, groaning as a knife-edged agony sliced through him. A red blur brushed against his cheek, tenderly lifted his head.
‘Hutch!’ His pain-clouded brain reached for the name; his lips soundlessly mouthed the syllable, but as his vision cleared, the red blur coalesced into a large, scarlet spider.
Terrified, he wrenched away from the monstrous image, heard the pulsing echo of more voices.
“Kiko ... damn you! Come on! Kiko!”
Fighting the waves of nausea, unwilling to sink into the cold depths of unconsciousness, Starsky struggled to clear his vision again. When he succeeded, an empty silence surrounded him.
Carefully, in halting, jerky motions, Starsky pulled himself to a sitting position. He slumped forward, the wet floor and early stages of shock making him shiver as he dully surveyed the room. Warmth in the form of Hutch’s terrycloth bathrobe hung invitingly a million miles away on the door hook, and with teeth chattering, he crawled toward the half-closed door. He never made it. The room suddenly broke apart into hundreds of tiny golden pieces. Black holes clustered around him, nibbling away at the room until only an inky abyss remained. Frightened, he floundered in the depths, but the monotonous rocking motion soothed away his fears and he relaxed, let the warmth overtake him.
*******
Flinging his right arm out for leverage, Hutch took the corner of Ocean ad National at a full gallop, increasing his speed for the final home stretch. With the wind whipping his hair back, he crossed the imaginary finish line and immediately slowed into a brisk walk. His lungs burned from the cold air and exertion, and he paced outside Venice Place, alternately coughing and gasping for breath. He checked his watch, angrily noting that the run-in with the two skaters had cost him nearly three minutes.
“Damned addicts! Why don’t they support their habit somewhere else – don’t they know it’s illegal to skate on both sides of the sidewalk ... should have given them a ticket.”
Stomping his feet in frustration, he took one more gulp of burning air and bounded the airs. He bombed through the door, closing it with a forceful slam and, heaving a relieved sigh, pulled his too-warm jacket over his head. Without a backward glance, he discarded across the sofa.
“Starsk?” He rifled through the blankets looking for a lifeless lump, felt mildly surprised when he discovered the couch was unoccupied. “Thought for sure you’d still be snoozing. Why didn’t you start breakfast? I’m starving.”
He made it to the kitchen in two strides and helped himself to a glass of orange juice. The fresh-squeezed pulp went down the wrong way, and he sputtered, coughing uncontrollably. The fit lasted several seconds and, when he was in control again, he turned streaming eyes toward the bathroom.
“Starsk?”
The sound of running water was the only answer.
“Did you doze off again in the tub? If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a million times, it’s dangerous to sleep in a full ...” The door refused to open fully; a large obstruction seemed to be blocking the entrance. “Hey, what are you doing in ...” Poking his head around the door, he froze as his eyes took in the prostrate form.
“Starsky?” The name caught in his throat, and he quickly knelt beside his partner. “What ... what the hell ...?”
Hesitantly, he reached out to touch Starsky’s face, and the man reacted with a grimace, folding over, pulling his knees and legs upward. His hands pressed harder on his abdomen, and a sudden sinking feeling washed through Hutch as he noticed the spreading red stain on the towel.
Fear of what he might find made him pause, but a deeper terror spurred him into action. He gripped Starsky’s wrists, and his partner resisted, feebly tried to pull away.
“No ... get them away ... please ...”
“Get what away? Starsk, it’s Hutch.”
“Spiders ... red spiders ... get them off, get them off!”
Whimpering weakly, he struggled to fold over again and, swallowing a sudden surge of panic, Hutch realized that he would have to force his partner to leg go. Starsky was semi-conscious, acting on instinct alone.
Praying that it wasn’t too serious, Hutch shoved a knee forward, preventing Starsky from curling further. With his left hand, he braced the shoulders back, finally succeeding in praying Starsky’s hands from his abdomen. The action brought a wavering cry from his partner, and Hutch gathered the suddenly unresisting form close, frantically apologizing.
“Jesus, I’m sorry, Starsky – didn’t mean to hurt you – just couldn’t see ... Oh, my God!” His stomach lurched at the sight of the oozing puncture wounds.
