Chadwicks Coupons
By Kassidy
Heat waves danced off the road in the late
afternoon light. Halfway down the block, a girl walked into the wall of a
building, then pushed herself off from it, staggering further down the walk. Starsky and Hutch glanced at each other, and then Hutch
jogged down the sidewalk and caught her arm just as she collided with a wire
trashcan welded to a pole. The can reverberated tinnily.
Hutch caught her arm, turning her around to face him. One look at the wide,
dark pupils told him everything he needed.
She made a
clumsy and somehow pathetic attempt at pulling away from him, but he kept his
grip easily. “What are you on?” he asked.
She looked
up at him like a dumb animal, hazel irises a thin band around the huge pupils.
She was a teen with brown hair rimmed gold by the lowering sun. Her cheeks were
chubby. Baby fat.
Hutch
stared down at her, his stomach sinking. Sweat trickled down his chest in the
heat. “What the hell are you doing out on the streets like this?” He knew the
futility of the question before he finished speaking. He leaned his head
against the hot steel pole and sighed. “How old are you?” Still
nothing.
Starsky caught up to them and Hutch tipped his head at the
girl. “Kid doesn’t want to talk to me.”
Starsky looked at her and ran a hand through his sweaty
hair. He shook his head, staring at the girl. “Where is this shit coming from?
All of a sudden we got dope overflowing the streets.”
“Yeah. Right now let’s get this kid out of here. Call Juvie.”
“Then we go talk to Huggy.”
Hutch nodded glumly, led the girl to the car and
tried not to look too much at the drugged bewilderment on her face.
~oOo~
The bar was cool and dark, a quiet hubbub rising
from early diners and early drinkers. Starsky took a
gulp from his mug, cold beer slipping down his throat. Next to him, Hutch
downed the rest of his drink and slouched against the back of the booth. He
rubbed the bridge of his nose, seeing the girl’s scared expression in his mind.
“Hey,” Starsky said, and nudged his partner’s knee with his foot.
Hutch didn’t look up. “You okay?”
“It’s just
. . . hell, Starsky. You know what it is. These kids
get hooked and it all goes downhill.” He sighed. “Same old
song, right.”
“You’re
allowed to care. The day you stop is the day you forget how to be a good cop.”
“There’s caring, and then there’s futility, you
know? But the kids get to me. Did you see her, Starsk?”
Hutch said, finally meeting his partner’s gaze. Starsky
nodded. “No, I mean, did you really look at
her? She’s just, she’s a child, and she looked right at me but she didn’t see
me. They don’t see anything when they get that far gone except for the smack
and the people who can give it to them. Just a kid.”
“Some of them make it. Mickey made it. The kids are
the ones that do have a chance, if
you get to them in time.”
“You
believe that?”
“Of course I do. Don’t you?”
Hutch stared off in space, considering.
“Well, if
it ain’t my favorite dynamic duo,” Huggy said, sliding into the booth beside Starsky. “What’s shakin’?”
“You tell us,” Starsky
said, chin cupped in hand.
“Let’s see. The toilet’s acting up and one of the
bartenders is taking more than his allotted share of the money he’s expected to
steal.”
“Huggy.” Hutch’s eyes
were level on the Bear’s. He waited.
Huggy shrugged.
“There’s a wild card shaking up the street, the way I hear it. Ain’t nobody going to talk to you
about it, either, except for one crazy barkeep with a lack of preservation
instinct. It’s gone too bad too fast.”
“You know
anything about him?”
“You want
to know more from me, we’ll meet up later. Right now I got the feeling Big
Brother is watching,” Huggy said, sliding back out of
the booth. “I got nothing to say to you guys,” he added loudly.
“What the
hell’s up with you, Huggy,” Starsky
called out for show. He tipped the last of the beer to the back of his throat
and slammed the mug onto the table.
~oOo~
The sun had set but the heat still beat against
Hutch’s apartment from the streets and sidewalk. Inside, however, the air was
cooler. Hutch’s little window unit was cranked to the max.
“Losing your
touch, I said.”
“Starsky, just because I don’t have a date doesn’t mean I’m
losing my touch. You, on the other hand—you’ve lost it. If
you ever had it.” Hutch smirked.
Starsky gave him the full blue-eyed in-your-face intensity
treatment. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“It’s
“Better
check again. I’ve heard some things about you.”
“I’ve heard some things about us,” Hutch said.
Starsky waggled his brows at him. “They’re just jealous.
Can’t help it we’re the best company we know. Though if the truth be told, I
got enough rep for the both of us. A good thing,” Starsky
added.
Hutch stood and wacked him on back of the head.
“Hey, there’s no need to resort to violence,” Starsky protested.
“Violence
is always something to resort to when I’m with you.”
“Where you going?”
“I got
something to check on,” Hutch’s voice floated back.
Starsky laughed in his root beer and got up to change the
channel on the TV. He jumped when a knock came on the door, then detoured and
answered it, letting Huggy into the room. “’Bout time, Hug. I been here so long Hutch has actually
deluded himself into thinking I like
spending all my time with him.”
“You ain’t foolin’ nobody. I said it before,
I say it again: you’re the pea, he’s the pod—the pollen to his bee, the
clownfish to his anemone.”
“He’s the who to my what?”
Hutch asked, reappearing in the room.
“Something about bees, peas and
fish. Never mind,” said Starsky, and sat back down. Huggy
sat next to him. “So, tell us what’s going on.”
“What’s going on is that the drug dealers out of
the Jaguares gang have teamed up with a dude named
Angelo Alejandros. The trade in the neighborhood is
organizing and seriously on the climb. As you’ve seen.”
“So who’s backing Alejandros?”
asked Hutch.
“Don’t know. Nobody knows or they’re not talking.
They’re scared. You know the bar and grill down the street from me? Pardo owns it. I heard he got taken right out of his fine
establishment in the middle of the day. Got a hurtin’ for certain, bad enough to stay out of work a
couple of days. Alejandros busted his chops
for telling the Jaguares to discuss deals out on the
street and not in his joint. These days the Jaguares
do whatever they want at Pardo’s—he doesn’t lift a
finger against them. And as a matter of fact, if Alejandros finds out I talked to you, this fine mind
of mine is going the scrambled eggs route, time he’s finished with me.”
“Think anybody’d know the difference?” Starsky
asked, patting him on the back. Huggy frowned.
“Pay no
attention to this clown,” Hutch said, patting Huggy’s
other shoulder. Huggy’s frown settled deeper.
“Fish,” said Starsky.
“I’m the clownfish, you’re the
anemone.”
“Whatever,”
Hutch groused.
~oOo~
“Look, Starsky, this has been planned for six months. Your mother
would never forgive you. And you know you wanna go.
How else are you gonna find out if Uncle Gilbert’s
still drinking like a fish? And what about Cousin Ethel—did she finally push
the grocer boyfriend into a trip down the isle?”
Starsky was wide-eyed. “How did you know all that?”
“You told
me. The Starsky Family Tales, as rambled on by, oh
excuse me, narrated by Dave Starsky. See, I do
listen. When there’s nothing better to do and nowhere for me
to hide.” Hutch grinned a little, patting his own stomach in a
self-satisfied way.
“Well look
who ate all his Wheaties this morning. This ain’t no jokin’
matter, Hutch, so pipe down, wouldya? ’Sides, we both
know how helpless you are without me.”
“I’ll manage. You keep going all protective on me
like this and I’ll think you’ve got the hots for me.”
“I keep tellin’ you to
keep your fantasies to yourself.”
“This dependency you have on me is bad for you.
You’ve got to force yourself to let go before it’s too late, pal. Before you
know it, you’ll be refusing to ever leave town without me. Never see your
mother again.”
“Why did that sound like a threat?”
“Go forth,
mingle with many Starskys,” Hutch said, waving his
arms around. “Have fun. I’ll miss you unbelievably, but I will survive. You
have my word on it.”
Starsky looked
irritated, and beneath that, still uncertain. “You’re just a laugh a minute
this morning. Try not to leave the imprints of your boot heels on my ass when I
head out the door.”
Hutch
grinned and then sobered, looking into his partner’s eyes. “If I really need
you, you’re just a phone call away. Right?”