Easing his partner back to the floor, Hutch reached for a towel and wadded it into a thick bandage. He pressed it hard against the wounds, and Starsky grunted hoarsely. Beneath the terrycloth folds, Hutch could feel the warm blood welling, and he swallowed his rising panic, scanned the bathroom for something to tie the makeshift bandage into place. Spying another towel, he reached up, jerked it from its holder, and tore it into length-wise strips. Wrapping it around Starsky’s body, he tied it tightly.
“Hutch?”
The new voice startled him, and he turned around, saw the thin figure of Molly Ramos standing in the doorway.
“Call an ambulance, Molly,” he said, turning his attention back to Starsky, but a guttural groan from the injured man sent a fresh batch of terror through him. “Never mind the ambulance,” he called to the outer room. “Just run down to my car and open up the passenger door. Hurry!”
Listening to the muffled clump-clump of her shoes as she raced down the stairs, Hutch quickly retrieved one of the blankets from the sofa and wrapped his partner in it. Hefting the dead weight in his arms, he carried Starsky down the flight of stairs, gently eased him into reclining position in the front seat. Molly started to crawl in beside him, but Hutch grabbed her, pulled her back.
“ ... but I can hold him ... keep him from falling off. Hutch, let me help!”
“You can help me by going home. Whoever did this may still be around, and I don’t want anyone else hurt. Promise me you’ll go straight home.”
“But Starsky needs ...”
“Molly! Please ....”
“All right, I’ll go. But you’ll call me and let me know how he is.”
Hutch nodded quickly, gave the girl a forceful shove, then ran to the other side of the LTD.
“Control, this is Zebra Three. Notify Memorial that I’ve got an emergency – stab wounds in the abdomen. ETA is five minutes.” Without waiting for an acknowledgement, he dropped the mike, shifted the car into drive and hit the siren.”
“Hang on, Starsk,” he whispered. “We’re gonna make it.”
*******
Memorial Hospital boasted some of the finest medical personnel in Los Angeles; likewise its equipment and facilities were the best, but the knowledge gave Hutch no satisfaction. As he entered the ER, he could feel a controlled tension that burst into action as Starsky’s limp body was slide form the gurney to the exam table.
“Doctor, BP is 100/60 and falling.”
The sterile, clinical words brought his attention back to the center of the room. A nurse was peeling away the blanket and blood-soaked towels.
“I’m not getting any reaction,” drifted over from the circle of medical personnel, and another voice mumbled something Hutch couldn’t decipher.
Behind him, the doors whooshed open, and another doctor, dressed in surgical green, hurried into the room. The circular huddle of medical personnel migrated to the bottom of the exam table for a quick conference with the new arrival, and Hutch finally got a clear, unobstructed view of his partner.
The sight sent an uncontrolled shiver up his spine. Starsky’s eyes were open, staring vacantly into space. He lay on the table surrounded by tubes, bottles and shreds of cloth, and the scene struck a painful familiar chord. Deja vu. His partner was just another nude body in the ER. He’d seen hundreds in his lifetime, even put a few of them in here himself. But now it was Starsky lying here, and the reality of it horrified him.
One of the nurses shoved a needle into Starsky’s inner thigh – an arterial IV – and Hutch saw a minor miracle occur. For the first time since he’d been wheeled into the ER, Starsky showed some awareness. He winced as the needle went in.
“We got a reaction on that,” the nurse reported.
An elderly doctor nodded, returning to the patient’s side. “Good, good ...” he said to no one in particular, motioning for another IV. He plunged it into the skin, and Starsky grimaced, tensing his body and drawing his brows together into a frown of displeasure.
“Good, more pain reaction. I think he’s coming out of it.”
The announcement was prophetic. The patient on the table was no longer immobile. His head began to loll from side to side, groans burst from his throat and he fought to regain consciousness. The barest tinge of pink appeared in the colorless face, and he opened his eyes, blinked several times, apparently disoriented.
Hutch swallowed the lump of fear in his throat, hesitantly called out his partner’s name. The curly head jerked in his direction, and Hutch sighed with relief. This time the eyes weren’t empty – they were alert, confused, frightened. Parched lips mouthed his name, and Hutch flashed a quick reassuring smile.
Starsky tried to return it. A hint of a smile creased his lips, but it evaporated immediately as his head snapped back in sudden agony.
“Hutch!”
The name sprang from Starsky’s lips, a desperate plea for help, and Hutch started forward, knowing he could do nothing, needing only to be close.
A strong arm reached out, held him back. “Damn it, let me go or I’ll ...”
“Take it easy, Sergeant.” A tiny blonde nurse stared up at him. “We’re doing our best for him right now. You’ll just get in the way.”
“I’m sorry. It’s just that ...”
It was all he got out. Two orderlies had noticed the struggle and were heading in his direction. The matinee was over; his ticket was up; and his attendance at the next performance was no longer wanted or needed. Gently, but firmly, he was led to the door.
*******
As it broke the surface of the water, the pebble made a heavy plopping sound, leaving a hundred perfect circles jutting out from its point of entry. Transfixed, Kiko perched on the edge of the dock and watched the ever widening ripples. He was so hypnotized by the changing designs that he didn’t hear the ancient boards creak their complaint at an added weight.
“Why?”
Startled by the harshness of the monosyllable, the boy turned, found himself staring into the accusing eyes of his adopted sister. He sighed, hefted another stone and let it drop into the murky canal water. The tiny waves expanded, joining their predecessors and multiplying.
“What do you want?”
“Don’t play games with me, Kiko. I’ve just come from Hutch’s place. Why did you do it?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Yes, it does! I saw you there, saw what you did to Starsky ...”
“I didn’t touch him, damn it!” Her brother rose, suddenly matching her vehemence, and Molly grew silent. They stared at each other for a long moment.
“Then why is his blood all over your clothes?”
Her quiet accusation made him glance down at himself. The dried, rust-colored stains screamed his guilt. Ashamed, he looked away.
“Just s’posed to be a test. Run into Hutch’s place, grab a couple things that weren’t worth anything, but nothing went right! Starsky was coming out of the bathroom, and Miguel and Reuben musta got scared or something ... I couldn’t stop them, Molly!”
“But you ran! You ran and you left him there to die! Yeah, I saw you, even tried to follow for a while but couldn’t keep up, so I went back to see if Hutch knew who did it. Guess I was still tryin’ to protect my brother, but after I saw what you did to Starsky ...” She choked back a sob.
Kiko stood up, started toward her, but she backed away, shaking her head. He read the fear in her eyes, was stunned by the sudden, gut-wrenching knowledge that Molly was afraid of him. “Pete? You believe me, don’t you? I’d never do nothing like that ... never hurt Starsky o purpose. You can’t believe that I’d ever ...”
“What do you care what I believe?” Still reversing her steps, she continued until she reached the edge of the dock, pivoted and broke into a run.
Alone, Kiko watched her departure with eyes that burned with unshed tears.
“Let her go then. Who needs her! Ain’t even my real sister anyway.” He sniffed, blinked back the wetness, furious with himself. A Tarantula did not weep like a woman. It was a weakness to cry; it wasn’t manly. Miguel had said ... He sighed heavily, squatted back down on the small pier. Miguel had lied. Hutch was more of a man than Miguel could ever hope to be – and Hutch could cry.
Memories dominated his thoughts: Hutch, pleased and misty-eyed at a ‘Father’s Day’ present from him; Hutch, crying with him and Molly when their puppy had been run over; Hutch, weeping unashamedly at Gillian’s funeral. Yes, Hutch could cry. For that matter, so could Starsky.
Starsky! The sudden imprint of the name danced fleetingly through his brain, and he winced, shook his head as the unwanted images began a vivid playback of the morning’s events: Starsky’s fact registering shock and surprise, the sudden, raspy intake of breath, and the horrible popping sound as the knives pierced his skin.
The drama began and concluded over and over again for the unwilling audience of one. Again and again, Kiko saw the reenactment, heard the sounds. “Stop it,” was a whisper that became a scream. Dry sobs shook his body, and the boy collapsed to his knees.
*******
Brown rain droplets, the last remnants of a late morning deluge, dribbled off the hospital entrance overhang and splashed on Hutch’s shoes. He ignored them, glanced at his watch for the fourth time in as many minutes. 2:48. Eight hours. One-third of a day. A whole work shift.
Still clad only in his jogging pants and t-shirt, he shivered in the cold October breeze, scanned the line of traffic for a familiar car.
Wish Dobey would hurry up and bring my clothes. It’s freezing out here!
A screaming siren assaulted his ears, and he craned his neck to see past the oncoming traffic. A red and white ambulance careened around a line of slow-moving cars, screeched to a halt at the emergency entrance of the hospital. Hutch followed it with his eyes, absently chewing on one of the guitar-calloused fingers of his left hand. The attendance expertly removed the stretcher, rolled the small patient into the yawning twin doors. A woman, her young face pinched tight with strain and worry, followed closely behind.