Starsky stared at him a long moment. “Right,” he finally
mumbled. Hutch smiled at him again.
~oOo~
The man was
small and dark, and he fidgeted in the bright whiteness of the interrogation
room. Hutch sat down, considered grabbing the guy’s hands and placing them flat
on the table. His head pounded and the fidgeting grated on his nerves. He just
wanted the hell out of there. Wanted to go home, out of the heat and get some
sleep, maybe. It’d been a long day.
The man’s
name was Miguel Rodriguez, and Hutch had brought him in earlier that day. It
had all started with a call to the police about a fight, the caller having
stated that a man and woman were “about to kill each other” in the apartment
next door. Hutch was a couple of minutes away from the address, so he’d
responded. It turned out that the woman was flying high out of her mind on
coke, screaming in Spanish and waving a gun.
And then the boyfriend, Miguel here, not too
bright, had shouted back at the woman and in general escalated the fight. Hutch
and a blue uniform who’d also responded to the call crashed through the door.
Hutch talked the woman down and then they’d called an ambulance for her. She
was completely unmanageable. He practically had to sit on her until the
ambulance got there.
The reason this moron sat in the interrogation room
now had nothing to do with the fight between him and his hopped up girlfriend.
It was because of the collection of pharmaceuticals in the apartment. As a
matter of fact, a line of coke had been laid out on the coffee table all nice
and neat when Hutch and the uniform had crashed through the door. And now
Miguel and his highflying companion were in serious trouble.
“So,
Miguel, you were busted once before for possession. Now with the amount of
stuff you had in the apartment, we know you’re on the selling end. Trying out
for the big leagues, huh? All that dope lying around, and
Maria, busy sampling the merchandise. Not too smart.”
“What do you want from me?” Miguel yelled. His
hands shook.
The heat and the headache, the irritation all came
together in a rush and Hutch grabbed the guy’s shirt, yanking him up close.
“I want to know where you got the stuff and I want
to know now, or you’re going down for some serious time.”
Miguel squirmed and sweated. Finally he said, “And
what do I get if I talk?”
Hutch shook him, knowing he’d better get a grip on
his temper but losing the battle. At that particular moment, he didn’t give a
rat’s ass, not with his head pounding viciously and his stomach queasy from the
heat. “You’ll get better than you deserve if you’ve got anything to deal with
that I’m interested in. It’s your last chance, scum. Talk.”
Miguel’s shoulder’s
slumped. “I’m not going down for serious time. I can’t go back to lock-up
again.” He rubbed a shaking hand over his face. “I must be crazy. With any
luck, you’ll be the one that gets dead for it, though,” he said, and turned to
face Hutch with a hateful smile.
~oOo~
Hutch pulled to the curb, switched off the engine
and got out of the car. A tall man with dark hair and eyes walked out of the door
to The Pits, holding the door politely as Hutch walked inside. Hutch nodded and
made his way to the bar. He turned, scanning the room and its patrons as he
waited.
“What can I get you?” asked the bartender, and
Hutch turned to face him.
“Huggy, if he’s around.” The man nodded and turned away, and
Hutch waited some more. A moment later Huggy came out
of the back, craning his neck as he peered around the bar. Hutch took in Huggy’s appearance, eyes widening as he drew closer. The
Bear’s left eye was a nasty shade of purple, swollen shut.
“Nice. What happened, one of your girlfriends beat
you up again?” he asked.
Huggy made a face at him, then
grimaced in pain at the movement. “Where’s your other
and may I add much better half?”
Hutch slid into a booth and gestured Huggy into the opposite seat. “Big family
reunion going on this week. The Starskys are
striking fear in the hearts of
“Bad news is what did this,” muttered Huggy, stalling. He shook his head and looked down at the
table before him. “Some days I know I definitely got the short end of the stick
with you guys. This is one of them.”
“Who did this, Hug? Why?” Hutch’s lips thinned.
Huggy sighed. “Angel and some of his
goons. He jumped me out back in the alley.”
Hutch raised a brow at the use of the nickname, but
didn’t comment. “Okay. Now why? I wanna know
everything you know about this guy.”
“Who’s the cop here anyway? ’Scuse
me, I didn’t have my note pad out when he was hammerin’
on my face. The man likes to put the hurtin’ on.”
“Who’s he fronting?”
Huggy sighed. “The rumor on the street is that a dude
named Castillo’s pumping up the drug trade. Trying to impress
his mob pals. That’s all I know—that and that the neighborhood is sinkin’ fast. And I’m going down ahead of it if you keep
coming at me with more questions.”
“This Alejandros put the fear of God in you, huh?” Hutch said,
not really a question.
“Yeah, well, normally, I’d deny it with righteous
indignation. But . . . you didn’t see him in action. I just . . . ” Huggy shook his head. “He
comes across real pleasant as he’s bustin’ on you.
He’s a psycho, Hutch, all right? He had a message, and I’m his messenger boy,
sent out to deliver a warning to the neighborhood in general and the
cops—that’d be you, specifically—that the kid gloves are off. Look, I’ll do
anything I can for you and Starsky, you know that,
but do me a favor—you believe the warning, or at least believe me. He’s a bad
dude. Be careful. Be all kinds of careful.”
“Yeah. Yeah, will do.” Hutch
stared off into space, thinking.
“So when’s your partner due back?”
No answer. Huggy snapped
his fingers in the detective’s face. “Yo. Blondie.”
“Oh . . .
uh, he’ll be back Monday. Flying
back in over the weekend.” Hutch gestured at the swollen eye. “Take care
of that, Hug.”
“You just
take care of yourself.”
~oOo~
It was dim in the old warehouse, the only
light coming through a few windows high up, close to the ceiling. It smelled bad.
A dank, moldering smell. Hutch wrinkled his nose and
tried not to sneeze. He waited, as did all the rest of the cops sprinkled
around the place.
Miguel had
spilled his guts and given up a couple of names higher up on the drug supply
chain. Hutch had scored gold with Jose Alvarez, who’d told him the time and
place of Alejandros’ next scheduled meet with his
supplier.
Hutch
checked his watch. The exchange should be going down any time now. He peered
carefully around the dusty wooden crates he hid behind and saw nothing, but he
heard something. Footsteps. Coming
closer. He heard someone murmur. Then more footsteps,
approaching from the opposite direction. Hutch withdrew behind the
crates, then peered between them to the men gathering
in front of him. On the left, two men, dark, Hispanic,
flanked by two others. The tall one looked familiar.
Three men
approached opposite, wearing suits and ties. “Doing some good business,” said
the bald one. “You got my brother’s attention. So try not to fuck it up.” One of
his companions laughed.
The tall Hispanic smiled agreeably while the
shorter man spoke. “Tell your brother this is just the beginning.” He handed
over a pouch, and the bald man pulled out the corner of a very large wad of
cash.
He nodded. “Nice.” He gestured to one of his men.
“”Give him what he’s here for.”
The guy at The Pits. Held the door
open. Why the hell didn’t Huggy tell me? Hutch thought, looking at the tall man. Alejandros. He put his Walkie-Talkie
to his lips and spoke quietly. “Get ready to move.”
Alejandros moved forward, taking the box that was passed to
him. He began to open it.
“Police! Freeze!” Hutch yelled,
stepping out from behind his cover. All around him, men separated from the
shadows and rushed to the center of the room.
The bald man’s hand moved, and Hutch fired in the
air. “I said freeze!” Hutch commanded. As the weapon cleared his jacket, Hutch
fired again, and the man’s body flew back into a stack of old boxes. Gunfire
blazed through the warehouse. One of the cops took a hit in the leg, but after
that the two remaining men in suits were taken down. The two flank men were
also apprehended, but Alejandros and the other had
disappeared into the shadows, abandoning the drugs. Hutch went after them, but
they were just gone.
~oOo~
Hutch
headed out of the back door of The Pits to his car. Huggy
and he had had a talk. At first Hug denied knowing Alejandros
was at the door as Hutch left the day before, but finally admitted the truth.
Alejandro had told Huggy he’d be waiting outside, watching
Hutch, to insure that the message was received. If Hutch came out looking for
him, he’d shoot him down in the street.