Hutch ran his fingers through his hair and sighed.
“How is he?”
The baritone voice startled him and he turned, gave Captain Dobey a weary smile. “Out of surgery. The doctor says, barring complications, he has a good chance.”
“Thank God.” Dobey matched the relived smile. “Here. I brought you a shirt. What are you doing out here dressed like that? Trying to catch your death?”
Hutch shook his head. “It’s stuffy in there. Needed some air and ...” He trailed off, shrugged, realizing there was no need for an explanation. He pulled on the red plaid shirt and started into the hospital.
“What happened, Hutch?”
“I don’t know yet, Cap’n. Starsky was stayin’ over at my place until his car was fixed, doing his best to ‘conserve energy’ as per new department policy. I left to take my morning run, and when I got back – well, you know the rest.”
“What about Molly?”
“She doesn’t know any more than I do.”
“Well, since she was in the area when the attack occurred, I’ll send some men over to her house just to be ...”
“No need. Maria invited Starsk and me to an enchilada dinner so I’ll be stopping by there this evening. I’ll talk to her then.”
“Whatever you think is best.”
“What about the lab men?”
“They’re over at your place right now.”
The doors slid apart to admit them, and they rode the elevator in silence. Stepping out onto a freshly waxed floor, Dobey continued the question and answer session. “Did the doctors say when we’ll be able to talk to him?”
Hutch threw a glance at the hall clock. “He’s been out of surgery for nearly three hours. It shouldn’t be too much –“
“Sergeant Hutchinson?” A middle-aged woman flashed a quick smile at him from her nurse’s station.
“Yes?”
“You can see Sergeant Starsky now. He’s conscious.”
“Thank you.” Hutch started down the aisle quickly, then pulled up. “Uh ... ma’am?”
“Yes?”
Hutch cleared his throat, shrugged his shoulders in slight embarrassment. “Which way?”
She smiled again, pointed. “The ICU’s down this aisle and to your right. And Sergeant, don’t stay too long. He’s had a pretty rough time of it.”
Hutch nodded, turned to Dobey. “Back in a little while, Cap’n.”
“Give him my best.”
Despite the hushed atmosphere and tiptoeing personnel, Hutch opened the door to the half-empty Intensive Care Unit and found it humming with noise. The rhythmic “shhh-click-shhh” of full life support equipment, the hissing respirators and gurgling IV’s, the beeping cardiac monitors all worked together in a concerted effort to shatter the funereal silence.
Hutch passed several empty beds, then stopped, stared down at his partner’s still form.
Starsky appeared to be asleep. His head, resting heavily on the pillow, was turned slightly to the right, displaying an ugly bruise just above his left eyebrow.
“Hey, Starsk.” Hutch’s whispered voice rose a concerned octave, and he gently placed his hand on his partner’s cold wrist. “How do you feel?”
The blue eyes opened slowly, peered up at him. “Lousy,” barely made it past the dry lips.
“So I see, but the doc says you’re going to be fine. A little rest, some TLC, and you’ll be your old charismatic self again.”
Starsky reaction was a scornful “Hmmmmph!”, and Hutch grinned, suddenly reassured. If Starsk was grouchy, then all was right with the world.
“What ... the hell ... hit me?”
“I was hoping maybe you could tell me.”
Starsky tried to shift his body, made a sound halfway between a moan and a sigh. “... don’t remember ... happened so fast.”
The continued effort to speak seemed to exhaust him. His eyes closed for a moment, and Hutch tightened his grip.
“It’s okay, Starsk. Take your time. All I need is one clue – just one, and I’ll nail the asshole who did this to you.”
Starsky grimaced, and Hutch couldn’t tell if his partner was smiling or in pain. He mumbled something.
“What?”
“ ... said ... can’t remember ... ‘m sorry.”
“Hey, it’s all right. It’ll come later. You just rest now.”
“Mhhhmmmmm ... tired ...”
“Sir?”
Hutch turned toward the new voice, came nose to chin with a mountain masquerading as an orderly.
“Yes?”
“Doctor Davis left script orders that this patient isn’t supposed to be have visitors for more than three minutes.” He raised a ham-sized arm, checked a ridiculously small wrist watch. “Yours are up.”
Hutch mentally computed his chances of winning an argument with the giant, decided that the odds definitely were not in his favor. “Gotta go now, partner. Take it easy, and I’ll see you tonight.”
His words were met by an incoherent mumble, but Hutch smiled to himself. It wasn’t over yet. Starsk was going to make it. They’d cheated the grim reaper one more time.
Returning to the waiting room, Hutch found an uncharacteristically nervous Dobey pacing back and forth. “How’s he doin’?”
“Okay, I think. He’s still a little groggy, but that’ll clear up soon. Couldn’t tell me anything though – said he couldn’t remember.”
The captain nodded, thumbed absently through a year old magazine, laid it aside. “We’ve got a mystery.”
Something in the tone of voice triggered an instant alarm bell in Hutch’s brain. “What kind of ‘mystery’?”
“While you were in with Starsky, somebody called to check on his condition.”
“So?”
“That somebody identified himself as Starsky’s brother.”
“Nick?”
“That’s the name he gave the nurse. Did you call New York?”
“Nope.”
“I didn’t think so. Neither did I.”
“Then who?”
“I don’t know, but until we do, I’m posting a round-the-clock guard on your partner. Hey, where do you think you’re going?”
Hutch was almost out the door. “Home, then Molly’s, then the streets. You get that guard on my partner, and I’ll call you later.”
*******
Miguel Armije cast a wary eye on the shadowed intruder entering the alleyway belonging to Los Tarantulas. He noted the squared shoulders, the defiant walk, felt the tenseness drain away as he recognized him.
“Kiko? Hey, man, we’ve been looking for you. You left in such a hurry this morning, we never got a chance to talk. Como va’?”
There was no answer. Instead, Kiko continued to advance, finally halting when the two were scant inches apart. If it was supposed to be an intimidating stance, it was working. Miguel dropped his gaze, found his courage somewhere around his knees and met the dark, glowering eyes of the younger boy.
“It was only supposed to be an initiation, Miguel ... ‘a harmless little game.’ No one should’ve gotten hurt.”
Miguel shrugged nonchalantly. So, it was beginning. He’d had a feeling about this one since they’d first approached him with membership. That streak of conscience was making itself known. “He got in the way, Kiko. Besides, what the hell do you care anyway? He was just a cop – a gringo cop. What does one more dead –“
“He’s not dead.”
Miguel froze at the news, quickly recovered. “How do you know that?”
“I called the hospital, told them I was his brother. He’s alive, Miguel. And by now, Hutch knows everything, including who did it.”
“There you’re wrong, my friend. He knows you did it. He doesn’t know a thing about the rest of us.”
“He will.”
The two syllables echoed loudly through the filthy alley.
“And how will he find out?” Miguel’s words were accented by a barely discernible click, a subtle flash of the sharp blade, but Kiko didn’t back down. Disconcerted, Miguel backtracked mentally, swiftly formulated another plan.
“I never figured you for a squealer, Kiko.”
“And I never figured you for a murdered. You said you were my friend.”
“And you think this gringo pig, this ‘Big Brother’ of yours is?” Miguel felt his temperature rising. “Do you really believe he’s gonna turn his back on one of his own kind? Ah, Kiko!” Mock pity replaced the anger in his voice. “So young, so inexperienced, so much to learn of trust. When this ‘friend’ of yours finds out what really happened, you think he’s gonna care about you anymore? No way, man! You’re gonna be no better to him than the lowest garbage in the street. He’ll throw you in the joint without so much as a backward look ... and spit on you! You’re one of us, Kiko – he’s one of ‘them’.”
Miguel made a big show of closing the knife, pocketing it. He placed a friendly arm around the unyielding teenager. “Hey, Kiko – amigo –“ His words held a gentle persuasiveness. “Hombre, los Tarantulas – orgullo y honor – we stand together!”
For a moment, he thought he’d broken past the stubborn streak of loyalty, but Kiko jerked from his grasp. “’Pride and honor’! You don’t even know what that means, Miguel. It’s too late for Los Tarantulas –“
“... and too late for your sister if you so much as breathe one word,” Miguel finished.
At the mention of Molly, Kiko paled, and Miguel heaved a huge mental sigh of relief. He’d struck a raw nerve, a weakness in the boy’s sudden surge of courage.
“If you so much as look sideways at her, I’ll ... I’ll ...”