It was hard to get angry at the Bear, who even
after he’d gotten busted up tried to keep his friend’s ass out of a sling. Huggy had shrugged, saying, “Starsky
would have killed me if I let you get shot.”
Hutch opened the car door and sank down in the
seat, thinking. Nobody wanted to talk today. Hell, not on any day, not since Alejandros and the shadowy figure holding the puppet strings
behind him flooded the street with their drugs and their presence. It was
frustrating, but his usual sources had evaporated like a creek in drought. They
were governed by fear. The success of such a total lock-down on the streets was
impressive in a very bad way.
Alejandros’ boss retained control for now, but without the
new supplies he’d attempted to buy last night, he’d dry up and blow away—if his
mob pals didn’t get him first for blowing the deal. Somehow Hutch had to keep
him from getting more drugs. Maybe it was time to lean on Alvarez again. He was
a regular font of information. He was also under protection, so Hutch knew how
to get to him.
The radio came to life. “Zebra 3,
come in.”
Hutch sighed and leaned across the seat. He
unhooked the mike, spoke into it. “Zebra 3.”
“
Hutch picked up his feet, fast, about to swing them
into the floorboard. He caught movement from the corner of his eye. The parking
lot had been empty when he’d exited The Pits.
His hand
was on his gun, pulling it from his holster, but it was too late. Something hit
him hard on the side of his head. His ears rang. A dark curtain fell over his
eyes. His grip on the gun relaxed and fell away.
~oOo~
He sat bound to a chair. His eyes opened on
blackness. A hood covered his head. Someone touched his wrist, fingers gliding
around the back to the knob of bone there. He tried to jerk his arm away but it
couldn’t go anywhere. The touch slid up his forearm, ruffling the fine blond
hairs. It felt like a caress. His skin crawled.
Something, no, someone yanked his head back, and
then there was an arm, the crook of it beneath his chin. One strong twist to
the left and his neck would snap like a pretzel. He understood that, and
therefore that they anticipated an extreme reaction from him momentarily. His
stomach knotted in sick anticipation.
Another pair of hands pulled his left arm out
straight, then fumbled with the cuff of his shirt and rolled it up. Folded up
tight in a corner of his brain, an unwanted memory began to unfurl, and he
struggled to control the fear that grew as well.
Think. How many men were in the room? How many did it
take to hold one cop against his will?
It was a
natural if futile response to try and turn his head to see what they were doing
to him, but the arm beneath his chin was unyielding. There was a charge in the
air, a thing he felt with some unknown sense, prickling the hairs at the back
of his neck. Like sharks cruising in a circle, murderous and mindless. Panic
climbed the back of his throat.
Something
sharp pressed, then punctured the vein at the tender
inside of his elbow. His whole body jerked in protest. His mind screamed, a siren
of panic
—a goddamned
needle Godno—
and a hand tangled in his sweaty hair, yanking his
head backwards, so far back that he could barely swallow. His body strained
against the hands holding him back and his limbs shook with tension, but they
held him still enough that the needle stayed buried in his flesh. He went wild,
imagining the crawling death in his veins. And beneath the aversion, like a
snake awakening, stretching to awareness, were the hated physical memories of
languor and a numbing peace.
He went boneless, sagging forward against the rope
that bound him. The fear faded to a hollow echo, dried up and floated away. A
man’s voice came to him, low, pleasing. Reasonable. It
asked him a question. Then another.
Dirt and
sweat and he stank and his veins and his body his head all cried out for just
one more pop, just one more chance to feel it all bleed away to nothing no one
matters. He crawled and he begged and lashed out like a sullen child. Would have given them anything.
He’d have taken them to Jeanie’s doorstep and
unlocked the door.
The past came forward to mix with the present. He
thought
Before it
was over, he’d wish it was the truth.
~oOo~
“Jeanie,” Hutch mumbled, crouched in his corner.
His head fell forward on his arms, though he wasn’t high anymore. He felt the
sick drawing in his veins and the sick want in his head. The aches and pains
were back in full force, sinking deep into his bones. He ignored them. He was
busy trying figure out if he was truly back in time or trying to buy time. He’d
forgotten which.
The interrogator laughed, the sound glaringly out
of place in this dark room of cinderblock, old, stained with things that Hutch
instinctively knew not to think about. Could not afford to.
“When’s the last time you felt so smooth, so right? Did you miss it? Do you
want more?”
Hutch
swallowed and kept his mouth shut. Starsky’s face
floated into his mind’s eye, watching him, shaking his head.
“You like
it just as much this time around, don’t you?”
“I like it
more,” Hutch said, knowing that that would make the Starsky
in his head leave. And it did. Starsky turned his
back and was gone. Hutch felt himself disappearing, too.
“Gimme
more.” More and more and more. Enough to
drown out the taunting voice, the same voice that came to him when he was
depressed and hopeless, convinced that the streets and the job would suck him
dry and toss him aside and that none of it was worth a shit. That same voice
assured him that all the minutes and days and years he put between himself and
his heroin addiction were never enough.
The voice had turned out to be right.
He wanted to kill it.
Alejandros laughed,
surprised. “You think you can get high enough to hide from me? There’s nowhere
you can go that I won’t follow. I’ll pull you back to awareness of what’s
happening anytime I want. Whether you live to remember it is another thing.” He
crouched down beside Hutch, his slim body coiling down into itself,
and thrust his fingers into Hutch’s hair. He yanked it back until their eyes
were level. He smiled and it warmed the dark eyes, crinkling the skin at the
corners. “Before this is over I’ll know things about you that your mother
wouldn’t dream of. How much pain you can take before your sanity leaves you.
What part of you I can hurt the most, and still keep you conscious.”
Alejandros made a vee with two fingers and jabbed at Hutch’s eyes. Hutch
jerked back, squeezing his eyes shut. Bright flashes of red exploded in his
vision as the fingertips pushed into the thin skin of his eyelids. Hutch
strained away, head craning back over the edge of the chair. A quick, short
punch slammed into his exposed neck and he made a gagging, helpless noise in
his throat. He tried to raise his head again.
Alejandros touched his
fingers to the red mark on his neck, as if soothing it.
“How do you
know—” Hutch said, his voice strained and deep. It hurt to speak.
“Some of
Hutch found his strength and wrenched away from Alejandros’ touch. “What do you think you can get from me?”
“Call me Angel.”
“I don’t know why I’m here!”
“Of course you do. Miguel was a
nobody. He didn’t have the information you had about the meet. He
connected you to someone higher up. Cariddi’s brother
died by your gun. All because some sloppy fucker blew the
meet to save his own ass from a cop. Understand you’ve killed a mob
boss’s brother, Kenny. There’s no going back from that.”
“He was an idiot to show his face.” Hutch’s voice
was ragged.
Alejandros surprised him by nodding. “I agree. How’s
this—suppose you tell me who gave you the info and I’ll let you die without too
much pain. Quite a sacrifice on my part.”
Alejandros smiled. It was a friendly smile, a good smile,
white, a deep groove down the curve of his cheek
showing. It made him pretty. “Because what I really want is to make you hurt.”
Hutch looked into the brown eyes, trying to see the
connection between that smile and the words.
Alejandros drew
closer. He exhaled, a small puff of air breezing over Hutch's face. Hutch
jerked away. "I want to watch your reaction, breathe it in. See your eyes
go wide, whites showing all around the blue, seeing nothing but your own pain.
Your agony will slide over my skin like the finest lover . . . sink inside.
It's incomparable, Ken."
Hutch’s head buzzed white noise in a confused mix
of anger and fear. I gave them Jeanie. Before. It won’t happen again, can’t let it.
Alejandros saw it in his eyes. “I didn’t think you’d talk.
Not yet. We’re going to spend a lot of time together—until your strength gives
out, anyway. I'm going to be more important to you than anyone else ever has.
The one person who can save you . . . or make you wish
for death.”
“You’ve got a high opinion of yourself.” Hutch
spoke through the dry cotton that was his mouth.
Alejandros smiled and said, “We’ll see.”
~oOo~
“Who told you about the transfer?”
Hutch stared up at Alejandros
from his corner. He was very tall from where Hutch squatted, and his hair swept
away from his forehead, ends down to his shoulders. The eyes were still
unreadable, so foreign in thought and motive that Hutch could find nothing to
use against him, though he tried very hard.