“You’ll what? Turn us in? You’ll already have done that so you won’t have anything left to threaten us with. And, before we’re caught, one of us will get to her. You know we will, Kiko.”
“You wouldn’t.” But the words were hesitant, fraught with fear and doubt.
“Oh, we would, Kiko,” Miguel lowered his voice to a threatening whisper. “She’s one of ‘them’ too.”
The course of the verbal war had suddenly shifted. Kiko was on the defensive, and the outcome was apparent to both. Defeated, he began to back away.
“I’m warning you, Miguel ... nothing better happen to my sister.”
His words were hollow, reverberating uselessly off the grime-encrusted walls. He continued to retreat, finally turning and breaking into a run.
Miguel studied the departing figure, felt a puzzling sense of loss. “Ah, Kiko ...” he whispered to the empty beer cans and garbage. Shaking his head, he swaggered toward the alley exit and headed for home.
*******
Hutch pushed the blinds up, shot a quick look at the still-threatening sky. Even the weather was on his case today. The past hour had accomplished nothing. The phone call to New York had been useless. As Hutch had suspected, Nick Starsky knew nothing of his brother’s plight.
A subsequent call to Dobey had also proved fruitless. The investigation team had scoured his apartment and turned up several clear prints. Unfortunately, the only ones on file were his and Starsky’s.
It was a decided puzzlement, and Hutch had sat down to work things through in his mind. He meditated on the problem, retraced the events of the day in particular detail, but this only led to more confusion, more unanswered questions.
Nothing seemed to make any sense. Why was the apartment left unscathed? More importantly, why was Starsk the victim? If revenge was the motive, how did the assailant know that Starsky was staying over? And who made the call to the hospital? He stopped at this thought, glanced at his watch. It read 5:00. Funny, the day already seemed a week long.
He lifted the receiver again, dialed, and a Memorial Hospital receptionist answered. She revealed nothing new, only stating in hospitalese that Starsk was ‘stable, resting comfortably and no visitors will be allowed in without permission from the LAPD.’
Moderately reassured, he hung up, grabbed his jacket and headed for the door. The shrill ring of his telephone brought an about face, and he picked up the receiver.
“Hutchinson.”
“Ken? It’s Maria. How’s Dave?”
“Hello, Maria. Oh, he’s doing as well as can be expected, I guess.”
“Have you eaten yet?”
“No. Come to think of it, I haven’t eaten anything all day.”
“Well, the enchiladas are cooking, the soda’s on ice and the invitation’s still open if you feel up to is.”
“Sounds like heaven. I’ll be over in a few minutes. Is Molly there?”
“Yes. Why?”
“I need to talk to her about this morning, see if maybe she saw anybody around my place.”
“I’ll tell her, but she hasn’t mentioned anything to me. See you in a few minutes. Bye.”
Hutch hung up again, started back down the stairs. He exited Venice Place, slid into the familiar comfort of his LTD and drove the short distance to the Ramos’ house.
Several hours later, a much frustrated Ken Hutchinson emerged into the cold drizzle. His mood had darkened considerably, taking a nosedive with his first encounter with Molly Ramos, reaching bottom as he left the house. He had to admit he’d probably been a bit rough on Molly, but after her first nonchalant, uncaring answer to his question, he’d become puzzled. Trying to draw her out by appealing to her friendship with Starsk had merely closed her mind even further to what had happened this morning. She was adamant in that she knew nothing, saw nothing and did nothing. Period. Stop sigh. Move on.
He shifted the large automobile into drive, maneuvered into a line of heavy traffic. He needed to go back to square one and start reassembling the clues. Everything had happened so quickly, there’d just been no chance to sit down and think things through.
Starsk, I need you, man. Need your help on this one. He pulled up on the silent plea. Good, Hutchinson. Thirty-six years old and you can’t even operate alone anymore.
Thoroughly disgusted with everything and everybody, he made a sharp left on River, proceeded west on National.
He had to admit, cruising the streets alone was a hollow experience. It just seemed so natural for Starsky to be by his side ... on the left driving that absurd striped tomato ... on the right driving him completely whacko with dumb jokes – baseball and football scores – trivial trivia. He paused at the thought, smiling at the memory of Starsky’s latest revelation – the names of all the winners of the Calavaras County Frog Jumping Contest. Starsky had related in glorious technicolor the gory fate of each and every loser.