He kept staring anyway. It was like staring at a
two-headed snake.
Every move the man made to hurt him came with no
warning. He’d been kicked in the knee (agony), punched in the chest
(breathless, stunned, but no major after-effects), and then groped—quick and
shocking, the pain so enormous that he’d screamed. He’d sunk into the corner,
hands tied behind his back, nauseated and coldly furious.
There should be some indicators as to what the guy
was going to do next: muscle tension, or anger, anticipation, or the pleasure
that he took from pain. Something in his face, or at least a
shift of the eyes before he moved to strike. But the man held himself
eerily still. There was very little lead into when he decided to move, or “make
a point” as the bastard called it.
“Who told you about the drug deal, amigo?”
The voice was low and impersonal, yet there was
warmth to it. If someone on the street spoke to you in this tone, you’d think
he was pleased to meet you.
Hutch had
nothing, could find no clue that might help him find a way to deal with Alejandros. He gave up and stared at the floor.
“You don’t want to go through this. There’s no way out. You’re not a cop
here in this room, or even a human. I control everything you do. You can’t eat, you can’t move, you can’t take a
shit unless I allow it.”
“This is shit. You know who he is, you’ve
already killed him.” Hutch had to clear his throat to make the words come out.
Almost before he finished, his head crashed back into the wall. He righted it
and nearly smacked his forehead into the side of Alejandros’
face, come close enough that Hutch could count the individual hairs of his
eyelashes and brows.
Alejandros smiled. “I killed the first link in your chain.
Now I want the man who fingered the meet, Mr. Hutchinson.”
“There’s
no chain, Alejandros—” and the man squatted. Hutch
scrabbled deeper into his corner. His nuts were again squeezed brutally. Hutch
held back the scream but not the low, keening sound. He couldn’t seem to stop
that.
“I can make
them burst like over-ripe fruit, did you know that?”
Hutch’s
body pushed, wedged, strained back into its corner, but it didn’t matter. He
couldn’t escape.
~oOo~
That evening, Alejandros
came with another round of fine smack and jammed it into his veins. It felt
like it rushed straight to his heart, the way it slowed and smoothed him down.
He dreamed dreams of swirls and color and the face of someone he used to love
but could no longer remember.
He lay on
the floor, arms flung wide, staring up to where the ceiling should be. There
was no bed, no mattress. Only a metal pan. Alejandros had decided to let him take a crap without
having to ask. Today.
A hood
covered his head, a prison of blackness that touched his face intimately. He
couldn’t get away from it. He breathed through it, breathed in the stale smell
of his own sweat and blood. His scent. The hood was
becoming a part of him. It didn’t bother him at all at the moment.
He stared blindly upwards, more images floating up
from his memories and swarming the darkness.
You hurt Abby.
He flung
Tommy against the wall, then again, down onto the mattress of the narrow bed.
Tommy called out to him. Called him Artie, as if he couldn’t
see the face in front of him. He remembered gripping the hair at the top
of Tommy’s head, pulling back to hit him.
Tugging. Something trying to disturb his
fall down a dark tunnel. Pulling at his arm.
“Ken?”
The mask was ripped off.
His face was dead white, eyes rolled up into his
head.
Alejandros slapped Hutch’s face. “Answer me, amigo.”
The man, no,
the boy, cringed, begged him not to be mad. The voice was lost in the dark.
The anger
that had filled him moments ago and found a savage satisfaction in smashing the
boy into the wall was gone, so suddenly it left him disoriented. He struggled
to come down off the anger, intense as any drug. Sitting down, he stared into
the darkness and crashed to a low of sadness and regret for this boy murderer.
And for Abby, who was hurt because of the boy and because of him.
Someone grabbed his arm and pressed in at the
wrist, counting. Dragged an eyelid up to peer into the blank
pupil. “You gave him—he’s had too much.”
“What?” Alejandros
sounded stunned.
“He’s OD’d. Should I try to save him?”
“You let him die and you’ll answer to Castillo. But
first to me.”
They picked
his body off the floor and carried him off to another room where the doctor had
watched other men and women ride the edge. The doctor put more needles in his
arm. He didn’t feel it.
Alejandros spoke into his ear. “Amigo?”
No answer.
The boy
called out to him. “Don’t go away. Artie?”
And he’d answered, had been Artie for him. “I’m
here. I’m not going anywhere.” He brought his head to rest against the wall in
the darkness.
And then Starsky came and turned on the light.
But here the light had died, and there was no Starsky to flip a switch and flood the room with brightness
like he always did when Hutch needed it. There was only darkness, forever
darkness. Maybe it was too late. Maybe he was past needing the light.
Murmuring in his ear. A hand stroked his cheek. “You will live.”
A pause.
“Live.”
~oOo~
He was allowed to eat untied and without the hood,
though there was never any set time for meals. It could be half a day apart, a day,
two . . . time wasn’t something he knew about with any certainty. There were no
windows and no clocks. Just gray, scarred cinderblock,
and a concrete floor with a drain in the middle.
No more drugs. Alejandros
was scared shitless by what almost happened. It made Hutch smile.
The son-of-a-bitch.
And all it took was his own
near-death. That and the fact that he had yet to give up the name that Alejandros sought.
Alejandros sat across
the room in a metal fold-out chair, watching him. Hutch ate his sandwich and
drank his water, ignoring Alejandros’ gaze.
Hutch lay in a different room for two days after
the OD, though he hadn’t been conscious for most of it. When he did wake, one
of the first things he noticed was that he was on an actual by-God mattress
atop a small metal bed frame. It felt like heaven after sleeping on cold
concrete.
The second thing he noticed was that there was
another bed across from his, but empty. And there were shelves for bandages,
bottles, a few medical supplies on one cinderblock wall. A man whose voice he
remembered from down in the tunnel came to check on him fairly frequently. His
name was Dr. Montoya. He didn’t know if the man was an actual M.D.
On the
second day, Hutch was sent back to his room. Alejandros
hadn’t touched him since.
He was glad, yet he knew that this was only a
holding pattern, and at times, lying in this bare room with the hood resting
against his overheated skin and his wrists pulled together behind his back, he
wished for something to happen. The
waiting screwed with his mind. And he still dreamed of the heroin, of getting
high. Old habits die hard. The want wasn’t physical, though. They hadn’t hooked
him.
His arms were always weak from being held back
behind him for so long, and even the dim light thrown by the lone overhead bulb
hurt his eyes when the mask was first taken off. Though he
didn’t care, shit. At least he could see.
“Do you play poker?” asked Alejandros.
Hutch concentrated on the flavor of the sandwich in
his mouth, on the cool water washing down his throat. He took his time, chewing
up the last bite. When he was done, he looked at Alejandros.
“What the fuck is this place? Where is it?”
“You want to play?”
“How many people are here?”
“We’re talking poker, Ken.”
Hutch
laughed, but there was no humor in it. “What do I have that you can’t already
take?”
“That’s not the point. I think you’ll be an
intelligent opponent.”
“And if you win?” What do you really want? Hutch studied Alejandros.
The brown
eyes were mild, expectant. “As you said. There’s
nothing of yours I need, except the one thing you haven’t given me. But you
will, and it won’t be because of a poker game.”
Hutch knew he shouldn’t agree to anything the man
proposed, but he was tired of darkness, tired of thinking of the stains on the
cinderblock. He was tired of wondering when Starsky
was coming for him, afraid of the hope the thought gave him. Afraid that Starsky would never find him.
“Have you decided?”
Hutch tipped his head back and drank down the last
of the water. He regarded Alejandros, then sighed, a small exhalation. “Sure.”
Alejandros smiled and pulled a deck of cards from the back
pocket of his black jeans. He walked across the room, folded down to sit across
from Hutch, and began shuffling with a careless ease. Hutch watched the long
fingers, and then brought his eyes up to Alejandros’
face. Alejandros smiled.
“Seven card stud?”
Hutch shrugged and watched the cards.
~oOo~
The hood came off and his hands were freed. Alejandros smoothed Hutch’s hair, standing in blonde tufts
all over his head.
“Hungry, I’m hungry.” Hutch blinked hard, looking
up at him, trying to force his blurry eyes to adjust. It had been twenty-four
hours since he’d eaten.
“I know.
But first I have something for you. A roommate.”
Hutch blinked more and looked down, rubbing his
wrists. “What?”
“A roommate, I said. Tell him your name, muchacha,” and Alejandros stepped
aside. A woman with dirty blonde hair was pushed forward by a guard. She was a
large woman in her forties wearing a dust-streaked black skirt and a light
sleeveless shirt. Her arms were bruised and the skin sagged, almost baggy, as
if she’d recently lost weight in a hurry.
Hutch was
sure she had, if she’d been here for any length of time.
She stumbled into the space Angel had vacated.
“Robin,” she said. It seemed as if she couldn’t get her breath.
“She’s sick,” Hutch said accusingly, and touched
her arm. “I’m Ken Hutchinson. Tell me what’s wrong?”
“Asthma,” she said, and gave an odd stretch of the
lips meant to be a smile. It highlighted rather than covered her fear. She
coughed and it sounded deep as a gong.
“Alejandros—”
“What’s my name, Kenny?” Alejandros
interrupted. His face stilled and quieted, an absolute, fanatical depth of focus
transforming his face. It meant violence. It fell over the man like a blanket.
“She needs medicine.” Hutch said it anyway.
Alejandros wrapped an arm around the woman from the back. His
hand crossed over her chest, resting near her heart. He pressed her back into
his body, and Robin’s cough ripped from her lungs. Every breath was a labored
wheeze.
“Ken?” Alejandros said.
His voice had gone low, calm.
“Angel. Look, Angel, she needs medicine.”
“I have it. But I won’t give it to her. None of
them gets medicine unless I allow it.” Alejandros
pressed harder, and the woman’s chest rose and fell heavily, struggling.
Hutch opened his mouth to say something, anything
to distract Alejandros from hurting her again.
“Who—who are you talking about? Who is ‘them’?”
“Did you think you were the only one held here?”
Hutch took two long steps across the room and
slammed a fist into Alejandros’ face. It felt damned
fine. His other fist was already arcing upwards for a follow-up as Alejandros rocked back, holding Robin to him. Her eyes were
closed and her skin was the color of a dirty sheet.
Hutch’s
fist trembled over Alejandros’ face. “Where is it?”
“I have it. You get it from me before I’m ready and
I’ll kill her.”
“Give it to her!” Hutch shouted.
Blood flowed from Alejandros’
nose, down into the vee of his lip and over. He
licked it. “She’ll pay for every blow you land.”
“Why is she here?” he demanded.
“Robin knows her purpose. Ask her if you like.” Alejandros let the woman go. His left hand snaked around
Hutch’s wrist, still raised and trembling. Robin leaned against the wall,
concentrating only on breathing.
“Ken. You
are only what I want you to be, as is she. You are less than nothing. I am your
god, and I control your lives and deaths. Today I might allow you to save her.
Do you want to save her? She doesn’t have long.”
Hutch’s pale marble gaze locked on Alejandros, his hatred like a solid wall he tried to push
into the man with his eyes and with force of will.
“Your choice, Ken.”
Not Ken.
I’m Hutch.
Hutch lowered his gaze and moved away, his step
forced and brittle, as if bones snapped with every step. Alejandros
pulled the medicine from a back pocket. Robin frantically grasped his hand
holding the inhaler. He uncapped it and sprayed, administering it as gently as
any parent would to their child. Robin sucked it in as deeply as she was able.
Hutch sat
in the corner, watching the two of them.
~oOo~
The next
day someone came for him. He didn’t know whom—they dragged him from the room
with the hood still on and his hands still bound. The voice was unfamiliar.
Robin’s voice called after him as he left, but there was nothing he could say
to reassure her.
He was told to walk, and nudged on the shoulder
when he was supposed to change direction. Once he stumbled and instead of the
blow he expected, his shirt was grabbed in between the shoulder blades and
pulled tightly, steadying him.
It felt
like a long walk. He began to hear sounds drawing closer. Someone was gagging.
Then they threw up, and a terrible stench filled his nose, making him flinch.
He heard a curse, the sound of a blow, and then sobbing. Something in Hutch’s
chest did a slow flip-flop.
He wanted to help and he couldn’t. He struggled to
control his anger and his grief, knowing it was a hindrance in this place. He
tried not to be afraid, instead concentrating on gathering his strength and
centering himself.
He was
shoved to his right, and he stumbled along trying to keep his balance. He heard
a door close behind him. Then fingers were on the buttons of his shirt,
unbuttoning them deliberately, unhurried. He tried to pull away, but the
fingers were insistent. The shirt fell open and cool air flowed over his chest.
“Angel,” he said. The man smelled faintly of musk
and spice. Hutch knew his scent like the back of his hand. Knew
the sound of his footsteps and even his stillness.
“Yes.”
“What are you up to?” Exit holding pattern. His gut was tight. It was going to be bad. Alejandros had held back for too long.
Cold fingertips against his belly. A finger stroked his skin, and he jerked back. Alejandros laughed a little. The top button of Hutch’s
jeans came undone, then the faint brrr of his
zipper. The air moved, and he knew Alejandros knelt
before him. His instincts were to pull away, shrink down into himself and
protect his nakedness, and he tried, but hands swarmed over him, yanking at his
pants and underwear. Hutch kicked out. Somebody hit him, and he went down on
one knee. Then they had him down on the floor and quickly finished stripping
him.
The hood came off last, but as usual everything was
blurred. He blinked furiously. He saw three figures before him and as his
vision cleared, one of them left—the guard who’d brought him here. Dr. Montoya
was here, and Alejandros.
Hutch looked up and around. Row upon row of egg
cartons were attached as lining on the walls—a crude form of soundproofing,
Hutch guessed. Two narrow steel bed frames lay against the wall at an angle.
And Dr. Montoya held something—
Hutch looked away. His knees were weak. He
swallowed hard, clenching his teeth, and tried to hold on.
Wherever he was at and regardless of the original
intent for which this place was built, it was now a place of torture. It was
hard to wrap his mind around the fact that there could be such a place. Not
here, not in
Or maybe it wasn’t so hard to believe, not really.
Crazy people did crazy things, and he’d seen a lot of it in his years as a
cop—men who believed that aliens tried to get to them through radio waves, and
fanatics who believed in one man enough to commit any crime, no matter how
heinous. Alejandros wasn’t insane in the same sense
as they, but he was worse. He was evil. And he liked it. Working for Castillo
allowed him to indulge his sadism.
All of which meant nothing good for Hutch.
He gasped, the air leaving his lungs in a rush. He
was soaked. Alejandros had thrown a bucket of cold
water over him.
“Ken. The picana waits.” The voice was low, calm.
Picana? Hutch forced his eyes up to watch Alejandros, who took the long wooden pole
from Dr. Montoya. Two wires came out of drilled holes at the end of it. The
wires flailed and parted as if alive.
Dr. Montoya pulled one of the bed frames down from
where it was propped against the wall. The steel made a shrieking sound as the
legs scraped over the floor, and Hutch closed his eyes. The doctor’s hand
grasped his upper arm, and Hutch reacted, throwing his weight into him and
slamming him into the wall. Alejandros’ voice rose in
a command, and the guard who’d exited the room earlier reappeared, barreling
into Hutch, punching him in the gut. Hutch doubled over and the guard cracked
him over the head. He nearly passed out. The doctor and the guard dragged his
body over to the bed frame and lifted him onto it, lashing his wrists and
ankles to the bed.
Hutch couldn’t make his body cooperate. Couldn’t move to stop them. The steel made cold stripes
against his back and ass and legs.
So cold. Water dripped onto the floor.
“Who told you of the meet?” Alejandros
asked, his voice a low, vibrating timbre. Hutch wondered what his voice sounded
like when he sang. He shivered and looked up into Angel’s still face and deep
eyes, towering over him. The pole lowered, and the wires danced. Hutch’s eyes
fixated on them, pale and blank as a cold winter sky.
Alejandros touched the live wires to the bed frame.
Hutch’s world went up in a noiseless flare. The
steel rattled in time with his straining body. Angel broke the contact, and
Hutch slumped on the frame, but only for a moment. The pole hovered over
Hutch’s chest, then dipped. Alejandros
touched a nipple, and Hutch catapulted into white agony, mind and body taken
over by it. His muscles jittered and squirmed. His heels drummed against the
bed frame.