He chuckled, remembering Starsky’s love/hate affair with reptiles and bugs. His partner was both fascinated and scared to death of animals possessing more than the standard four legs.
He pulled up mentally, listened as the cogs of his brain squeaked forward, clanged noisily into place.
What was it Starsky had said this morning? Frogs ... snakes? Spiders! Red spiders!
Hutch swerved left excitedly, quickly recovered after nearly sideswiping a baby blue Maverick. He ignored the driver’s four-lettered glance and one-fingered gesture and headed in the direction of Venice Place.
“Zebra Three calling Central. Patch me through to Captain Dobey.”
After an eternal moment, the voice of his superior filtered through the speaker. “Dobey here.”
“Cap’n, it’s Hutch.”
“What have you got?”
“I’m not sure. What do red spiders mean to you?”
There was a long pause at the other end of the conversation, then Dobey came back on. “Commie arachnids ... what the hell is this, Hutchinson, some kind of joke?”
“Well, if it is, the creeps who got Starsk this morning are the ones with the punch line. Listen, Cap’n, when I first found Starsk, he was scared of something, kept mumbling ‘get them off me’. When I asked him what he was afraid of, he said ‘red spiders’.”
“You’re reaching, Hutch,” came from the little box on the floor.
“I know I’m reaching, damn it!” The anxiety and frustration of the day exploded in a tidal wave, crested, crashed and subsided. “It’s all I’ve got to go on, Cap’n. Check it out for me ... please.”
There was a patient, metallic sigh, and Dobey responded. “Will do.”
“Thanks.”
The all-day drizzle had developed into an evening down pour, and Hutch switched on his windshield wipers, made another left and found himself in a familiar part of Venice. He drummed his fingers on the dash, keeping time to the rhythm of the wipers, humming to himself. Waiting – it was the part of detective work he hated most – but it was usually made tolerable by his motor-mouthed partner. He brushed the image aside. No time for that now.
He braked for a small rushing river, decided it was time to park and wait out the torrential storm. Casually scanning the sidewalks, playing his cop game by rote, Hutch absently noted the dingy pool hall, its dope addict and alcoholic clientele. He rolled his head toward the right, squinted through foggy windows, and his eyes locked on a splash of crimson. The red design wavered before his eyes, slowly swam into clear focus.
“Hutch ...” The radio blurted his name.
“Yeah, Cap’n.”
“I think I’ve got something for you. Checked with Juvie on this and they say there’s a new Venice-based ...”
“Never mind, Cap’n,” Hutch interrupted. “I already know.”
*******
The rain spattered noisily against the glass, and Kiko watched it cascade in sheets down the sides of the lighted phone booth.
“Hello? Hello! Is anybody there?” The sound of his sister’s voice filled his ears, but his own vocal chords wouldn’t do his bidding.
“Hello? Kiko? Is that you?”
Silence. Then he gathered his courage. “It’s me,” came out in a high squeak. He cleared his throat, began again. “It’s me. I’ve gotta talk to you.”
“I know ... me too.”
“I’m sorry about ...” Both voices began the same sentence, and both trailed of fin embarrassed laughter.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah, fine. Have you heard anything?”
“Hutch was just by.”
He’d know it was coming, known Hutch would eventually find out the truth. But the news hit him hard, knocked his breath away.
“He doesn’t know a thing, Kiko,” Molly continued pouring words into his numbed ear. “Starsky’s alive. He’s going to be fine, and he hasn’t told Hutch a single thing about what happened.”
“But he knows I was there ...”
“Well,” Molly thought aloud, reached for the proverbial straw. “Maybe he’s got amnesia. They get it on TV all the time. Maybe he’s got it and can’t remember anything.”
“You think so? Really?” It wasn’t a question, more a voiced prayer, and Molly continued to reinforce it.
“It could. Listen, I didn’t tell Hutch a thing. He kept asking me over and over if I’d seen anybody come out of the apartment, but I told him no. You can come home now, Kiko. You’re safe. Everything’s going to be all right now.”
“No, not yet. There’s something else I got to get cleared up first.”
“But we can do it together. When you come home, we can go to Hutch together, tell him everything and ...”
“No, Molly! Just stay out of it, okay? You’ll be safer, and you wont’ get in my way.”
“But ... I don’t understand. If Starsky’s going to be okay, what’s the problem?”