“Who?” Alejandros’ lips barely
moved. His eyes were deep, dreaming wells, his face as quiet and perfect as a
statue.
Hutch’s
mouth parted. He pulled in deep, gasping breaths. He didn’t speak.
Alejandros touched the
wires to his penis, and Hutch’s mind exploded like a pack of cards flung up
into the air, then fluttered to the ground. The parts of him lay there,
scattered, some twisted, or blank, or with pieces missing. There was enough of
him that remembered who he was, and what, and tried to piece it all together
again.
Each time
for a long time, Alejandros answered with the picana.
Hutch writhed on the bed frame, his muscles
thrashing and humming against his will. Sometimes he heard screaming, but he
couldn’t spare any thoughts as to who did it or why. He pieced himself together
again over and over, as he was allowed, though it grew harder each time. When
the yelling wouldn’t stop and his throat bled from it, he realized who it was,
but by then it didn’t matter. He had no control over any of it.
He no longer remembered the name that Alejandros asked him for, over and over. Time lost all
meaning before he retreated down the tunnel again, away from the light.
~oOo~
Sometimes he stood in the corner and leaned his
head against the wall. That way the hood hung out and away from his face. More
fresh air crept up through the bottom and it was easier to breathe.
The hood was filthy and it itched. One day he’d
scratched the hood and his face against the wall until it bled. He wouldn’t
have cared if it helped, but it only made it worse in the days that followed as
the dried blood flaked off.
He wondered
how long he’d been here. He’d been beaten, he’d been shocked, he’d been starved. Once Alejandros
had tied him and left him hanging for God knows how
long. Felt like his arms would come right out of their sockets.
A week? Two weeks? More? He didn’t
know—only that it felt like he’d never not been here. He and the black hood, becoming part of him,
as were the alarming gaps in his memory. Robin and Alejandros, playing cards. Angel’s
warm brown gaze, asking his questions, growing so still and focused whenever
the monster emerged. Robin’s cough in the darkness,
and breaths that wheezed and fought through passages like narrow straws.
When she
cried, he pressed his body next to hers, lending his warmth and his support. He
murmured nonsense things intended to soothe. Sometimes it helped. Sometimes it
didn’t.
The day they brought him back from the picana and the torture room, she told him a little of her husband,
James. How he’d worked for Vincent Castillo. But she still didn’t know why she
was here. She guessed it had something to do with the fact that there had been
more money of late. Lots. Maybe Jim had gotten greedy.
He’d bought a new car, was looking into buying a new house. Then one day he
hadn’t come home. Shortly after that she was taken. They’d asked her questions
about the money. They’d asked for names and locations of people she knew
nothing about.
Hutch shifted, moving his head so that the mask
fell further away from his face. He remembered being thrown back inside the
room that day. He was so thirsty. Robin kneeled beside him as he lay sprawled
out over the floor. But she called him Ken, and Ken wasn’t his name anymore. Alejandros had destroyed it.
“Hutch,” he said to her. His eyes never left hers until she
nodded, repeating it.
They’d thrown his clothes back on him, and his skin
hurt wherever the cloth touched. His penis and his chest burned. It was
excruciating.
She’d touched him, trying to soothe, and he’d
groaned and pushed her away. He was horribly thirsty. He’d struggled to sit up,
looking for the water container that was sometimes left in the room.
“No,” she’d said. “The water does something to you.
People have died afterwards, drinking too much.” Her voice trembled, but there
was strength below the surface.
He’d tried to go after the water anyway,
and almost hit her when she refused him. It made him sick, that he’d almost
done that. In the end he’d done as she asked of him. She’d allowed him only
sips of water at a time.
Later she’d
told Hutch about the people he’d heard on his way to the torture room. There
were currently three others held prisoner in cubicles at the opposite end of
the building. The room he was in was always reserved for someone special. Hutch
was special.
Hutch grimaced. Special, right.
He scratched his face against the wall, but carefully. He didn’t want to bleed
again, didn’t want the hood sticking.
The first few days he’d had been here, he thought
of Starsky often. It gave him hope. He knew Starsky would never give up, and he refused to think he
could fail. Starsky was the lifeline back to
normalcy, to friendship and job. Starsky was his
lifeline, period. But it grew painful as the days passed and the doubt grew larger,
thinking of things he might never have again.
Like the sunlight shining rich green on the plants
at home, or the feel of guitar strings thrumming beneath his fingers. Or Starsky’s easy, deep laugh.
Even Starsky’s ridiculous car—all things very far away
and growing more dream-like all the time.
Hutch was
weaker, both mentally and physically. He ate whatever they gave him, but it
wasn’t enough. His memory was shot, and his thoughts wandered. The blackness
beneath the hood was nearly alive, an opponent that picked at his sanity
monotonously, as did old blood that had sunk into cinderblock and lived there
still. Each time Alejandros freed him from the hood,
sooner or later his eyes strayed to the stains. He was obsessed. All the lives before him that ended in the same way. Did
anyone ever get out of here? Of course not.
Robin grew grayer, and her skin hung still looser.
The bruises never went away, though Angel hadn’t struck her since she came to
stay with Hutch.
He turned
and leaned his back against the wall, surrendering to the inevitability of the
hood’s touch against his skin.
He heard
the door open and shut, and then Angel was there. He pulled the hood off. Hutch
waited for his eyes to begin to work again. He looked at Robin, really looked
at her after she came into focus, and he saw clearly that she was dying. Her eyes were already dead. It was only
a matter of time. He felt guilty for even thinking it and wanted to say
something to her to make it better somehow, but he had nothing of use to offer her. Only empty promises he himself
could no longer bear to believe.
The three
of them played cards again. Hutch had started with a few coins from Alejandros and it had grown into a small pile. It amused Alejandros to hand out the change when it was time to play.
Hutch could see the faint warmth of it in his eyes.
Robin coughed and coughed today. Her breath
wheezed, an inversion of the gentle whish
of the oxygen mask Hutch had worn over his face when he’d had Callendar’s big bad plague—a strangled, sucking sound,
lungs emptying rather than filling as they should. She couldn’t keep enough
oxygen in there.
When they
were done playing, Robin couldn’t get up. She leaned over on rigid arms planted
to either side on the floor, torso straight, not curled, in order to give her
lungs the most room to expand, but she didn’t have the strength. Alejandros stood beside her and stretched out a
long-fingered hand, and with his help she was able to get up. Then he held out
a hood.
Robin’s eyes flew to Hutch.
“Take it,” said Angel.
“Not mine,” she said, and Angel held her face in
his hand.
“It is now.”
“She can’t goddammed breathe!”
Hutch yelled. The cinderblocks absorbed the sound.
Alejandros said
nothing, but extended the hood so that the material touched Robin’s hand. Her
fingers trembled as they closed over it.
“Angel.
Please,” Hutch breathed. The word hitched crazily in his chest. “Please.
Don’t.”
Robin began
to weep. Hutch’s eyes burned.
“What? Is
there something you want to tell me, Ken? Something that
might save her from this?”
Robin spoke in tiny sips of breath. “You can’t save
me. He just wants to break you. I’m here to break you. My
purpose.”
He couldn’t speak in the face of such utter,
unreasonable courage.
Never never never give
anyone up again. The words wound
through his mind over and over, an eel traversing the same track it had been on
since he’d been in this place. But wasn’t he giving up Robin by holding out?
Shouldn’t he, if he had to make a choice, give up someone who played on the
same field with the likes of Angel, who broke the law and took the risks?
She saw it in the frantic way his pale eyes roved
over her face.
“No.” She gave a single, exhausted denial of what
Angel asked of him, riding on a soft exhalation of precious breath.
No. She
said no. But the man whose name he
refused to give Angel wasn’t worth this, though that had never been the point.
Hutch watched Robin. Her fear was gone, the dead
eyes were back. The necessary mechanics of fighting for the next breath and the
next and the next took her over.
Angel
never hurts her. He never helps her. He only watches me watch her die.
Until now. Until the hood.
The words ripped from Hutch’s mouth, like a knife
ending the life of the man whose name he spoke.
“Jose
Alvarez.”
He cradled Robin’s body next to his, cursing Angel
monotonously long after he’d left the room.
~oOo~
She was
soft, moon-pale skin. Legs a mile long, willowy and slim,
like a colt. He buried his nose in the hair at her neck. She smelled
clean, like soap wafting on a warm breeze. He glided into her deliberately
slow, taking forever to sink all the way into the smooth silk inside. Her
breathing was ragged. She wiggled her ass, shifting against the mattress and
hooking her thighs tightly against him, trying to make him move faster. “No,”
he breathed down at her, and she made a soft, frustrated noise deep in her
throat. He closed his eyes, liking the sound of it.
He loved
her so much.
Some sound Robin made woke him. The hood had been
left off since Hutch spilled the beans, and so the first thing he saw was her
face when he opened his eyes. The heat and desire left him, replaced by a
quick, cold fear that left him faintly nauseous. She was so damned sick.
He’d propped himself beside her, leaning on the
wall. She couldn’t breathe, lying down. It crushed her chest. He hadn’t meant
to fall asleep. He rubbed her arm and sang an old lullaby, one he used to sing
to his nephew. He’d been humming it one day, trying to keep the darkness of the
hood from smothering him. She heard and liked it, remembered it from somewhere
out of her own past.
The door opened and light sliced over the room. A
black silhouette walked over, and a hand was extended.
“I need to stay with her. She’s very sick,” Hutch
said.
Angel didn’t answer. Hutch had known he wouldn’t.
“I said she needs me.”
The hand never wavered.
“Goddammit,” said Hutch,
and heaved himself up. He bent down again. “I’ll be okay, Robin. You hear me,
I’ll be okay.” His fingers rubbed her shoulder.
She looked at him and her eyes weren’t dead, they
were big and round and scared. Not for herself. He kissed her cheek, then stood to face the devil. Angel moved his left arm fast
enough to be a blur and something black flashed from behind his back. A strip of thin leather. He slashed it around and Hutch
flinched back, but too late—a thin red weal appeared almost immediately on his
pale cheek. Hutch stepped forward and feinted with his left, trying to get to Alejandros, but he was slow, only a shadow of who he used to be. Angel grabbed his arm easily in one hand
and flicked the strap, which wound around the extended arm. He pulled the strap
sharply out and to his left and Hutch was turned around with his back to Angel.
Angel hiked the strap high in the air above Hutch's shoulder blades. Hutch
grunted when something in his shoulder gave, but that was the only sound he
made. Robin began to crawl toward him.
Angel cupped his hand around the back of Hutch's
skull and beat his head into the wall, once, again, then stepped back.
"I told you, I told you the name!" Hutch
gasped, blinking, trying to claw into the wall for support.
"Yeah, I know what you told me," Angel
answered. "Maybe I'll kill you in front of her, what do you think?"
“Why?” Hutch asked, though there was no sense in
asking. It was just a useless protest.
Angel beat him and chased him down and down, into
the darkness of the tunnel again.
Sometimes
lately Hutch wondered why he bothered to come back out.
~oOo~
Starsky hit him and hit him again and Hutch just let him,
soaking up the pain in Starsky’s eyes and claiming it
for his own. Who the hell couldn’t see that bitch was using him, would screw
anything she pleased, anytime, no matter if Starsky
had lost his mind temporarily and claimed he was in love? She’d used him, used
them both. Hutch showed him. He’d fucked Kira because
he hurt, plain and simple. He’d been hurting for a while now. He wanted to make
Starsky hurt with him. Ugly but true.
Fucking Kira had made him smaller, and Starsky’s
face reflected that. Hutch already knew it and accepted it, but he hadn’t
counted on the fact that Starsky’s pain still had the
ability to put a knife in his own chest as well.
Then
somewhere along the path between Gunther and Starsky’s long, tenacious fight back to health came a
second chance to be the friends they used to be. Hutch went for it. After all,
he’d beaten Gunther, hadn’t he? And he had Starsky back against all the odds.
So he
cleaned up his act—his bitterness, his defeat, even
his looks. He got healthy again. He’d never forget how Starsky
was there with him and for him, every step of the way. Same as it was always
meant to be.
Hutch swam in the twilight between the past and
present. He tried to remember their victories together, earned in blood and in
willpower and in tears. There was nothing else to hold onto.
He crawled
down by Robin’s side and wrapped himself around her, pulling her to him with
his good arm. He realized he knew nothing about her, really. He knew her name
and her husband’s name, but nothing about her politics, her favorite book or
movie or even if she had children. He thought maybe he was afraid to ask that
last one, afraid of the answer.
“In her house, soft and blue, though she must stay
. . . ” he sang her lullaby, though his voice broke
now and then. His ribs hurt with each breath.
She’d died
while he lay there on the floor, unconscious. Her face was frozen gray,
unforgiving. He kept singing.
After a
long while he turned from her body and curled up on the floor.
He slept.
~oOo~
Angel threw
down his hand: two pairs, kings and nines. Hutch smiled, though it was nearer a
snarl than anything else, and threw down his own hand. “Ace high straight,” he
said. He stared at Angel and started to laugh. Angel’s face shuttered and
closed down. Hutch ignored it and kept laughing, though it got away from
him—went deeper and hoarser. His arm hurt badly, and his ribs ached. He ignored
that, too. He kept laughing, watching Angel’s face go quiet.
He thought maybe Angel would kill him this time. He
kept it up anyway until he was red-faced and gasping and the pain grew like an
incoming tide.
Angel reached across to him and grasped his wrist
and stroked it slowly. Hutch didn’t bother to pull back. The dark marble of
Angel’s face shattered and then smoothed as a smile lit his face, giving it
life. He shoved a pile of change over the floor.
“Looks like you won, Ken.”
Hutch stopped laughing and looked at him, wide-eyed
and in silence. “Yeah.” He laughed again and made a
choking sound in the middle of it all. Angel watched him a moment and then
walked out of the room.
Hutch held
his stomach with his good arm, and the tears rolled down his face.
~oOo~
Starsky called to him from up above in the light. Hutch
was down in the tunnel. He couldn’t figure a way out. Somebody was there with
him, but she was . . . she was . . . he stroked her arm and pressed his face to
her chest and sobbed. She couldn’t be dead. There were no marks on her body,
though if the truth were told he tried very hard not to look at her throat.
Yesterday
he was here with her, only yesterday, and she was breathing. They ate dinner
together and talked and made love afterwards. She’d eaten and smiled and talked
and made love, hadn’t she, just yesterday, so she couldn’t be dead.
Hutch moaned in his sleep, hiding his face in the
crook of his good arm. Angel crouched beside him and touched his cheek gently, waking him. Hutch rubbed his eyes
with the one hand but didn’t sit up. His arm was in an almost comfortable
position and he didn’t want to make the pain worsen.
“Stars—” he
started. Began again. “Who died?”
Angel
looked down into the clear eyes. “Robin died.”
“I know, I
know. I mean, who else?” He sat up, wincing at the pain that radiated down his
arm and the callousness of what he’d just said.
“I don’t
know. They all die.” Angel leaned over and patted the small of his back,
comforting.
It felt good. Hutch sighed, trying to relax. He
couldn’t, though. He couldn’t remember her name. How could he forget the name
of someone he’d loved and let die?
“You gave me a name,” said Angel, very quiet. “Jose
Alvarez. But he’s gone. You’ve got him somewhere, don’t you?”
Hutch
pulled back, and his head cleared. He gave Angel a slow smile, remembering most
if not everything he thought he’d forgotten.
Gillian.
“I’ll find
him, Ken. And as soon as I know you have nothing more to offer me, you’ll die.”
“Oh, I
don’t know,” Hutch said in a monotone. “You’re finding it awfully hard to let
go, aren’t you?”
~oOo~
The sun hit
him square in the face, driving like spikes into his forehead. He shivered and
pulled the covers up higher around his neck, but the light was merciless.
Groaning, he passed a hand over his brow and let his head drop back to the
pillow. Something caught his eye.
His vision
was blurred from sleep, but he looked toward the long observation window of his
hospital room and saw . . . red? He
squinted, trying to focus. S T A R S K, in big capital letters. Written in lipstick.