“Me, I guess. Listen, I can’t explain it right now ... maybe I’m just ashamed to show my face. I‘ve made such a damned mess of things.”
“Hey, it’s okay. It wasn’t your fault. I know that now. You didn’t ... couldn’t have known what they would do.”
“Yeah, they sure fooled me. Saw a chance to get a cop and Starsky just happened to get in their way. There’s no telling what might happen to anyone who crossed them on purpose.”
Outside the phone booth, the downpour continued. Several cars passed, slowed almost to the point of stopping by the furious weather. Kiko cleared his throat. “Molly, stay indoors. Don’t talk to nobody – not even mom. She still thinks I’m staying over at Diego’s house, right?”
“Yeah ... but ...”
“PROMISE ME, MOLLY!”
“... all right, I promise.”
“Okay,” his voice reflected immense relief. “I haven’t figured out how I’m going to clear this up yet. If I do go to Hutch ... well, if I don’t get to ... come home ...” He trailed off in a broken sob.
“Kiko?” Molly’s voice betrayed her anguish, then regained some of its control. “Hey, brother. I love you ... no matter how I acted this morning. I was just scared for you. You know that, don’t you?”
This brought a soggy smile, and Kiko snuffled, held back the threatening tears. “Yeah,” his voice was husky. “Same goes for me too.”
“I know.” Her voice was soft, comforting. “You hurry home, okay?”
“I’ll be there as soon as I can.” He hung up the phone slowly, as if by holding the receiver, he still had some unbroken link with home. He sighed heavily, cradled the receiver, then heard the heavy glass doors creak open.
“Don’t move, punk. Just freeze right where you are.”
Kiko swallowed, obeyed the voice. Strong arms grabbed him, pinioned one arm behind his back, shoved the steely barrel of a gun to his ear.
“All right. Now we’re going to go for a little stroll to my car, and then you’re going to spill your guts about these ornaments on your wrists and some of your activities earlier today.”
For emphasis, one arm was jerked painfully upward, and Kiko reacted with a whimper, began backing from the phone booth, emerged into the pouring rain. He was shoved forward and stumbled, sprawling on the ground, wrenching free of the iron hand.
It was an impulsive move, and Kiko regretted it immediately. He regained his footing and ran, scurrying toward the nearest alleyway. He put out a hand to break his speed for the turn, felt the brick wall beneath it shatter into a million tiny stinging bits of clay. At the same time, he heard the echoing explosion of the large gun, so loud that his ears hurt, and he froze, stood like a marble statue as the rain drops pelted his bare head, trickled down his hair and fell onto his already drenched shirt.
“Next time I’ll blow your goddamned head off,” the deadly voice said. The hands grabbed him again, twisted him around, and he found himself staring into the eyes of a blond stranger. He cast his gaze downward, unable to meet such raw hatred head on, but the man reached out, forced his chin up.
He gazed up at Hutch mournfully, watched as the shock of recognition dawned in the blue eyes. The emotion revealed itself in slow motion, taking control of each portion of the man’s body. The first in the eyes extinguished, the tension left the rigid shoulders, the fierce expression melted. “My God,” came out in a disbelieving whisper. “... Kiko?” Surprise, puzzlement. “I could’ve killed you ... nearly did. What are you doing with those?” He indicated the tattoos, and Kiko looked down at them, then away. He heard his own voice reply.
“I didn’t know they were gonna hurt him ... Hutch ... I didn’t know ...”
“You ... didn’t ... know .... they were ...” Confusion had replaced the fear, but that changed abruptly. Ken Hutchinson suddenly disappeared behind the face of an angry stranger again. Large hands jerked him up, clamped onto his t-shirt, shook him until his teeth rattled. “You didn’t know! You didn’t know what kind of people prowl the streets like animals? You didn’t care about all the years we’ve been friends!”
“He wasn’t supposed to be there!”
A stinging slap nearly broke his jaw, and he was propelled into the unyielding door of the LTD. He bounced off it, landed with a splash in the flooded gutter. He huddled there, shivering, then felt himself being hauled up, shoved into the ragged seat of Hutch’s car. He slumped against the door, watching through the steamy windows as Hutch circled, crawled in on the driver’s side.
Sounds registered in his fogged-up brain – the pelting rain on the roof, the sloshing of soaked shoes, and the sudden, high –pitched bleep of the police radio.
“Hutchinson here.”