“Starsk,” he muttered.
A hand touched
his cheek. “Hutch. Oh my God.”
The voice was low and rasping and endearingly familiar.
“I’m gonna get better.
You’ll see,” said Hutch.
“I know you will,” the voice said. It sounded near
tears.
“You get that fucker Callendar.
I intend to live forever, just like in Azerbajahn.
You know?” he asked, still sleepy, and the fingers touching his face stilled.
“I’m here, Hutch. Now. You
understand? Open your eyes.”
“Didn’t think you’d ever get
here.” But Hutch’s eyes stayed
closed.
“Buddy. Hey, buddy, I’m . . . ”
and the voice trailed off helplessly.
I’m the
clownfish, you’re the anemone.
Hutch frowned. Something was off. He still felt cold concrete beneath him. If Starsky had rescued him he wouldn’t be on the ground, would
he?
He opened his eyes. He was in the same damn motherfucking room. Starsky’s
eyes stared down into his, Starsky’s beautiful,
wonderful eyes that he’d never thought to see again. Starsky’s
brows were knotted, like they got when he was upset.
But if Starsky was here,
lying on the floor with him . . .
goddamn it all to hell.
He whispered it. “Goddamn it all to hell.”
“If you
won’t break, Ken, maybe your partner will,” said Angel from behind him, and
Hutch sat up.
“Hutch? What’s wrong
with your . . . how long has your arm been like this, huh? Looks like your shoulder’s dislocated.” Hutch got to his feet, and Starsky followed, putting a hand out, reaching for him. It
hit on his hurt shoulder. Hutch moaned and the hand fell as if burned. Then it
came back and hooked him around the top of the other arm.
“It’s been
dislocated since the evening before yesterday,” Angel said.
Starsky eyed Angel as
if he were a roach on a rug, then looked back at
Hutch. “You gotta let me check it out. Maybe I can
fix it.”
Hutch pushed the hand away from around him. He
turned and walked toward Angel. “You get this,
Angel. You’re going to die for bringing him here.”
“Hutch. Hutch!” Starsky tried to get in front of him but Hutch wouldn’t
stop, so Starsky moved alongside him, talking
rapidly. “Listen to me, will you listen? You know Alejandros
went underground here after Cariddi’s brother took
the dive. Castillo lost some mojo, some connections.
Got people pissed off. I busted his operation wide open, and his boys tried to
keep me from takin’ him in. He’s dead. Couldn’t find Alejandros and when I did, he got to me first.” Starsky turned to Angel. “You lost it, Alejandros,
hiding out here.”
Angel stared at Starsky.
“Yeah, go ahead and look,” said Starsky.
“This nut is one coconut shy of a tree, Hutch. Dobey’ll
find us. He knows all of it.”
Angel spoke to Hutch. “You clued me in when you
called me by your partner’s name yesterday, you know. All that time and you
never gave me anything until now. You’re close, closer than brothers. You
expected him to be there when you were hurt. He’s very important to you. “ He turned to Starsky. “And he’s
important to you, isn’t that right?”
Starsky rushed at Angel and threw him into the wall,
driving a fist into his mid-section. Angel yelled and the door flew open. A
guard ran in, then another. Hutch hit the first guard, who turned and pushed
him. There was contempt and maybe a little pity on his face.
The ground
swung up to meet Hutch, and he landed on the bad arm. The agony was immediate
and overwhelming. Starsky’s voice followed but
couldn’t stop him from going down the tunnel.
~oOo~
He’d been
in and out of consciousness. He remembered knowing that Starsky
was there. He remembered yelling. Something hurt— Starsky
did something that hurt him. But then it had been hurting for days.
When he came to and moved his arm, he realized the
joint had been popped back in place, and that Starsky
had been the one that did it. He didn’t know why Angel let Starsky
fix it, of course, but he suspected it had something to do with watching him
inflict more pain on Hutch, even if it was for his own good. Angel would have
enjoyed the show. The bastard.
Starsky lay next to him, and his hands were tied behind
his back. Starsky hadn’t known if he was alive or
dead since his disappearance, and now his body touched Hutch’s all along the
length of him as if to reaffirm his partner was still alive. It felt good.
Warm. Comforting.
The door opened, and the two guards stepped inside.
Starsky’s eyes opened, and he sat up. The guard who’d
pushed Hutch earlier gestured at him. The pity was back in his eyes, and it
made Hutch’s blood run cold.
Hutch stood.
“Where are you taking him?” Starsky
demanded, standing, trying to push his body in between Hutch and the guards.
They had to beat him back. He wouldn’t stop fighting.
“Hutch! Hutch!” He kept screaming
it over and over. Hutch heard it over the hammering of his heart for a long
time down the hallway. He held the sound of it to him for as long as he could, used it as a shield against what was coming.
The other
prisoners were gone from the tiny cubicles outside of the torture room. Hutch
hoped they were still alive, but he was glad they were gone. Whatever this
insanity had been, it was nearly over. He wondered if Angel could feel it
drawing to a close.
He stepped
inside the room. The egg cartons lined the walls, and the steel beds were
propped against them. There was no doctor anymore. Just him,
the guards, and Angel.
And the picana,
of course.
He closed
his eyes when the guards took his clothes off, and kept them closed when they
tied him to the bed frame. Even when the cold water came and wetted him down,
he gasped, but did not open his eyes. He only opened them when Angel commanded
him to do it and looked up into his dreaming darkness.
“Is he here to watch me die?” Hutch asked. Angel
watched him a minute, then nodded slowly.
“Why, Angel?” Like a child, begging.
“Because you never broke. Because you nearly died and
escaped me. Maybe because I never got to Alvarez.
Take your pick,” Angel said, and shrugged. “We’ve danced this dance for too
long, Ken. It’s got to end. I can’t allow you to live. It would mean you’ve
won.”
“It’s a house of cards, all coming down. I’ve
already won,” Hutch answered, just before the wires touched him.
Tattered shreds of memories exploded from out of
the pain, movies of who he had been playing inside his head. Of him, his
parents, his past loves. And Starsky.
Always Starsky. Starsky at
Always holding him.
The movies
had moments of blankness, where the strip broke and the screen went white. Once
it went blank and came back to Starsky’s face,
bending over him. Starsky touched the quivering wires
to his flesh. Hutch cried out at the betrayal, over and over, until it was only
another mindless scream.
When the last whiteout came, he welcomed it with
open arms.
~oOo~
Starsky said his name
over and over. “Answer me. Please, answer me. Hutch! Hutch.”
He heard quick, panicky breathing.
Starsky was here? No.
Angel would kill him after Hutch died.
Or would he? Hadn’t Starsky
used the picana on him in the torture room?
No, Starsky couldn’t be here.
He couldn’t.
He closed himself off from the voice.
Oh God it hurt. It all hurt.
~oOo~
He wasn’t afraid of the dark anymore. But he was
tired of the light. So tired. He floated off—
down past the dying light, into the tunnel darkness. He
tried moving further in, but something held him back. It made him furious. He
was done, all done. He pulled away, kept going.
“Hutch, goddammit, you
open your eyes. Don’t you fucking think you can leave me.”
His ears
roared and the white light ripped through the tunnel, ripped through the movie.
When it settled the darkness was gone, and it was quiet. He saw himself.
Someone held him while he puked and shivered his way out of a heroin high.
He stopped
and watched. Listened to the voice, talking to him.
“Don’t, Hutch. Please don’t.”
He took a
step away. Another. Didn’t want to
hear. Couldn’t bear it.
A flash of blue-white light drove away the
darkness, and the movie started again. He was on the phone. Starsky
was dying. The ball bounced, and Hutch’s heart beat faster and faster until he
thought it would burst. He crashed through the swinging hospital doors, and Starsky knew he was there.
He lived.
Because Hutch had asked it of him.
“I love you. Please don’t go.” Starsky’s
arms were around him. His shoulders shook.
Hutch took in a wavering breath. Starsky looked up into his eyes, disbelieving.
“How’s Cousin Ethel?” Hutch whispered, and Starsky buried his face in the crook of his partner's neck.
His chest shuddered against Hutch's.
Outside, sirens sounded all around the
building.
****